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                     The Saint of the Speedway
                     -------------------------

                          Ridgwell Cullum




                             The Saint

                                 of

                            The Speedway

                                 by

                          Ridgwell Cullum

                       McClelland and Stewart
                       Publishers : : Toronto




                          Copyright, 1924,

                     By George H. Doran Company

                           [Illustration]


                     The Saint of the Speedway

                               --B--

              Printed in the United States of America




                              Foreword


If the reader will cast a thought back to the classic sea mystery
of the _Marie Celeste_, it will be clear how much this book owes
its inception to the extraordinary derelict, the mystery of which
remains unsolved to this day. But the author disclaims any attempt
in the following pages to offer a solution of the mystery and has
only used certain of the features surrounding the condition of the
_Marie Celeste_ at the time she was found abandoned in mid-ocean
for the purposes of his story-narrative.




                              Contents


                   CHAPTER                                   PAGE

      I The Adventurers                                       11

     II The Headland                                          23

    III In Beacon Glory                                       40

     IV The Great Disaster                                    55

      V Eight Months Later--On the Lias River                 68

     VI A Bunch of Humanity                                   82

    VII The Speedway                                          94

   VIII The Man from Lias River                              104

     IX The Aurora Clan                                      121

      X The Haunt of the Clansmen                            134

     XI The Wreck at the River Mouth                         142

    XII The _Limpet_ of Boston                               156

   XIII The “Come-back”                                      169

    XIV In the Sunshine                                      179

     XV The Man from the Hills                               196

    XVI The Lazaret                                          209

   XVII Links in a Chain                                     225

  XVIII McLagan Achieves an End                              243

    XIX McLagan Returns from the Hills                       256

     XX The Last of the Moving Shadow                        276

    XXI Julian Caspar at Bay                                 289

   XXII The Quitting                                         311

  XXIII The Passing of the “Chief-Light”                     322




                     The Saint of the Speedway




                             CHAPTER I

                          The Adventurers


It was a time of tense emotion. Each was a-surge with an almost
uncontrollable excitement as the two men moved up the whole length
of the riffled sluice. Neither uttered one single word. But they
moved slowly on either side of the long, primitive, box-like
construction, keeping pace, each with the other, as though in a
mutual desire that such fortune as was theirs should be witnessed
together, as though neither had courage to face alone the
possibilities of this their first serious “washing.”

At each riffle the men paused. The more emotional of the two, Len
Stern, thrust out a hand and stirred the deposit lying there. And
at each stirring the same result was revealed. The riffles were
filled with deposit. On the top was a spread of lighter soil, with
here and there a dull yellow protrusion thrusting above it. But
under this lay a solid thickness of pure alluvial gold in dust
and smaller nuggets. From the top end of the sluice-box to the
mouth which disgorged the red soil upon the miniature mountain
of tailings below it, it was the same. There was not one single
riffle that was not laden to its capacity with the precious metal.

They came to a halt at the head of the box. Len Stern stood for
a moment gazing down its narrow channel. But Jim Carver was
disinclined for any dreaming. Stolid, practical, for all the
emotion of those amazing moments, he climbed up the light trestle
work and shut off the water stream which had supplied the washing.
Then he dropped again to the ground and waited.

The stream of water fell away, and instantly the torrid heat of the
sun began to dry up the woodwork. And as his gaze passed down over
the succession of riffles the unshining yellow of their precious
burden suggested a golden pathway the whole length of the sluice.

“It makes you feel good, Len,” he said quietly, for all the burning
excitement in his big blue eyes.

The other nodded as though the thing he were contemplating had left
him speechless.

Jim Carver eyed him shrewdly. Then he glanced up at the blazing
tropical sky. He gazed down at the slow-moving river, meandering on
between jungle-grown banks on its way to the bay, less than five
miles distant. Finally he bestirred himself.

“We best clean this wash up, Len,” he said. “We best clean it up
an’ take it right back to camp. It’s feed time.”

He started to work at the top riffle, and Len Stern came back to
realities.

“Sure,” he agreed. And at once joined in the work. “Say, Jim, do
you get it?” he cried, glancing quickly at the mountain of pay dirt
they had spent months in accumulating, standing ready for washing.
“We guessed to wash a ton. Maybe it was, more or less. Ther’s not
ounces in these riffles--no, ther’s--ther’s pounds!”

Jim nodded as he laboured.

“It’s the biggest ‘strike’ ever made in the world,” he admitted in
a tone that might well have been taken for one of grudging.

       *       *       *       *       *

It was the northwest coast of Australia, the coast of that almost
unexplored region which is one of the few remote territories of the
world still retaining its fabulous atmosphere of romance.

It was on the shores of a wide, shallow bay where a small river
abruptly opened out its land arms in welcome to the tropical ocean.
Sun-scorched, fleshy vegetation grew densely almost to the water’s
edge, keeping dank and fever-laden the suffocating atmosphere
within its widespread bosom. Yet only was it this merciful shade
that made life endurable to sensitive human creatures.

The sun was at its zenith, a furious disc of molten heat in a
brazen sky. The sea at the river mouth lay dead flat under its
burning rays, except for the ripple where some huge submarine
creature disturbed its surface. Not a breath of air was stirring to
relieve the suffocating atmosphere.

The two men were lounging in the shade of the wattle walls of
their reed-thatched shelter. It was built amidst a cluster of
dense-growing trees, and the site looked out over the brilliant
bay. They had long since eaten, and were now awaiting the cooling
of the day before returning to their labours.

They were youthful adventurers, foreigners to the country in which
they found themselves. They were northerners, far-northerners, from
the great snow-crowned hills of Alaska. They had set out on their
adventure as a result of listening to the flimsiest, most fanciful
yarn that ever a half-vagrant Chinaman had dispensed out of the
remote cells of his drug-laden imagination. And as a result, that
day, after two-and-a-half years of marooning on a coast peopled
only by none too friendly blacks, and in the heart of a jungle
alive with every bug and beast and reptile of a pestilential
nature, they had, at long last, proved beyond every question of
doubt that Charlie Wun Lee had, for once in his life, fallen a
victim to sheer veracity.

For all its usually incredible source, the story, which had set
these men wandering in the world’s remote places, had had a curious
ring of reality in it. Charlie Wun Lee was a queer, reasonably
honest, far-travelled old Chinaman who dispensed ham and eggs to
belated travellers in a squalid frame house in their home town
of Beacon Glory, hidden away in the hill country of Alaska. And
his story had been inspired by sheer friendliness for two men who
found themselves in a position where the outlook for livelihood was
completely threatening.

He had told them he knew where there was more gold than the world
had ever seen before, and both being gold men their appetites had
been at once whetted.

Briefly, his story was that he had been shipwrecked when he was
cook on an Australian coasting vessel. The ship went to pieces,
but he and six others reached land after terrible privations. All
they knew about their whereabouts was that it was the coast of
Australia somewhere on the northwest of the continent. It was a
country of unbearable heat and fever-haunted jungle. They were
marooned on this coast for more than a year, keeping body and soul
together with such food as they could collect from the sea and
the forest. Fortunately, they had little need for clothing, for
they discovered not a living soul, and no indication, even, of the
blacks whom they knew peopled these regions of the country. But
during that long, desperate year one by one his white companions
had died off, victims of a subtle jungle fever that killed them
slowly and painfully, until only he and one other were left alive.
This stealing death frightened him. The dank jungle became a place
of dread. So he and his last remaining companion took to the river
and sought to reach the hills out of which it sprang.

But they never reached the hills. No. The river claimed them.
They forgot their fears. They forgot even their contemplated
destination. In his own graphic fashion he told them the river was
alive with gold. Gold looked up at them out of the pay dirt which
composed its bed throughout its whole course. Oh, yes. They tried
it out with such means as they had to their hands. But they only
collected nuggets of reasonable size and troubled nothing with
“dust.” They collected a large quantity and secreted them, and
it was this store that ultimately started him on the way to the
prosperity he now enjoyed.

After this he endeavoured to study the coast line with a view to
making a chart at such time as he might be rescued, for he had
never given up the hope that they would ultimately be rescued. And
sure enough they were. A storm-driven coasting vessel ran into the
mouth of the river for shelter.

They were taken on board and clothed. But they kept their secret
of the gold, determined, should opportunity ever offer, to come
again and work it. On the plea of desiring to know the position of
the territory which had been so disastrous to them, the skipper of
the boat was induced to give them the exact bearings of the river
mouth, and later, Charlie Wun Lee inscribed it on his rough chart
which he produced in corroboration of his story. He also produced
for his audience a couple of nuggets of gold which he declared he
had kept as a souvenir ever since.

But he shook his head sadly over them when he told how opportunity
never came of returning to collect the gold awaiting him. His
companion died on the way to Sydney, a victim of the jungle fever,
the germs of which had contrived to impregnate him. And he--well,
other things came his way and he did not fancy facing the hateful
coast alone. Besides, he did very well with the laundry he started
in Sydney until he got burnt out, and finally migrated to Alaska.
No, he assured them, he would rather dispense ham and eggs at two
dollars a time in Beacon Glory than go back for that gold. Besides,
his little gambling parlour at the back of his restaurant was not
so bad a gold mine.

Well, anyhow, there it was. It was true what he had told them.
Every word of it. And if they liked they could have the chart as
a present. And when they came back with all the gold they needed,
if the jungle fever didn’t get hold of them and they felt like
making him a present in return, well, he would very gladly receive
it. But, whether they chose to go after it or not, he wanted them
to know that the thing he had told them was no fairy story, but
the real truth, which was a wholly inadequate illustration of the
reality of wealth he had seen there.

Now they knew the real extent of the debt they owed to the friendly
little dispenser of ham and eggs. But they also knew now, after
the fierce excitement of witnessing the result of the first
real washing had subsided, the immensities of the proposition
confronting them. As yet neither had uttered a word of doubt or
anxiety. But the thought of the potentialities of the situation was
looming heavily.

Jim Carver’s blue eyes were turned upon the sunlit bay. He was
deeply engrossed, not in the wonders of the tropical scene set out
before him, but in a train of teeming thought. His pipe was his
only real comfort on this intolerable coast, and he was enjoying
it to the uttermost at the moment. Len Stern’s dark eyes were upon
the small mountain of raw gold heaped on an outspread flour sack on
the sun-baked ground in front of him, which represented the result
of their first “clean-up.” Whatever worries lay back of his mind
his mercurial temperament refused to be robbed of one moment of the
delight which this tangible result of their labours afforded.

“Man, I feel I just want to holler!” he cried in a sudden outburst,
breaking up the silence which was so much their habit. “Say, I just
can’t get a grip on the nature of a boy who sits around doping out
ham an’ eggs with the knowledge of a thing like this back of his
mind. He’s all sorts of a sheer damn fool----”

“Is he?”

Jim had removed his pipe. He had turned his big, thoughtful eyes on
the man contemplating the heaped treasure. Len was gazing at him,
his smile of delight completely passed from his dark face.

They were both big creatures. Broad, and enormously muscular, a
picture of virile capacity and latent human energy. Jim’s eyes
were frankly wide and blue as the distant sea, set in a face whose
skin lent itself to a deep, florid sunburn. Len was dark-eyed and
dark-skinned. He was burned to the mahogany of a nigger. Both were
clad in barely sufficient clothing to meet the demands of decency.

For a moment Len stared at his companion. Then his smile slowly
returned.

“Say, Jim, boy, ain’t ther’ a darn thing in all this to set you
crazy to shout?” He shook his head. “It’s no sort of use. Your
head’s always ready to shelter every old bogey it can collect. Two
an’ a bit years of hell! That’s what it’s been. The folks guessed
we were bug. The yarn of a ham-slingin’ Chink. A river of gold!
An’ I guess we came nigh breakin’ our folks for outfit. Well, it’s
ours. All of it. An’ I guess we can pay our folk a hundred times
over. It’s a strike to unship the world’s financial balance. Psha!
It’s so big----”

“That’s the trouble, Len. It’s too big.”

Len flung his head back in a boisterous laugh.

“Too big?” he cried scornfully. “It just couldn’t be!”

“It could. It is.”

Jim’s unyielding tone promptly brought the other to seriousness.

“How?” he asked soberly. “Maybe I’ve got some of your notion. But
let’s talk it out.”

Jim knocked out his pipe and refilled it. He lit it thoughtfully.
Then he turned smilingly to his friend.

“Say, I’m as crazy for this thing as you, boy,” he said in his
quiet way. “But I don’t figger to let it snow my senses under.
You’re right. It’s been two years an’ more of hell gettin’ it, and
we want it all, after that. But I seem to see something of what was
back of Charlie’s mind quittin’ the game an’ never returning to it.
Get a look down there.” He pointed at a rough sheltered landing
with a tubby, cutter-rigged fishing smack lying moored there.
“That’s our link with the world outside. An’ we got to get out not
pounds, but tons of metal if I’m a judge. We got to market it an’
keep it quiet, or we’ll have the Australian Government jumping in
on us, to say nothing of all the rest of the world.” He shook his
head. “How’s it to be done? It can’t.”

“But it can. It must!”

Len’s whole manner had undergone a complete transformation. All
the excited delight had passed out of his eyes. They had suddenly
become hard, and shrewd, and full of keen resolution. The thought
of failure with the prize in their hands had stirred him to a
feeling like that of a mother who sees her offspring about to be
snatched from her arms. He was ready to fight with the last breath
of life for this thing he so dearly coveted.

“Here, you can’t tell me a thing I haven’t thought, Jim,” he cried.
“All this stuff’s been in my brain tank ever since we bought that
barge of ours down in Perth. I’d got it all then. An’ I planned it
all before we beat it up the coast in that old coaster, with our
craft on a tow-line. You’re right. It’s got to be a secret. If we
shout we’ll lose half the game. Maybe we’ll lose it all. We’re not
going to shout. No. I best tell you, an’ we’ll sort out the metal
from the tailings. You’ve a cautious head and a clear brain. Maybe
you’ll see any weak spot lying around.”

Jim nodded in ready agreement. He had achieved his purpose. Len was
down to hard facts.

“This is the thing I got planned,” Len went on, dipping his
hands into the pile of gold and letting it sift back between his
hard-worn fingers. “We’ve got to get a third feller into our
game--on commission. We got to think wide and act wide. We got
to play a red-hot game, an’ play it good. Ther’s got to be no
weakening, an’ if any feller we work with plays the skunk he’s got
to get his med’cine short. You get that?”

Jim made no reply, but the look in his eyes was sufficient.

“Well, here it is,” Len went on quickly. “If we dope this stuff
out free we’ll break the market, and set every news-sheet shouting
from one end of the world to the other. And the folks’ll jump in
an’ shut us down. We’re sort of in the position of the feller who
can transmute base metal. No. When we’ve a big enough bunch of
stuff out I’m going to take a big trip down to Perth. I’m going
to get a guy with a tramp ship, a Windjammer for preference. I’m
going to fix up with him; he’ll get a handsome commission on our
trade of gold, and I’m going to bring him along up and have him
stand off down the coast a few miles, an’ then, with this old barge
of ours, I’ll come along and pick up all we got, an’ haul it back
aboard of his ship. Then you’re going right along with him and the
stuff, and you’re going to travel from port to port and dispose of
it for credit at such banks as will trade in smallish parcels. And
meanwhile, I’ll stop right here on this coast an’ get stuff out
ready for when you come back. Then I’ll take a trip, an’ you’ll
stop around. An’ when we’ve sold all we need we’ll--quit. It’s the
only way, Jim. We got to play the smugglin’ game, an’ play it
good. We got to take chances. Mighty big chances! I got to trust
you, an’ you got to trust me, an’ we got to trust that skipper by
makin’ it worth his while an’ keeping a gun pushed ready. Ther’s
got to be no weakening. It’s the only way I can see to put our
play through. Otherwise, our gold ain’t worth hell room to us. Do
you see it? Are you on? I want you to make that first trip because
you got folks needing you worse than any one needs me. That’s one
reason. The other is I want you to feel I’m putting right into your
hands my share, and I’m not worrying a thing because that’s so.
See? We know each other. We’re on the square. An’ the thing I want
from you is to keep the commission guy on the same angle. Well?”

“It’s the sort o’ thing I had in mind, Len, only I hadn’t got it
clear like you.”

Jim knocked out his pipe and stood up stretching himself, while he
gazed out over the flat calm of the bay.

“It goes. Sure it does,” he said readily. “An’ I’m glad for that
thought that made you have me make the first trip. It’s kind of
generous, Len. But it’s like you. Gee, I’m sick of this coast! Say,
can you beat it? Here we are, two fellers takin’ every chance in
life to make an honest grub stake out of no-man’s land, and to do
that we got to hunt our holes like gophers, lest folks get wise
to us an’ snatch it from us. It sort of makes you wonder. But you
know, Len, this river’s too rich. I sort of feel that. I kind of
feel the thing’s not goin’ to be as easy as you make it seem. But
we’re goin’ to see it through to the end. An’ God help the feller
that starts in to rob us! Yes, it’s a kind thought of yours,
sending me on the first trip. I got a mother an’ a dandy sister
who’ll likely bless you for this. I guess they’re hard put all
right, and the thought’s had me worried for months. Say----”

He turned towards the river and glanced up at the sky. Len laughed.

“That’s all right, Jim. I’m ready all the time,” he said. “It ain’t
work gettin’ back on the river. It’s play. Come on. We’re going to
get out half a ton of stuff,” he laughed, as he sprang to his feet.
“Then I’ll make Perth, an’ buy up that tramp skipper.”

He moved off beside his partner, leaving his golden pile just where
it lay. And together they passed out of the shelter of the trees.




                             CHAPTER II

                            The Headland


The woman was standing in the doorway of her log-built home. She
was gazing out over the waters of the creek below her which flowed
gently on to the distant Alsek River. A mood of quiet contemplative
happiness was shining in her dark eyes. It was the mother soul in
her that was stirred to a deep sense of happy satisfaction.

Rebecca Carver was a smallish, sturdy, vigorous creature something
past the middle of life. She had lived hardly enough in the harsh
Alaskan territory that had bred her and had always remained her
home. And even now, with advancing years, and a body sometimes only
barely equal to the onslaught of its pitiless climate, she had not
even a momentary desire to leave it.

But then she had not lived unhappily. The years of her wifehood had
been passed in the exciting, many-coloured, chequered life which
ever falls to the lot of those who devote themselves to the crazy
uncertainties of the quest of gold. No. Her life had never been
monotonous. And besides the excitement of it all she had had her
son, and daughter, and her man, and these alone would have been
sufficient to keep an atmosphere of smiling contentment in her
woman’s heart.

Now, however, her man had long since gone. Her son was far away,
fending for them and himself as best he might. She only had her
daughter remaining with her, but the girl was the pride and joy of
her loyal heart; a blue-eyed, beautiful creature who never failed
to remind her, to her contented satisfaction, of the cheerful,
reckless, gambling husband who had been her strong support in the
hard years of their life together.

Circumstances were hard-pressing with her now. They had pressed
heavily ever since the death of her husband. The future was full
enough of threat to depress the stoutest heart. But, for the
moment, she was not concerned with these things. It was the thought
of her boy, her first-born, that filled her yearning soul with
happiness. Only that morning her daughter had brought her out a
letter from Beacon Glory. It was a letter at long last from Jim.
And the tidings it yielded were of the best.

The day was utterly grey with the herald of coming winter. There
had been no sun to relieve the dark-hued forests on the hills
which rose up on every side about her. The blistering summer heat
had long since reduced all vegetation to the russet hues of fall,
and even the great forests of jack-pine had lost something of the
intensity of their evergreen hues. Somewhere behind her, hidden
by a rampart of iron-bound coast, lay the open seas of the North
Pacific. For the rest, to the North, and East, and South, lay the
tattered world of broken foothills which were the fringe of the
greater hills beyond. She knew it all by heart, this world of
southern Alaska which had always been her home, and for all the
overwhelming nature of it, for all the threat of the heavy grey
sky, she feared nothing it could show her. And now, perhaps, less
than ever.

She abruptly withdrew her gaze from the tumultuous scene of it
all. She dived into the capacious pocket of her rough skirt. When
her hand was withdrawn it was grasping the neatly folded pages of
a letter in a big, scrawling handwriting. She unfolded them and
became deeply absorbed. She almost knew the contents of the letter
by heart, but somehow she felt she could never read it often enough.

The letter was vaguely headed “Australia.” It was without date,
but this she had ascertained from its postmark, as she had also
ascertained that it had been mailed in a city she had barely
cognisance of, called “Perth.”

  DEAREST MOTHER:

 We’ve made good. We’ve made so good I can’t begin to tell you
 about it.

Just for a moment a deep sigh of happiness escaped the mother’s
lips, and something like tears of emotion half-filled her eyes. She
brushed them aside promptly, however, and continued her reading.

 I don’t know the date so I can’t hand it to you. I can’t hand you
 our whereabouts either, but for different reasons. What I can
 tell you is I’m setting right out for home as soon as Len gets
 along back, which’ll maybe in six weeks. He’s taking this letter
 with him, an’ will mail it, which’ll maybe in two or three weeks’
 time. I’ll be setting out in a windjammer called the _Imperial_ of
 Bristol. When you read the name you’ll wonder to see it in Len’s
 handwriting, but you see he’s taking the letter, and we don’t
 know the name of the ship till he gets to his destination and
 charters it, see? So he’ll have to fill the name in. This’ll all
 seem kind of mysterious to you, but it don’t matter. The thing is,
 I’m coming right along home to you, an’ll reach you in about six
 months’ time, with enough stuff so you’ll never have to worry a
 thing again ever.

The letter went on for several pages, filled to the brim with that
kindly, intimate talk which never fails to stir the depths of
a mother’s heart. And so Rebecca Carver read it all once again,
revelling in the delight with which the words of her boy filled her.

Jim had made good! Jim was returning home! He was crazy to be with
her and his sister Claire again. Oh, it was good, so good! The
woman’s brown eyes were raised smiling whimsically at the sudden
thought which her mood had inspired. Why, it was all so good that
she would almost joyfully accept whatever offer Bad Booker might
make for their last block of real estate in the city of Beacon
Glory, which now represented their entire resources for the coming
winter. Yes, never in her life had she been so thrilled. Never!

She remembered earlier thrills. She remembered those hard times
when they had been well-nigh confronted with starvation. She
remembered how her husband, that headlong gambler, had set out
to the gaming tables of Beacon Glory with their last remaining
dollars in his pocket. And she had sat at home with her half-fed
children awaiting his return. Then the joy of his return with
pockets bulging--yes, those had been great moments. But then he was
a skilful gambler and rarely failed. This--this was something on a
different plane. Something----

Her contemplative gaze had discovered movement on the hillside
across the water. It was a horse-drawn vehicle moving rapidly,
descending the precipitate slope diagonally at the break of the
forest which gave way to the bald, wind-swept crest above. Its
course would bring it down to the far side of the ford of the river
directly opposite where she was standing.

Her smile deepened. It needed no second thought to tell her whose
vehicle it was. Ivor McLagan, the oil man from the Alsek River,
was on his way into Beacon Glory, which lay ten miles or so to the
northeast of her home.

She awaited his arrival. He was a welcome enough visitor at all
times. And he never failed to call in on his way, and leave her
any newspapers he might chance to have. He was wealthy, and a man
everybody esteemed. She had sometimes hoped---- But she knew that
could never be. Claire was a girl of strong decision for all she
was only twenty-one. She had already definitely refused to marry
him. She liked him well enough. They all liked him. Especially had
Jim liked him, but it was her woman’s understanding of the position
that made her fear that Claire’s frank regard would never deepen to
anything warmer.

The buckboard seemed to be almost falling down the precipitous
slope under the man’s reckless handling. It was literally plunging
headlong, but she understood--she knew. It was McLagan’s way
with his Alaskan bronchos. There would be no disaster. And as
she watched his progress she wanted to laugh, for such was the
lightness of her mood.

       *       *       *       *       *

The buckboard rattled, and shook, and jolted as it bustled down
the hillside over a broken almost undefined trail. Its surefooted,
well-fed team was utterly untiring. The shaggy creatures made no
mistakes. Tough, hardy, they were bred to just such work as this,
and they were in the hands of a super-teamster. So the creek came
up to them with a rush and they plunged belly deep into the chill
water of the ford. Then, moments later, they were reined in sharply
at the door of the man’s familiar stopping place.

“Say, ma’am, this country’s one hell of a proposition for a quiet,
decent, comfort-loving, ordinary sort of engineer.”

The man’s greeting was full of cheer, and his smiling eyes conveyed
a quiet sense of dry humour. Ivor McLagan had no claims to good
looks, and his manner ordinarily was sufficiently brusque to
border on rudeness, but in this woman’s presence he had a way
of displaying a side to his character that those who met him in
business, those of his own sex, were never admitted to. No, McLagan
had nothing in face or feature to thrill any woman’s artist soul,
but what he lacked in that direction he made up in another. As he
turned his buckboard wheels and leapt to the ground, he towered
over the little woman in the doorway a figure of magnificent
manhood.

Rebecca’s eyes smiled up at him responsively.

“It surely is, Ivor. But I don’t mind a thing. Jim’s coming right
back to me. He’s made good, he and Len, an’ he’s coming home with
stuff so we’ll never need to worry ever again.”

It was out. The mother had to tell her glorious news on the
instant. And to this old friend of her Jim’s of all men.

Ivor nodded. Then came the quiet, conventional reply, “You don’t
say?”

The woman’s excitement rose. “But I surely do,” she cried, holding
up the bundled pages of her letter. “It’s all right here. This
is mail I got from him this morning. Claire brought it out from
Beacon, bless her! My, I--I sort of feel just anyhow. Ever feel
that way? Ever feel you wanted to dance around an’ shout? Say--but
come right in an’ get some coffee. It’s on the stove. I--I’m
forgettin’ everything.”

Ivor shook his head.

“Don’t you worry, ma’am,” he said in a tone of sympathy one would
never have associated with him. “Just get busy an’--shout. But tell
me first, when’s Jim getting along?”

“Guess he’s right on the way now.” The woman’s eyes were alight,
then a shadow crept into them. “He won’t be along for six months
from the start. Maybe that’ll be three months an’ more from the
coming of this letter.”

“Yes, it would be about that.”

The man’s eyes were serious as he regarded the letter bunched in
Rebecca’s hand. Then he looked up and was smiling again.

“I’m just so glad for you, ma’am, I can’t say,” he said cordially.
“Jim’s a great boy. He’s got elegant grit, too. He’s out for you
an’ Claire all the time, and I’ll be real glad to have him around
again for--for all your sakes. How does Claire feel? But there, I
guess she’s crazy glad. Where is she?”

He craned, peering into the doorway expectantly. But the mother
shook her head.

“She’s not inside,” she declared. “Glad? Why, it don’t say a
thing, Ivor. You know her. She and Jim are kind of all in all to
themselves. She went sort of white as a corpse when she read that
letter. She didn’t say much, but if you’d seen her eyes! My! You
can guess wher’ she is now. Ther’s only one place for Claire when
Jim’s on the water sailin’ home. It’s right up on the headland
back of here,” she jerked her greying head towards the back of the
house. “She’s right up there where she can see the sea. An’ I guess
she’s dreaming fool dreams of his home-coming.”

“Yes, I guess it’s kind of wonderful for you both,” Ivor said
kindly.

“Wonderful? Sure it is. Ther’s another thing. We been kind of in
bad shape an’ were selling out our last block in Beacon that my man
left to us. Oh, I’m not really thinkin’ of the stuff he’s bringing.
No,” Rebecca went on, as though she feared the man might think
that sheer selfishness was the substance of her delight. “But it
helps. And Claire’s been a heap worried dealing with Bad Booker,
but it don’t matter a thing now. We’ll take what he offers an’ be
thankful.”

Ivor had turned to his horses. He unloosed the halter shank of the
nearside beast and secured it to the tying ring on the log wall of
the house, then he drew out a bundle of well-read newspapers and
held them out to Rebecca.

“Here, take these,” he said in his quick, rough way. “I’ll leave my
plugs right here. They’ll be glad to stand. I’m just going up to
get a word with Claire. I’ll bring her right along down.”

The mother took the papers and threw them on to the table in the
room behind her. Somehow her usual interest in them was overwhelmed.

“Thanks, Ivor,” she said. “You never seem to forget us. I’ll
sure be real glad to have you bring Claire down with you. She’s
crazy glad, sure--we both are, but it don’t seem time to me to be
dreaming around on any old hill-tops. I’ll set coffee an’ a bite to
eat against you get back.”

She watched him hurry away, this great creature all height, and
muscle, and plainness of feature. She realised his eagerness, and
again there arose in her mother heart that hope which her better
sense sought to deny her.

       *       *       *       *       *

The girl was gazing out upon the distant sea. The iron-bound coast
that lay immediately below her made no claim upon her, for all the
wild beauty, the cruel austerity with which its ages-long battle
with the merciless waters of a storm-swept ocean had endowed it.
Neither had the panorama of tumultuous hills which rose about her,
nor the distant snowy crests of the northern reaches of the Rocky
Mountains any appeal. She only had eyes for the grey, far-off
horizon where sky and sea met. She was searching for some sign of
a sail, which, in fancy, she might translate into the wings of the
vessel bringing home a beloved brother and--fortune.

She was beautifully tall and slim, for all her somewhat rough
clothing which had little more than warmth and utility to recommend
it. It was the best that the joint efforts of her mother and
herself had been able to contrive out of their limited resources,
and the girl was not given to grumbling. No, she was accustomed to
hardships, and self-denial came easy to her. She was too strong
and resolute, she was too frankly generous to harbour any petty
resentment against her lot.

In twenty-one years she had grown to superb womanhood, healthy
in mind, healthy in a wonderful degree in body. Her father had
seen something of her splendid development before he died, but
it was left to her mother to witness the final reality of it. To
the latter her child was the most beautiful creature in all the
world. Her wide blue eyes, and her wealth of flaming red hair,
her shapely body, so tall, and vigorous, and straight; then her
sun-tanned, rounded cheeks, and her well-chiselled nose, and broad,
even brows; were they not all something of a reflection of the
early youth of the man who had given her her own life’s happiness?
Time and again her mother had rejoiced that she had had her
christened with so choice a name as “St. Claire.” True, the “Saint”
had been permitted to fall into disuse. But it still belonged to
her, and nothing could rob her of it. And the mother only regretted
that the girl herself refused to permit its revival.

Just now the girl had given herself up to idle moments of delicious
dreaming. And why not? Difficulties and troubles had beset them
for so long; oh, yes. She had no scruple in admitting the bald,
hard truth. Not alone was her joy at the prospect of Jim’s return.
He was returning with some sort of fortune, for them as well as
himself.

It would mean so much to them. Her mother would know ease and
peace of mind after all her heroic struggles with adversity. Jim
would be freed from his great responsibility for their care. And
she--she--well, there were so many great and wonderful things in
the world she wanted to do and see.

And dreaming of all that this splendid return meant to them her
mind went back to the interview she had had only that morning in
Beacon Glory with the man everybody called “Bad” Booker, the chief
real estate man in the city.

Her journey into town had been inspired by their necessity. Her
mother still owned a small block of property in Beacon Glory, the
last remaining asset left to her by her gambler husband. It was
mortgaged to Booker, himself, but only lightly, and she had visited
him to endeavour to sell it right out. Without Booker’s help they
possessed less than twenty dollars with which to face the winter,
and await Jim’s return. She took no account of the played-out
gold claim on the creek below her. That had ceased to yield a
pennyweight of gold more than two years back, a fact which had been
the inspiration of her brother’s going.

She remembered Booker’s smiling fat face and bald head as she
offered him her proposition. He always smiled, and it was a
hateful, greasy, fixed sort of smile. She believed he was a Jew.
But Jew or Gentile, he was a merciless money-spinner, ready to rob
the world of its last dollar.

Her anger surged even now with her thought of the man. He had
offered to take the block off her mother’s hands for two thousand
dollars cash. It was the limit to which he would go. It was
mortgaged for two thousand dollars to him. It was in the very
centre of Beacon Glory, next to the Speedway Dance Hall. And even
though the city was dead flat as a reaction from its early boom,
the property was worth not a cent less than ten thousand dollars.
It was maddening. It was a sheer “hold-up.” But she knew they were
helpless in the man’s hands. Oh, if they could only tide over until
Jim got back!

She had told her mother not a word of the man’s offer yet. Somehow
she felt she had not the courage to tell her. Yet she would have to
do so, and, worst of all, she knew they would have to accept the
man’s offer or starve.

Well, she would have one slight consolation. Once the deed was
signed, and the money was in her hands, she would tell “Bad” Booker
all that was in her mind. She----

The sound of a footstep behind her broke up the half-fierce, almost
tearful train of her thought. She turned sharply to discover Ivor
McLagan breathing heavily after his climb.

“Say, Claire,” he cried, while he spread out his hands
deprecatingly, and his smallish eyes twinkled humorously, “why in
the name of everything holy make this darn country worse than it
is? Why you need to climb a mile high to enjoy the thought of your
Jim, boy, coming along, I just can’t see. I surely can’t!” Then he
glanced quickly out to sea and took a deep breath. “My, but this is
a swell spot!” he added soberly.

The girl’s bad time had passed. Her smile came on the instant.

“That’s quite a contradiction,” she said slily.

“Sure. Well, we’ll cut the first part right out.” McLagan’s
twinkling gaze came back to the girl’s face, and he drank in the
fresh beauty of it. “I couldn’t pass along into that nightmare city
of ours without speaking my piece of gladness for your news. It’s
bully! It certainly is. The boy’s made good. An’ for you folks, I
guess, only just in time.”

The girl nodded as she looked up into the man’s plain face, and a
flash of thoughtful regret for its plainness broke in on all the
rest that preoccupied her.

“I doubt if it’s even that, Ivor,” she said, a little desperately.

“How?”

The man’s interrogation was a return to his roughness of manner.

“Why, Bad Booker’s got us right in his clutches, and we can’t even
wriggle. He reckons to hand Mum two thousand on top of his two
thousand mortgage for a block of stuff you could market free for
ten thousand. It’s his two thousand or--or starve.”

The girl finished up with a smile that failed to hide her feelings,
and McLagan’s eyes hardened.

“The man’s a swine,” he said, and his voice grated harshly.

“That don’t help.”

“No. Don’t accept, Claire. Don’t you sell.”

“But we’ve got to eat.”

“Sure, an’ you’re going to. Here.” Just for a second the man
hesitated, and shifted his gaze from the beautiful urgent face
that never more deeply appealed to him than now. Then it came back
on the instant. “It’s no use,” he cried, and his tone was rough.
“You’re not going to starve. You and your mother can have all the
cash you need till Jim comes, and--and I want nothing in return. Do
you get my meaning, Claire? If you take money on loan from me till
Jim gets home you’ll never have need to worry. You can just shut it
right out of your head and forget it--till Jim comes home. I mean
that just plain an’ straight. And there isn’t a thing behind it.”

They stood eye to eye while the girl swiftly read the sheer honesty
lying behind the man’s eyes. Then she shook her head.

“No,” she said, “I’m going to sell. I’m going to sell, and I’ll
just wait around after, hoping for the day to come when the Aurora
Clan will reckon that Bad Booker’s a sort of nightmare disease an’
needs plenty good med’cine. Thanks, Ivor. It’s just a real kind
thought of yours, and the thing that makes me glad is I know you
mean it just as you’ve said it. But I don’t want your money. I--I
wouldn’t take it if it was that or--or starve.”

For all there was something of roughness in the girl’s choice of
words for her refusal, there was none in her manner. Even her hope
that one day Booker would receive his medicine at the hands of the
secret Aurora Clan was without undue feeling. The man was deeply
stirred.

They were great friends, these two. But for the man’s peace of
mind the frank nature of their friendship was deplorable. He
loved the girl with all the strength of his manhood. He held a
big position with the Mountain Oil Corporation of Ohio as their
consulting engineer, and his whole desire was to take this child
of the northern wilderness away to his far-off home in the sunlit
valleys of California. She had refused to marry him more than once.
But somehow her refusal had left their friendship unaffected. She
liked him whole-heartedly in a manner that to her precluded all
possibility of regard of a deeper nature, but which in the man only
contrived to strengthen his natural persistence.

The leaping fires of the man’s passion surged up in face of the
rebuff. For a brief moment he contemplated the smiling eyes in
their wonderful framing of vivid hair, which the slouch-brimmed hat
she was wearing failed to conceal. Then his lips obeyed his impulse.

“Yes, I know, Claire,” he said, his voice harshened by emotion.
“You won’t, you can’t accept my help. Why? I’ll tell you. Because
I don’t belong to you. Because I want to marry you, am crazy with
love for you, and you don’t feel like falling for my notion. So you
can’t have the thing I want to do for you like I never wanted to
do for anybody ever before. I guess you’re right enough in your own
lights, sure you are. You’re not putting yourself under obligation
to the feller you don’t fancy to marry. But why not marry me,
Claire? Maybe I’m not a thing of beauty. But I guess I just love
you to death. Maybe you don’t care a thing for the picture I make
now, but you’ll get used to it. Sure you will.” He laughed a
little bitterly. “I guess folks can get used to most things after
a while.” Then his smile passed. “But, my dear, ther’s not a thing
in the world I wouldn’t do to give you a real dandy life. These
oil wells out here are going to pass me a fortune that I’m crazy
to share with you. Won’t you? No. You won’t. I can see it in your
eyes, the same as I’ve seen it before. But--but if I’ve still got
to stand for that, there’s things I won’t stand for. You need help
and I’ll raise all the hell I can to pass it you.”

Claire shook her head a shade impatiently.

“It’s no use, Ivor. Why--why can’t we be friends? True, I haven’t a
thing against you in the world, not a thing, not even”--she smiled
gently--“the looks which you don’t seem to set much stock by. No,
it isn’t anything like that. True it isn’t. I like you, but----
Here, you don’t get the things lying back of my fool head. Guess
I’m my father’s daughter. You knew him for what he was. He was a
gambler. And maybe, in a way, I’m a gambler, too. I want life with
all its chances. I want to reach out an’ hug it all. I want to take
every chance coming, and do something, and be something in the game
of it all. I don’t want to marry. Sure not yet. I don’t want to
share in any man’s home, and--and grow on like a cabbage. There’s
too much of the big adventure in life for me to miss it all. Maybe
I’ll get sort of disillusioned later--maybe. I can’t help that.
But I mean to take a hand in the game meanwhile.”

There was such a ring of final resolution in the girl’s smiling
denial that the man realised his momentary defeat. So he offered no
further protest. He made no attempt at argument. He shrugged his
great shoulders, and the happy twinkle returned to his eyes.

“Don’t say another word, Claire,” he said gently. “Maybe I
understand the thing lying back of your mind. Forget my break. It
was a bad one, and I shouldn’t have made it, but--but I sort of
just had to. I won’t do it again. There isn’t some other feller, is
there?”

The girl laughed happily in her relief at his manner.

“Not a soul,” she cried, unhesitatingly.

“That’s all right.” The man’s eyes smiled responsively. “I can
wait. I’m going to, and I’ll make no more bad breaks. And maybe
when you’ve hit your adventures, and kind of tired of them, and
feel you’d like the rest you’ll have maybe earned, why I’ll be
waiting around, and I’ll surely be ready to hand it you when you
raise a finger, a sign. An’ meanwhile, my dear, I’d be glad to have
you feel ther’s no sort of trouble in the world so big I wouldn’t
be glad to smooth out for you.” He suddenly spread out his muscular
hands. “These two hands are for you, night or day, all the time,
and I’ve two ears that’ll hear the faintest whisper of trouble
that’s worrying you. Say, come along right down. Your mother’s
crazy to talk your Jim to you and she asked me to bring you to
home.”

The man’s whole manner was so gentle as to be irresistible. For all
the thing that lay between them there had never been a moment when
he had made so great an appeal to the girl. His normal roughness
she knew to be but an unfortunate garment in which he clothed
himself. Now, as times before, she was listening to the real man so
surely hidden from the world that looked on. She was not without
a shadow of regret that she could not see in him the man of her
desire. Without a word of protest she permitted him to lead the way
down from the bald crest of the headland.




                            CHAPTER III

                          In Beacon Glory


Ivor McLagan eased his great body in the groaning wicker chair, and
his eyes snapped with something like irritation. The long, lean
cigar it was his habit to smoke he removed from between his lips,
and indicated the main thoroughfare beyond the window behind him.

“Don’t tell me you’ve a hunch for this muck-hole, Victor,” he said
sharply. “Take a pull at yourself, man. Get a cold douche, if you
can find a thing so wholesome in Beacon Glory, and wake yourself
right up. Take a look out there. Take a peek around you, and if
you aren’t as blind as a dead mule, and a sure candidate for the
foolish place, you’ll see this darnation monument to human vanity
as it is. I tell you there’s no sort of limit to human vanity when
it gets a-riot fixing cities. Beacon Glory? Did you ever call a
hogpen by any other fancy name? Sure you didn’t. You aren’t plumb
crazed yet for all you’re talking this burg as though winter had
no right hiding it up for six months of the year. Get a look at
the garbage lying around even the business avenue. Avenue! Sounds
fine, doesn’t it? And then think of the hell of flies and skitters
you got to live through next summer. Look at the shanties lying
scattered around desecrating a swell picture of Nature’s painting.
They’re enough to insult a half-breed settlement that don’t know
better. But that’s no circumstance to the folks who’re to blame
for despoiling God Almighty’s decent earth with a pestilential
collection of man’s assorted junk. The moral atmosphere of Beacon
Glory would leave the hottest oven in hell hollering. There’s more
dirt an’ dishonesty to the square inch in Beacon Glory than you’d
ever find in any mediæval Turkish penitentiary, kept especially for
housing the folks they don’t like the faces of. And they call this
quagmire of corruption ‘Beacon Glory’! They laid it out in Avenues!
They filled it up with garbage an’ human junk, an’ folk like you
sit around with your hat in one hand and the other on your left
chest and breathe the word ‘city’ in the sort of tone you’d hand
out over a deathbed. That’s you, who don’t belong to it. You, who
aren’t any sort of part of it, except you’re here to collect any
stray gold lying around, and pass it back to your home city. You, a
banker! My, it’s queer how folks can fall for their surroundings!”

Victor Burns laughed cordially at his friend’s diatribe. It amused
him thoroughly. McLagan was on his pet theme, which was an utter
contempt and detestation of the city of Beacon Glory.

“That’s all right, Ivor,” he said. “You can’t run a branch of your
bank and shout at the folks you do business with. For just as long
as it’s my job collecting the dust folks don’t know better than to
waste their lives chasing, Beacon Glory’s a deal bigger than ‘ace
high’ to me. It’s a swell city that does a mighty big credit to
the folks whose enterprise set it up--and made my living possible.
You’re collecting oil in the big valleys, which is liable to leave
you finding a queer sort of human fog lying about our principal
avenue, but I’d like to say the ‘muck-hole’ of Beacon Glory don’t
hurt your prospect a cent, and you’d miss its ‘beauties’ if the
foolish ones had never dumped it down.”

McLagan laughed good-naturedly, and returned his cigar to its
place in the corner of his capacious mouth. They were lounging in
the office of Beacon Glory’s principal hotel, this engineer of
the Mountain Oil Corporation and the chief banker of the place.
They were something more than business acquaintances. A pleasant
friendship existed between them, inspired perhaps by mutual esteem
for the other’s integrity in surroundings which each knew to be
something morally deplorable.

The hotel--the Plaza by name--was an angular three-storied,
wooden-frame building that had once been well and truly painted.
But that was in the boom days. It had a verandah fronting on the
city’s only business avenue, a long, unpaved thoroughfare that had
wrecked the running gear of more vehicles in its time than any
roadway the world had ever known. Over the verandah, on a level
with the first floor, was a wide balcony of similar proportions.
In the heyday of prosperity this had been covered by a brilliant
striped awning, but that, like the outside paint, had long since
yielded to the weather. But for all its dreary, derelict appearance
the Plaza stood out amongst the rest of the city’s buildings, with
one or two exceptions, as something rather magnificent, if only for
its proportions.

McLagan and the banker had the office with its decayed furniture
and spluttering wood stove to themselves. That is, they only
shared it with its atmosphere of general uncleanness. It was the
hour immediately before supper, a meal which Abe Cranfield’s
fly-blown menu described as “dinner,” a title his boarders refused
to accept. Soon contingents of humanity would foregather in
anticipation of a meal to sustain stomachs which had long since
learned to satisfy themselves on a diet of unsavoury monotony.

“That’s all right, Victor,” McLagan said readily. “You’re a banker,
I’m not. I’m just a hard citizen the same as the rest, and don’t
need to worry to keep my notions of Beacon Glory to myself. And if
any feller feels like disputing, why, I can argue it out any old
way he fancies. But I’m sick with this city the same as I’m sick
with most things unclean. I guess it isn’t altogether the fault
of folks so much as the times, and the thing life’s drifted into.
Does it ever worry you thinking of modern conditions and the crazy
scramble of it all? You know, I ought to’ve been born two or three
centuries back before some fool guy invented the words ‘democracy’
and ‘proletariat.’ You can’t run a thing right by committees and
assemblies set up by any popular vote. Think of me trying to
locate oil in the hills back here with a bunch of guys sitting
around telling me how I need to go about it, and where to start my
drills. No, sir. It’s the same with countries and cities and Sunday
schools. You need one head and one hand. And whether for good or
bad you’ll get some sort of order and discipline and things’ll move
quick. I’d say it’s better, seeing human nature is what it is,
to let one feller graft than a government of hundreds, and it’s
cheaper. This territory’s run by a government that only cares for
its job and legislates thousands of miles away. What’s the result?
Why--Beacon Glory, an undisciplined quagmire of human muck!”

Victor Burns lit a cigarette and grinned through the smoke. He
was a small, round, sleek little man, clean-shaven and with a
pleasant face that looked to be made for smiling. He was almost in
ridiculous contrast to the huge frame and rugged exterior of the
other.

“That’s all so, all right,” Burns nodded. “I’ve thought heaps
more than that lying awake at nights wondering how far the other
feller’s got me beat. But a grouch in this office isn’t going to
fix things right.” He glanced alertly round the room which still
remained empty. “And that’s why I’m kind of glad for that bunch of
boys who got together to try and clean things up. It don’t matter
to me who or what the folks of the Aurora Clan are, or the ultimate
purpose lying back of their game. They started out a year ago to
clean things up some and they got half the toughs of this burg
scared to foolishness. There hasn’t been a hold-up in months, and
only a week back these white-gowned purifiers burnt out stark that
drug den of Bernard’s where Charlie O’Byrne was done to death for
his wad. Say, those boys are right if they just stick right to the
game they started on. The danger is, when they got Beacon where
they need it and have cleaned up the tougher stuff of the place,
they may be looking for payment.”

Ivor shook his head.

“You never can tell, Victor,” he said seriously. “They’re a terror
to the muck of this place now, I agree. Maybe later they’ll be a
terror, anyway, that’s the way of these things. So long as they
act the way they are we’re all glad, we must be. Any feller with
a wide mind would be crazy to feel bad about them, but,” he shook
his head and flung the stump of his cigar almost viciously into the
stove, “maybe it’ll just drift into the usual. With the others out
of the way they’ll do the hold-up. Then the Government, thousands
of miles away’ll butt in. The Aurora Clan will get cleaned right
up and back we’ll fall into the muck those boys did their best to
haul us out of. No, I’ve a brief for them. I surely have. But when
they’ve done their work and start getting gay for themselves, I’ll
be as ready as any one to start cleaning them up. It’s a hell of a
place, anyway!”

McLagan remained gazing into the stove with eyes that had lost
their usual twinkle. He was a man of immense resolution and
capacity. A brilliant mining engineer, he yearned for wider scope
in the affairs of life. So far all his energies had been directed
to the earth’s remote places, seeking those treasures for his
Corporation which at any cost must be acquired for the purposes of
satisfying voracious shareholders. And Victor Burns, watching him,
understood something of the restless, dissatisfied spirit driving
him. He was a shrewd judge of men, as are most real bankers, and
this burly, plain creature, all energy and capacity, more than
usually interested him.

“How’s oil?” he asked quietly, as the other remained silent.

“Just about the same.” Ivor laughed in his short way. “Oh, it’s
there all right. It’s there plenty. The Alsek valley’s full of
it--when we can reach it. That’s one of the things makes me feel
bad for this place. When we strike it, as we’re sure to, the old
gold boom that bred this city won’t be any sort of circumstance.”

“When’ll that be?”

Burns’ eyes were shrewdly inquiring. It was his business to be
well-informed.

“Any old time, maybe a month, maybe two years.” McLagan shook his
head. “You can’t just say. But two years from now is our limit.
That’ll make a seven-year prospect.”

“I see.” Burns nodded and glanced round. The door had opened to
admit the first arrival of the boarders. “Well, we need it. There’s
some gold flowing in slowly from the country. But things are dead
flat, and I can’t even begin to guess where the folks collect
the dollars spent at the Speedway every night. Max, there, tells
me he’s looking to a big spending winter, but I don’t see how he
figures it. Howdy, Tilbury,” he nodded at the new arrival. “Where’s
your partner, Allison?”

The newcomer, slight, short and with greying hair, nodded back a
greeting.

“Oh, I guess he’s on the bum around. He’ll be along. Glad to
see you, Mr. McLagan,” he said, turning quickly and almost
deferentially to the engineer. “Opened up a gusher yet?”

McLagan’s eyes twinkled as he rose from his protesting chair.

“Guess I’ll be asked that haf a century of times before the night’s
out. No, boy,” he said. “The old earth’s holding up her secrets
and looks like holding ’em years. An’ say, you’ll be doing me real
service putting that news around when the boys come in to feed. Put
it round quick, while I go and wash. Travelling’s a mighty dirty
pastime around Beacon Glory, which is only reasonable.” And he
passed out of the office just as a distant bell rang announcing the
evening meal.

       *       *       *       *       *

“Bad” Booker was sitting in his private room behind the outer
office. It was a comfortable apartment, almost sumptuous, and
seemed to be the natural setting for the personality of this real
estate man. He was a heavy creature with a flowing moustache, of
which, to judge by the inordinate care he bestowed upon it, he was
exceedingly proud. He was fat and everything about him was gross.
His general appearance and manner were of extreme good nature,
and his smile to this end was of a quality admirably calculated
to emphasise it. But Beacon Glory knew the man because, whatever
other things Beacon Glory may have lacked, it had a swift estimate
of those who were part of its public life. Those whose misfortune
made it necessary to come into business contact with Bad Booker
hated and detested the man, and more particularly his smile, for
they quickly found that the real estate mask was incapable of long
concealing the ugly features of the usurer underneath.

He was smoking a pungent Turkish cigarette liberally besprinkled
with gold lettering, and the while he was studying the extensive
deed of title relating to a corner block in the chief avenue of the
city. An air of calm satisfaction pervaded the man, for he knew
that the property under consideration was about to fall into his
hands at a price which even he regarded as advantageous. It was
what he desired.

He was a shrewd creature with a wide vision in the matter of
self-interest. Whatever others might think of Beacon Glory, he, at
least, had no doubts. He realised with absolute certainty that the
place was there to stay. It was within twenty miles of a fine, wide
harbour for shipping from the South. It was built on the shores
of a large lake whose name, since the city’s building, had become
associated with the place, and it occupied a site in the heart of
a splendid valley which ran right down to the sea and was the
highway to the interior of Alaska through the otherwise almost
impassable world of the southern hills. It was the centre of a gold
region that was as yet in its infancy. Furthermore, there was coal
and iron, and undoubtedly oil in abundance in the broken world
about it. The place was “flat” now as a reaction from its original
boom, but it was moving steadily if slowly, and the right men were
drifting in with a view to exploring its resources.

Very quietly and unostentatiously he was acquiring every property
that fell into the market so long as the price met his ideas of
investment. He was ready to mortgage for any town property. Smiling
at all times, his purse was always open for any proprietor of a
town lot who needed temporary assistance. The man was a merciless
money-spinner of the worst type. Disaster and misfortune to others
were the conditions under which his real business prospered.

He laid the documents aside and lit a fresh cigarette from the
remains of the other, which he dropped thoughtfully into the
silver-mounted ash-tray on the desk beside him. Then he sat
back in his chair, and, with his fleshy hands clasped over his
ample stomach, gave himself up to a few moments of rapid mental
calculation.

But his efforts were broken in upon. There was a light tap on the
opaque glass of the door that shut him off from the outer office,
and a clerk pushed his way in.

In an instant his smiling habit returned, but his tone of greeting
was sharp.

“What in hell is it this time, Jake?” he demanded, while his hands
fell away from his stomach.

Jake Forner was a mild-looking creature whose face gave no true
indication of the man behind it. He was broad and angular, with
shoulders that looked sizes too big for the rest of his body. He
was clean-shaven, with the wide brow and big dark eyes of the
student. But his mouth and jaws were firmly set and suggested
possibilities.

“It’s an open letter,” he said, “and it was handed in by a kid I
just didn’t seem to rec’nise. I didn’t feel like worrying you with
it till I opened it, then I guessed I’d best pass it in to you
right away.”

He came over to the desk and held out an open sheet of paper, while
his dark eyes closely scrutinised the smiling features of his
employer.

Booker took the paper without interest for all the other’s quietly
impressive manner. He glanced at the open sheet casually, and, in a
moment, his attention became profoundly absorbed.

Jake Forner was watching him. His eyes had something in them that
suggested smiling thought behind them. He was noting his employer’s
expression and saw it change rapidly from its habitual smile to
complete seriousness, and, finally, to something that seemed to
suggest anger not undriven by alarm.

It was a curious document, littered with a scrawling writing made
up of rough block capital letters and evidently indited by some
rough instrument, possibly a piece of sharpened wood. The lettering
was red and at the bottom of it, underneath the signature, was the
rough outline of a skull and crossbones, a flamboyant, melodramatic
finish that might well have inspired derision. But somehow, the
thing inspired nothing of the sort in the mind of the man to whom
it was addressed. He read it carefully:

  BAD BOOKER,

 You are trying to steal a city block from a helpless client. You
 have a mortgage on it for two thousand dollars. You are offering
 two thousand dollars more to wipe out the mortgage and possess
 the lot. The lowest market value of the property is ten thousand
 dollars. You will pay the difference between your mortgage and ten
 thousand dollars, namely, eight thousand dollars for the site. You
 have twenty-four hours in which to make a written offer of this
 amount. If you fail to do this, and to complete the deal in one
 week from this date, you will be hanged on the site in question.

  Sgd. CHIEF LIGHT OF THE AURORA.

Booker did not look up as he finished the reading. He sat gazing at
the paper, and once or twice Jake Forner observed that he swallowed
drily. Then, as the man remained furiously silent, the clerk
cleared his throat.

“That’s about as ugly as I’ve known ’em to play,” he said in a tone
of mild sympathy.

Booker laid the paper down and raised a pair of angry eyes. The
clerk saw the storm in them and waited for it to break. It came on
the instant.

“The swines!” Booker’s body was squared in the well-padded chair.
He was sitting up and breathing heavily. “The dirty, low-down
swines!” he cried. Then a heavy fist was raised and fell with a
crash on the ill-drawn sign of the skull. “If they think they can
scare me with a bluff like that I reckon they’re crazy. It’s a
hold-up, and I’m falling for no hold-up. By God! I’ll fight them!
Eight thousand? Not on your life. I’ll press that two thousand home
right away and show ’em they can’t throw a bluff at me and get away
with it. They want a written offer. Well, I guess they’ll get it.
I’ll write it now an’ you can beat it out to the Carver woman, and
put it right into her hands. But it’s for two thousand dollars.
And I guess she’ll fall for it quick or--starve.”

He pushed the Aurora Clan’s document roughly aside and started to
write out his offer, but Jake anxiously intervened; he quickly
raised a white hand and passed it across his broad forehead.

“I wouldn’t act in a hurry,” he said quickly. “You’re bucking a
tough game with the ‘aces’ against you. The Aurora bunch have been
mighty busy in the past weeks. Is it worth it? Just look back an’
see. Bernard’s gone. Clean wiped out, an’ he’s had to beat it out
of Beacon looking like a black rooster that hasn’t moulted right.
Then there was Pat Herne who robbed Len Sitwell when he was soused
at the Speedway. They hanged him right outside the town limits.
Then don’t forget Dick Mansell, who held up the stage coming in
from Ranger. He was left pumped full of lead till you couldn’t tell
his guts from an ash riddle. I’m scared for you, boss. I surely
am. Ther’s a terror creepin’ through this place scares me plumb
to death. These guys are a citizen bunch and no sort of ordinary
toughs. They’re acting seemingly with some sort of slab-sided
purpose. They’re wise to every move going on, an’ I can’t reckon
how they get hold of things. But there it is, and when they hand
in a brief on a boy they put through the thing it says. We’re a
business enterprise, boss, and it’s our job to beat the other
feller if we can. But I sort of feel when ther’s a hanging bee at
the end of it, business goes right out. Don’t you jump, boss. Sure
I’m scared. I haven’t your nerve. But I got it right here,” and he
tapped his forehead with a forefinger, “this is no sort of bluff.
It’s dead straight. An’ I’m not yearning to see you swinging on the
wrong end of a rawhide rope.”

Jake spoke quietly but urgently, and his usually mild eyes were a
match for his manner. He was Booker’s confidential clerk, a man of
quiet efficiency and whose vision was unusually clear. So, for all
his swift wrath, Booker had let him talk. Now, however, the usurer
leapt uppermost and his reply was swift and biting.

“You want me to hand out eight thousand at the orders of this
gang?” he cried, furiously. “You want me to pass eight thousand
good dollars to Rebecca Carver when she’s ready to close for two?
You’re crazy, Jake! Crazy as a bed-bug! If that’s the sort of
business we’re to do, I guess the sooner we close our doors and
beat it the better. Besides----”

“And the hanging bee?”

The eyes of the clerk were steadily regarding his furious chief,
and somehow the quiet reminder was not without effect. Booker
shifted his gaze and it fell on the lamentable design of the skull.

“This thing sets me crazy mad,” he protested, and his tone had
somehow fallen from its original bluster.

“But you’ll be madder--for a while--at the hanging bee.”

Booker broke into a short, harsh laugh at his clerk’s persistence
in dwelling upon the thing he saw lying ahead.

“That stunt has got you scared all right, Jake,” Booker said, with
a world of contempt in the quick look he raised to the man’s pale
face. “Maybe you’re guessing, seeing you’re my clerk, they’ll need
you to be present to share in the game.”

A flush mounted to the clerk’s cheeks.

“You can guess that way if you fancy, boss,” he retorted, in
a pronounced change of tone. Then his eyes searched the fat,
unsmiling face before him. “But you best get this right now and
get it quick. I’m out for your profit as well as my own. I’m out
to see this business go right on without any interruption in the
nature of a hanging bee. If you collected that chunk of real estate
for two thousand dollars on top of the mortgage it would be a swell
profit. Some folks might call it robbery, seeing they ain’t in it.
But ten thousand dollars is bedrock just now as they say in that
brief, and, when boom time comes again, you won’t miss the six
thousand dollars’ difference they’re demanding. Well, I guess I’d
buy off a hanging bee, with me as the centrepiece, any old time for
six thousand dollars. And if you’re wise, I guess you’ll act that
way, too.”

“But you’re forgetting the bluff of it all,” Booker said, without
looking up. Then he raised his hard eyes. “Gee, haven’t you any
sort of old guts makes you want to kick? Can you stand for a thing
like that?” he cried, holding up the ill-written document. “Are we
men, or----?”

“We certainly wouldn’t be men for long if we didn’t stand for it.
You don’t seem to get a grip of this thing, boss. I’ve watched it
all the time. This Aurora bunch is as real as the old Ku-Klux Klan,
that cleaned up the south in the nigger days. You’re wondering if
we’re men. Well, I’d say right here, let’s be. Don’t write your
offer in a hurry. Think awhile. An’ when you’ve thought good I’ll
saddle my pony and ride out to Rebecca Carver with the result. It
won’t hurt us to get that block at the price they say. But it will
at any other. I’m making that tracing of the new city limits and
need to get right on with it. Maybe in a while you’ll let me know
the thing you’ve decided.”

Jake turned away and passed quickly into the outer office, closing
the partition door carefully behind him. Booker watched him go
with eyes which had doubt in them for the first time. Yielding was
utterly foreign to his nature where advantage in a transaction
lay within his grasp. But the mild-eyed clerk had driven home his
argument in a fashion all the more relentless for its sobriety. And
for once in his life Bad Booker, the usurer, was thinking more of
the vision of a hanging as conjured by his subordinate than he was
of robbing a helpless widow of six thousand dollars.




                             CHAPTER IV

                         The Great Disaster


The mother was sitting over her cookstove. She was almost crouching
over it. With her hands tightly clasped she seemed as though she
was striving with every resource of her being to support herself
under the crushing weight of the great grief with which she was
beset. Her widely gazing eyes were straining with the mental
anguish behind them. And they were utterly unseeing for all they
stared into the ruddy heart of the fire shining between the upright
bars. Stony misery looked out of them, that dreadful expression of
heartbreak which seems to leave a woman powerless, helpless.

The living room about her was neat, and of its usual orderliness.
It lacked nothing of the housewifely care that was usually bestowed
upon it. For all the poverty of its furnishing, it was a place of
comfort, which, even under Rebecca Carver’s suddenly imposed grief,
had not been allowed to suffer. Her daughter Claire had seen to
that. For the time her mother was submerged in her trouble, and the
girl herself was no less stricken, but will and youth in the latter
had overridden every weakness of the moment.

Thus the mother had sat for many hours. And the transformation
which had taken place in her in twenty-four hours was something
almost horrifying to the devoted daughter.

During the long hours of night the still, silent figure had
nursed her despair. Claire, no less sleepless, had discovered her
in precisely the same position each time she had left her bed in
an adjoining room. She had prayed her mother, she had sought to
persuade her by every means in her power, to seek her bed, and
such peace as sleep might afford her. But it had all been useless.
Each time her mother had obeyed her submissively, meekly, almost
mechanically, only to return again to her vigil at the fireside the
moment she had been left alone.

The grey afternoon was far advanced when Claire returned from the
creek below with her arms full of a snowy laundry. Work! It had
been the same all day with her. It was her only defence. She pushed
her way in through the half-open door, and one swift glance and
the sound of rustling paper as she deposited her burden on the
well-worn table, told her of the unchanged mental attitude of her
mother.

Just for a moment she stood regarding the bowed figure with
troubled eye. She saw the crumpled news-sheet, one of the papers
which Ivor had left with them the day before. It was crushed under
her arms as they rested in her lap. And she understood. Her mother
had been reading again, perhaps for the hundredth time, that brief
newspaper story which was the source of the nightmare of disaster
which had fallen upon them.

The girl was tired and utterly dispirited. Somehow her tall,
graceful figure seemed slightly bowed out of its usual courageous
bearing. Her pretty eyes were ringed about, as though, in the
absence of observation, she had yielded to her woman’s expression
of grief. But now, at the sight of the silent, tearless figure at
the stove, she summoned every ounce of her youthful courage to her
aid. She moved across the room quickly, and deliberately removed
the paper from beneath the yielding arms.

“Must you, mother?” she said quietly, but with a sharpness she was
wholly unaware of. Then she added as she smoothed out the paper,
“Will it do any good? You’ve read the story till--till you’re nigh
sick. You’ve read it till I just can’t bear seeing you read it any
longer. I guess I’ll need to burn it if I don’t want to have you
set crazy.”

But she made no attempt to burn the paper, and all her courage
seemed to fade completely out as her mother raised to hers a pair
of eyes that were filled with a world of piteousness.

The latter shook her greying head.

“I won’t go crazy, child,” she said in a low, monotonous voice.
“Give me time, dear. You see, he was my boy--my Jim. He was
everything to me--my son, and--and he’s gone.”

Something stirred in the girl--something suddenly spurred her. It
was an expression of youthful hope, which, in calmer moments, she
would have realised was ill-enough founded.

“But has he?” she demanded, almost vehemently. “You don’t know--we
don’t know! You’ve read that story till you can’t read it right.
Our judgment’s been snowed under in the scare of it. That’s so,
sure! What is it? Why, it’s just a news story,” she cried, flinging
scornful emphasis into her tone. “It’s a fool news story they love
to scare folks with, an’ later they’ll contradict it without pity
for the worry and grief it’s caused to the folks who’ve read it.
I’ve thought and thought and I tell you it’s--it’s not real. I
don’t believe he’s dead. Here, I’ll show you. I’ll read it. You
sit there and just listen. Will you? Then you’ll see.”

She smoothed the paper again and moved away to the open doorway.
Then she read in a strident voice and commented as she read:

  “‘Disaster at Sea? Urgent SOS.’

“That’s the headline, mum dear, and there’s a question marked
against it,” she cried. “You get that? Even the paper asks the
question.”

The girl had looked up. She was urgently regarding the figure at
the stove. She was seeking a sign and seemed to find it in the fact
that her mother had sat up.

“Listen,” she went on quickly. “You need to get the words just as
they are.

 “‘The S. S. _Arbuthnot_ of Liverpool, bound for Sydney, N.S.W.,
 picked up the following wireless on the morning of 27th inst.:
 “Sailing-ship _Imperial_, Bristol. Steering gear carried away.
 Cargo shifted. Plates badly sprung. Sinking. Send help. Possibly
 last twenty-four hours.”’”

Again the girl looked up.

“Then there’s figgers I don’t understand,” she said. “Maybe they’re
her position. But you see she’s going to last twenty-four hours.
Anything, I guess, could happen in that time. There’s the boats.
Maybe if there’s storm, it’ll let up. We’ve seen it storm nigh
a hurricane on the sea back of here and flatten out in twelve
hours----”

The mother shook her head despairingly. “I’ve thought all that,”
she said, in a low voice. Then she seemed to pull herself together
for a supreme effort. “It’s kind of you, Claire, to--to--say all
this. I know, my dear. You’re feeling just as badly, and you’re
trying to help us both. But I feel it right here,” she went on,
clasping her bosom with both hands. “He’s gone--our Jim. It just
wasn’t meant for him to get back with----”

“That’s fool talk, mother, and I won’t listen,” Claire broke in
roughly. “You’ve thought yourself into that. But there’s the rest.

 “‘The _Arbuthnot_, steamed at once to the rescue. She arrived on
 the scene at the position indicated, and, though the weather had
 improved, no trace of the _Imperial_ was discovered.’

“You see, mum? The weather had improved.

 “‘Similarly, the _Argonaut_, bound from Shanghai to New Zealand,
 picked up the _Imperial’s_ message and hurried to the rescue. She
 apparently arrived at the given position some hours later. She
 reports no better success. There was no trace of the distressed
 vessel, and it is presumed she must have foundered. The best hope
 lies in the fact that, with the storm abating and twenty-four
 hours’ grace, the crew of the foundering vessel was able to get
 away in the boats, although as yet none of these are reported
 having been picked up.

 “‘The _Imperial_ of Bristol is a full-rigged ship of three
 thousand tons engaged in a West Australian coasting trade. She
 carried a crew of eighteen or twenty.’

“No, no, mum, dear,” Claire cried, forcing a smile to her tired
eyes. “We mustn’t lose hope. We surely mustn’t. Why, even the paper
reckons the crew must have got away. Just think. Twenty-four hours
and the storm quitting. You know Jim. I reckon he isn’t the boy to
lie around waiting to drown. I’d bet our last cent they got the
boats out, and----”

“What then, Claire?” cried the mother, in a sudden passionate
outburst. “I’ve looked up those figgers on the map. That boat, with
our Jim on it, was right out in mid-ocean, thousands of miles from
land. Think of it, girl, and don’t talk foolish. Mid-ocean! Open
boats that couldn’t stand half a gale! And they’re not reported
picked up. I tell you----”

But the girl had turned to the doorway. A horse-man had just ridden
up and flung out of the saddle. It was Jake Forner, Bad Booker’s
clerk, and he came straight to the doorway where Claire was
standing.

It was a moment of complete reaction. The sight of the broad
shoulders of the real estate man’s clerk, with his dark, mild eyes
and mild, almost gentle manner, did that for the troubled women
which no effort of their own could have achieved. The pressure
of despairing thought was flung into the background in face of
the urgency of the thing which this man’s arrival heralded. Even,
perhaps, because of the enormity of the trouble which had befallen,
this man’s coming was of greater significance.

The mother remained unmoving. But Claire bravely faced the newcomer
with a smile that had no inspiration from any pleasurable emotion.

“How do, Mr. Forner,” she said, with a cheerfulness that had seemed
impossible seconds ago. “Guess you’ve come along for my mother’s
answer? Will you come right in?”

Then she turned swiftly to the woman at the stove. She moved over
to her and stood close beside her as though to protect her as the
man obeyed her invitation.

“I’m kind of sorry, dear,” she said quickly. “I didn’t tell you
about it before because--because--Mr. Booker offered you two
thousand dollars for that city block he has a mortgage on. Guess
Mr. Forner has ridden out for his answer.”

Then she looked straight into the man’s dark eyes while she went on
speaking to her mother.

“It’s a real tough proposition,” she said slowly, and with all the
biting emphasis she could fling into the words. “It’s so tough I
feel like telling Booker the things a girl ’ud hate to say. The
block is worth ten thousand dollars on the market to-day, which
means eight thousand dollars to him, and he wants to hand you
two thousand dollars for it. Are you going to take the money or
starve--which is Booker’s pleasant alternative? I guess we need to
decide right away.”

“Ther’s no need for a decision on those figgers, Miss Claire,” Jake
said quickly, his usually impassive face flushing under the sting
of this beautiful girl’s words.

“How d’you mean?”

Claire’s demand came sharply. It came in that startled fashion
which suggested apprehension lest Booker had withdrawn even his
usurious offer.

Jake’s flush had faded out. He stood just within the doorway, a
curiously ungainly figure in his simple city tweed suit which
seemed to belong to another world than that of this primitive
log home built by folks who had lived their lives in the golden
wilderness of the North. His fine eyes were smiling kindly in the
manner of one who feels himself to be something in the nature of a
ministering, beneficent angel rather than the executioner of the
will of an unscrupulous usurer.

“Why, he’s reconsidered his proposal,” he said quietly, his smile
communicating itself to the rest of his face. “I guess he’s sounded
the market and feels he wants to treat you right. Maybe he didn’t
just remember the exact position of that swell corner block when
he made his offer to you yesterday. He knows about it now,” he
went on drily, “and fancies handing you eight thousand dollars for
complete reversion. I kind of think that’s a square deal, Mrs.
Carver. Here’s his ‘brief’ to that effect and the cash, in dollars,
is enclosed. You’ll just need to sign the deed I’ll hand you as a
preliminary, and the transfer can go through next time you’re along
in town. Do you feel like closing?”

There was much more in the man’s simply spoken statement than he
realised. There was much more, too, in his manner, and somehow the
unexpectedness of Booker’s change of attitude held Claire silent
while she regarded the smiling face of the man who brought the
pleasant news.

Rebecca Carver’s interest, however, had fallen back before the
mother grief which had only been deposed from its supremacy for a
few moments. She made no attempt to reply in any form, while her
gaze was turned once more to her stove.

Claire suddenly urged her.

“You’ll accept, mother?” she said quickly, and the other nodded.

Then the girl turned again to the waiting man who had withdrawn a
letter and the document that must be signed, from an inner pocket.

Claire forced a laugh to her lips.

“It seems queer, Mr. Forner,” she said shrewdly. “Yes, surely we’ll
accept, and mother’ll sign. But I’m kind of glad you came, and I’m
real glad to hear you say that piece, especially seeing Booker and
I discussed the market value of the block and he was fully aware
of its position. I’d made a guess you’ve somehow had a deal to
do with changing his mind. It isn’t easy for a decent man to sit
around while his boss is trying to rob a helpless woman. I’ll just
get a pen--oh, you’ve a fountain pen. Well, mother’ll sign right
away, and our blessing’ll surely follow you on your way right back
to the city.”

       *       *       *       *       *

Jake Forner had departed and his coming had done more for the two
bereft women than either of them was aware of. The paralysing
effect of the newspaper story had given place to the reality of
things. Grief was still driving them hard, but its pressure had
somehow become less devastating, less numbing--more particularly
was this the case with Claire.

She was still standing in the open doorway gazing out into the grey
light of the dying fall day whence she had passed her “God-speed”
to the man who had executed his mission with so much obvious
goodwill and pleasure.

Had the girl possessed half the woman’s vanity to which she was
entitled, she might have understood something of the ungainly man’s
feelings in visiting her home. But Claire had not as yet discovered
in herself that dormant self-appreciation which is so essentially
an expression of all human nature. She had learned little or
nothing from the faithful, if inadequate, mirror in her small
lean-to sleeping quarters. Her wide blue eyes were simply a feature
with which to witness the wonders of the world about her, just as
her mass of ruddy hair was a something to brush laboriously and to
fret over. Her slim, girlish figure she had only learned to deplore
in the arduous labours which her life entailed, and its effect upon
the men with whom she came into contact concerned her not at all.
As yet her woman’s charm was a negative factor in her life.

But she was thinking hard as she gazed out upon the grey and russet
of the fall world about her. Her gaze was upon the familiar,
wood-clad slopes beyond the creek, on which was situated their
spent gold claim. The slowly meandering waters that murmured their
ceaseless song on the still air helped to impress the loneliness
that for the first time in her life had suddenly made itself felt.
And somehow, it set up an almost irresistible longing to flee from
the sound of it.

For all her brave effort to help her mother she knew her beloved
brother had been completely swept out of their lives. The hungry,
merciless waters had swallowed him up. She would never, never,
never see him again, or listen to his quiet, confident words. Never
again would she witness those unobtrusive little acts of devotion
which had been so unfailing in their home life with him. No, he was
gone out of their lives completely, utterly. It was the end of a
long chapter of youthful dreaming. And ahead lay an impenetrable
future in which care and responsibility must be shouldered, and
hers must be the burden of it.

For a moment something like panic surged in her heart. Before, only
grief had stirred her. But, of a sudden now, grief receded into the
background, a depressing shadow always threatening, whilst a wholly
new emotion took possession of her. Her moment of panic passed.
Her thought cleared of all confusion and a swift, keen resolution
descended upon her and brought her calmness of spirit.

Claire had far more in common with her dead father than with the
gentle woman behind her. In looks, in build, in spirit she was
essentially her father’s child. Never before had the dead man’s
qualities had reason to display themselves in her. But now it was
different. In her realisation of her sudden responsibilities, the
flood-tide of the reckless gambling spirit of her parent poured
forth. Her brother Jim, in the same spirit, had fared forth to the
uttermost ends of the earth on a bare--almost ridiculous--chance to
help them in their need. He had achieved. And only the merciless
waves had robbed him and them of the full fruits of his gambler’s
adventure. Could she sit down under the misfortune that had robbed
them of a well-loved brother and the fortune he had won for them?
No. For all the fall day was closing, with their fortunes at a
lesser ebb than the dawn had found them, their need was still
urgent. And the spirit of her father was awake and burning strongly
in her as she contemplated its reality.

She turned abruptly into the darkening room. Her gaze took in the
figure of her mother still bowed under her load of grief. Then it
passed to the thick packet of notes lying where she had left them
on the table. They represented the limits of their worldly fortune.
They were all that stood between them and the starvation Booker had
originally designed for them. Her eyes lit, and her spirit suddenly
buoyed.

But she turned away and passed quickly into the lean-to sleeping
room that was hers. What was her purpose was of little concern. Her
woman’s mind was working swiftly, almost feverishly. She stood for
a while contemplating the trifling wardrobe of gowns hanging under
a cotton curtain. She examined each garment quickly, urgently.
Then, with a gesture that was half impatient, she permitted the
curtain to fall back over them and she moved across to the small
mirror before which she was accustomed to brush her hair.

Here she stood for a while studying the features it reflected.
The message it passed her was for her ears alone. Maybe it told
her some of those things which everybody but she was fully aware
of. Maybe she only obtained a measure of reassurance. Whatever
happened in those long, silent moments she turned away at last, and
something seemed to have transformed her. Her eyes were alight. Her
shapely lips were firmly set, and she passed into the living-room
beyond. Her whole manner was that of one whose mind is irrevocably
made up.

She came to her mother’s side and laid a gentle hand on her bowed
shoulder.

“Mum, dear,” she said deliberately, “we’re going to move right into
Beacon. It’ll set you crazy and me too, to stop around out here.
There’s things this place won’t ever let us forget, an’ we’ve got
to forget. Maybe we’re mostly feeling dead now. That’s the way
grief hits us. But we’re both alive and need to go right on living.
If Jim was here he’d decide for us the thing we need to do. He
isn’t. So--so I’ve got to think for us both and push it through.
We got eight thousand dollars to feed, an’ clothe, an’ shelter us.
Maybe it would do for a while. But after--what then?”

The mother looked up. It was the questioning of one incapable of
anything else.

“What do you mean, Claire? What’re you going to do?”

There was no inspiration, there was even no interest in the
questions.

“Do? Do?” Claire’s reiteration was thrilling with live purpose and
something like leaping excitement. “Do? Why, do as father would
have done. Do as he did time and again.”

Her strong young fingers unconsciously gripped the soft flesh of
her mother’s shoulders. Suddenly she dropped on her knees beside
the other’s chair, while she took possession of the work-worn hands
lying in the lap before her. She raised them both to her young lips
and covered them with warm kisses of real devotion. Then she held
them tightly.

“Mum, dear, we haven’t a thing but that eight thousand. Not a thing
but that. But there’s money--money in plenty in Beacon at the
Speedway. Father always reckoned so when things were bad. And he
most always found it. I’m going to find it, too, all we want. You
know what father used to say. He taught Jim and me the poker game
he played, and he taught us good. And in the end, do you mind how
I took his, and Jim’s, spare cash when they had it? Do you? I do.
And do you remember the thing father always said? He said I’d the
poker face, and the poker head, and the only luck in the world he
was scared to buck. It’s that luck we’re going to buck, dear. We’re
going right into Beacon with our dollars. And I’m going to buck the
game for all that’s in me. Ther’s not a thing else for us. True,
ther’ isn’t. Jim’s gone. Our Jim! You know it. And, for all I’ve
said, I know it, too. We’ve no one but ourselves and my luck to
save us from starving in a fierce, relentless world. Are you game,
dear? I may do it? Sure I may. I can see it in your poor, sad,
tired eyes. Yes. It’s that, sure, dear, and you can trust me.”

The girl reached up suddenly. It was a moment of supreme emotion.
She yielded to it. She caught and held her mother’s body in her
strong young arms. And then came the flood of tears for the grief
that weighed so heavily on both their devoted hearts.




                             CHAPTER V

               Eight Months Later--On the Lias River


The dark shadows of winter had long since passed away from the
Alaskan world. The almost interminable nights, the pitifully
brief days of storm, of cold, the drear that literally eats into
the heart and bones of man, these were left a hazy memory to be
quickly forgotten, lost in the new season of hope which comes with
a generous rush. It was a world released from months of cruel
imprisonment.

Just inland from the mouth of the Lias River, where the broad bosom
of its stream was lightly stirred by the gentlest of warming spring
breezes, a man was at work stowing his stout-built canoe with its
cargo of camp outfit. The vessel was moored against a shelving
of granite rock. A stout rawhide held it secure to a boulder of
ponderous dimensions, for it was a barren, rocky shore without
vegetation of any sort.

It was a fierce coast line, harsh, unyielding and honeycombed with
every trap for destruction that the wit of Nature could conceive.
Shoals and sunken rocks littered every inlet, and fierce, sweeping
currents and cross-currents made the smiling waters a nightmare
of chaos. Then, behind everything, lay those merciless reserve
forces of sudden wind squalls which howled down the mountain slopes
without warning, or reason, and blasted the coast line into a
churning of fierce tempest.

Pitiless in its treachery, this long, tattered coast line was for
the most part completely shunned by man. Yet here, well within the
mouth of the Lias River, a white man was labouring at his craft,
indifferent to the terror of his surroundings.

The man was sturdily built. He was broad and stocky and stood
something less than six feet in height. For all the warming of the
clear, spring day he was clad in the thick clothing with which the
men of the North are loth to part until the summer heat makes it
intolerable. He was a man of something over thirty, with a strong
face that was clean-shaven, or was supposed to be, and with a pair
of such pale blue eyes as to be devoid of all expression. They
were curious eyes, curious in that they revealed not a glimmer of
the mind behind them, curious in that their stony expression was
unchanging under any and every emotion.

His boat was moored securely, for the tide was a-surge and running
out to sea. An iron bar, jammed in a crevice in the shelving
granite, afforded him his second mooring and left him free to
pursue his labours at leisure.

Behind him gaped a rift in the granite wall which rose to a height
of several hundred feet. It was obviously the night shelter in
which his camp had been made, for, immediately before the entrance,
the remains of his fire were still smouldering. Maybe, the narrow
opening was the entrance to a cavern that widened and heightened,
for just such caverns, of every size and shape, abounded in these
iron walls.

He worked on till the last of his outfit was securely stowed
and the canoe lay deep in the water. Then he passed back to his
camp-fire. For a second or two he glanced about him questioningly,
then with the aid of a slab of stone he picked up the hot ashes
and proceeded to dump them into the river. The final clearing was
done with infinite care and patience, and even he resorted to the
brushing away of the last signs of his fire with a sweeper made of
a tied bundle of brushwood.

It was all a little curious. It was all rather furtive. It seemed
so unnecessary in this wilderness of a no-man’s-land. Yet the man
paid heed to the obliteration of all signs of his encampment with
as much care as though his very life depended upon the complete
covering of his tracks. Finally, the brushwood bundle was added to
the burden of his canoe and he cast off his moorings. Then, in a
moment, he took his place amidships and thrust off with the blade
of his double paddle.

The little vessel shot out into the tide with a velocity that was
almost threatening. But the man was ready and skilful and its nose
swung round under the pressure of the dipping paddle and headed
across current making tremendous leeway. Slowly, however, the
guiding hand made itself felt, and the bow of the craft headed up
into the stream. Later he would have the flood tide to help him,
but for a while he must battle with a head stream. That was all
right. That was calculated. It was his urgent desire to escape the
chances of these dreaded wind squalls which might descend at any
moment.

He laboured steadily, creeping up the hither shore to avoid the
full race of the tide. He hugged the granite walls of the canyon
through which the river cut its way to the ocean. The swirling
waters revealed the presence of a chain of sunken rocks through
which he was threading his way, and only skill and keenness
of vision could hope to save him from sheer disaster. But he
pursued his course without hesitation, without a moment of shaken
confidence, often dallying with death by a margin of less than
inches. And so it went on for nearly an hour.

At the end of that time the change he had awaited took place.
The pace of his progress materially increased. The head pressure
lessened. It was then for the first time he permitted himself a
glance up at the smiling sky in the direction of the distant hills
towards which he was heading.

A sigh of satisfaction escaped him. The sign of clemency he was
seeking was there in the perfect cloudlessness. The whole breadth
of the sky was a brilliant azure. And, furthermore, the critical
moment of slack water had arrived. Now he knew that the hill
squalls intended to remain quiescent, and he swung his craft clear
of the frowning granite cliffs for the deep waters.

The man’s pale eyes were no longer watchful. There was no longer
any need. With a great depth of water under his canoe he could
drive her leisurely, awaiting the coming flood from the ocean far
behind.

       *       *       *       *       *

Cy Liskard was lounging in the doorway of his cabin. He was smoking
contemplatively while his pale eyes gazed out over the gravelly,
trickling creek below him. Near by, secured to a tying post, which
was the stump of a sapling spruce, two Alaskan ponies were waiting
ready for the long trail into Beacon Glory. One was saddled and
bridled, the other was carrying a well-laden pack. Both were
sturdy, powerful creatures still clad in their long winter coats.

It was a still, warm day, with the air full of the hum of the
insect world. The long tails of the horses were swishing with
flail-like force to keep the attacking mosquitoes and flies at bay.
For the moment the sun was lost behind frothing summer clouds,
while below, the dense forests were silent and still with that
profound hush which is their prevailing mood.

It was a perfect scene, typical of the greater foothills where
Nature permits nothing human to disturb her hush. On every hand
hills rose to immense heights, bald of head, but densely clad on
their lower slopes with forests of every shade of green. Soft, and
gracious, and pleasant to gaze upon, the forests were deep, and
dark, and well-nigh illimitable. They were full of preying animal
life, and even in the full of daylight the howl of coyote and the
harsher bay of prowling timber wolf came echoing down the aisles of
leafless trunks.

But Cy Liskard was all unconcerned for Nature’s sounds, for
Nature’s moods. He was by no means condemned to a lifelong
existence in the world’s dark places. He was there by selection and
of deliberate purpose, and his purpose appeared fairly obvious.
For there, below him, on the trickling creek, lay the complete,
primitive equipment of the gold-seeker’s craft.

But for all his expressionless gaze was upon these things his
thought was far away, concerned only with its contemplation of the
thing which lay ahead at the end of the further journey upon which
he was about to embark. As with all the hardy creatures who seek
treasure in the remotenesses of the northern world, the joy of
return to the cities of men was a passionate yearning that had no
limits.

In the two weeks since his return from the mouth of the Lias
River his preparations had been completed, and they were more
considerable than might have been supposed to be necessary. This
was his home for the time. This was his hunting ground. It was an
uncharted, unregistered gold prospect, and as such it was open to
invasion or any chance discovery that might completely rob him of
any proprietary rights he might claim. So his preparations had been
made carefully and in a fashion best calculated to safeguard his
interests.

Now with the last detail worked out to his satisfaction he had
abandoned himself to a contemplation of the good time which he
intended Beacon Glory should yield him. And for all his pale
eyes gave no sign, the mind behind them was full of smiling
anticipation. He was thinking of the burden of gold on the
pack-saddle, and of the balance of credit at Victor Burns’ bank
which he knew to be lying there in his name. He was thinking of
the wine to be bought at Max Lepende’s “Speedway”; of the orgy he
intended to buy there. He was contemplating the glitter of the
place and the seductive charm of the women with whom he would
dance. Then there was the great game with its never-failing lure,
and the thought of this last was bound up with the vision of a
young girl, beautiful as a dream, with flaming hair, and eyes whose
colour seemed to change with her every mood, now violet, now blue,
and sometimes almost sea-green. He had only seen her once, but
memory had never let go of the vision. This time he was determined
his memories of her should be more intimate, whatever the price to
be paid.

He abruptly bestirred himself and a sound escaped him that was like
a laugh. But his harsh face and baffling eyes gave no sign. He
turned and fastened his cabin door behind him. Then he moved across
to the ponies patiently awaiting his pleasure.

He passed round them quickly, feeling the cinche of both. The pack
was secure, but his own saddle required tightening up. He raised
the legadero of the saddle and pulled mercilessly on the knotted
strap. Then he kicked the grass-fed belly of the docile creature to
make the tightening closer. Finally, he dropped the legadero to its
full length and prepared to mount.

As he did so a blaze of sun shone out from behind the summer
cloud-bank and the man looked up with something like a start. For
a second he gazed without blinking and his brows depressed as
though the sight of the sun offended him. Then he glanced away,
and followed its beam where it threw his own shadow absurdly
fore-shortened on the ground. In a moment he had raised his foot
to the stirrup and swung himself clumsily into the saddle, and,
snatching up the rawhide quirt hanging on the horn in front of him,
he slashed viciously and needlessly at both horses.

       *       *       *       *       *

The Occidental Exchange was empty of all customers. It was in the
middle of the afternoon and the time just before the mild rush
which usually came about closing-time. The place was a relic of
the earliest days of Beacon Glory, and, unlike most institutions
of its kind, it had remained un-rebuilt as the city grew. But the
fact was, Victor Burns had realised the unstable qualities of
the first boom, and been content to await developments. So the
place, although substantial enough, was small and of no visible
consequence for all it was the city’s principal banking house.

Burns was at the counter, which completely cut off all approach to
the premises behind. It was well-gridded with substantial iron of
a mesh that would have puzzled any gun-man to negotiate. It was
a grid which had been designed out of wide experience, for bank
hold-ups had been a somewhat favoured pastime in the city’s history.

The banker was talking to his principal teller, a man who looked
almost too young for his position, but what he lacked in years
he made up in physique. He was a youthful athlete, virile and
smilingly self-confident.

“What’s she paid in this morning?” he asked, in the quiet fashion
of simple business interest.

The youth smiled.

“Why, a mere two thousand dollars,” he said with a shrug.

“Kind of a quiet night, I guess,” Burns returned, without any
responsive smile. Then he folded his arms on the counter, gazing
out of the half-open door, which was held back by a chain that
could be released from behind the counter. “It’s queer,” he said.
“That girl hadn’t more than two red cents back of last fall.
And now--why, now she can handle more stuff than I’ve collected
in twenty years. And she handles it right, too, that kid. They
reckon she’s collected all the luck in Beacon. Well, I’d say she’s
collected most of the business brains with it.” He laughed. “And
she’s still buying city blocks.”

“And swell gowns,” added the teller with a grin.

“Well, I’d say she wouldn’t be the dandy girl she is if she didn’t.
Say----”

Burns broke off. A pair of rough ponies had come to a halt
outside. They were in full view through the open doorway.

“Cy Liskard,” he went on after a moment, as he beheld a man fling
out of the saddle. Then he nodded at the gold scales. “Guess we’ll
need them, sure. He’s a big gold winner.”

       *       *       *       *       *

To a practical student of human nature like Victor Burns, Cy
Liskard was of more than common interest. He had come into contact
with him in business, and in business only. But, in consequence,
he saw the man in his most interesting aspect. For, in his
understanding, a man’s business was the best channel through which
to discover the real depth of his character.

He had come to know him as one of the many individual gold men of
the remoter places which radiated about Beacon. The first time he
had encountered the man was just after winter had closed down, when
he drove into Beacon with a curious, mongrel team of three utterly
inadequate dogs, hauling a home-made sled which bore a goodly
burden of raw gold dust of excellent quality. He had come straight
to the bank and weighed in his treasure. The transaction had been
made with the customary simple formalities, and the man’s credit
had been duly opened. At that time Cy had only revealed himself to
the banker as a surly, silent creature who had none of the reckless
buoyancy of the men who usually came in to sell their dust.

He had promised, at that time, a further consignment later in the
winter when travelling was good, if he were able to purchase a
really reliable dog team to replace the disreputable bunch that had
at last succeeded in bringing him in.

Victor had ventured a little frank talk on receiving this opening.
He had complimented the man on his strike, and the quality of
his gold and had inquired if there were other prospectors in his
neighbourhood. It was then he realised something of the man with
whom he was dealing. The baffling eyes were raised to the banker’s.
They looked, or rather stared, coldly and hardly into his, while he
negatively shook his head.

“Ther’ ain’t a guy around my lay-out but myself--and ther’ don’t
need to be,” he said with a snap of his square jaws.

It was the quiet tone of threat in the final words that enlightened
the banker to that which lay behind the man’s mask-like face, and
he had made no further effort to interest his customer.

Since that visit there had been another about mid-winter. The man
blew into the bank on the swirl of a blizzard that lasted for
three days. At that visit his credit had been more, much more than
trebled. And now had come a third trip into the city and Burns was
deeply intrigued.

The man thrust his way in through the doorway bearing two lashed
bundles, one under each arm. They were large and obviously of
considerable weight, and his movements were swift almost to
hastiness.

It was to the banker’s thinking an unintentional outward sign of
his relief at the safe completion of his journey and the final
depositing of his treasure.

“Howdo, Mr. Liskard,” he greeted the man, as he laid his bundles on
the edge of the counter. “Make a good trip in?” Then he smiled on
the two bundles. “You look to be good an’ busy on your patch.” He
turned to the teller, who was looking on interestedly. “The scales,
Rickards.”

“’Tain’t bad on the trail this time o’ year,” Cy admitted, with
more than usual readiness, as he cut the lashings of his burden
with a vicious-looking sheath-knife.

The banker watching him noted the details of his powerful body
under the thick pea-jacket that was closely buttoned over it. He
watched the rough hands, with thumbs stumped short in their top
joints, and with the flattest, shortest, ugliest nails he had ever
seen, as he ripped the bonds asunder. Then his gaze lifted again
to the hard face, with its dirty stubble of beard and whisker,
clearly unshaven on his journey, and his shrewd mind was swiftly
estimating. He reckoned, by the growth of whisker, the man must
have been on the trail at least three weeks, if he had started
clean-shaven.

But the two bundles were open and the canvas bags tied at their
necks were revealed bulging with their precious contents. In a
moment the banker’s interest became absorbed.

“That all dust?” he asked quickly. Then he added: “Some stuff
there--sure.”

Cy nodded without speaking. He cut the fastenings and passed the
bags through the grid which Burns had flung open.

“Weigh it,” he said.

The man’s voice was harsh and his demand sharp, and the banker
passed the bags to the teller at the scales.

No further word passed while the youth manipulated the weights, and
Cy watched his every movement with an intensity of concentration
that brought his dark brows closely together over his curious eyes.

The gold was emptied into the scale, which only took a portion
of one bag. The teller noted the weight and emptied the scale
into one of the bank’s own leather bags. Six times the scale was
filled to overflowing, while the silent men looked on at the dull,
red-yellow of the gold this man had brought. It was dust and
nuggets, but mostly nuggets of splendid proportions.

Cy Liskard was leaning on the counter with folded arms, and when
the weighing was completed and the teller bent over his task of
working out the sum, he drew a deep sigh as though in relief that
his task had been completed.

Victor looked up at the sound.

“Kind of makes a boy glad to get it safe into the bank. In these
days of hold-ups around Beacon it’s jumpy play toting a bunch of
dust around. Say, that’s swell stuff. Good an’ red, like the stuff
the boys collected on ‘Eighty Mile’ years back. I haven’t seen that
colour anywhere around Beacon till you hit along with your bunch
last fall. Are you registered?”

Cy’s gaze was withdrawn from the moving pen of the teller. “Not on
your life.”

Burns raised his eyebrows.

“That’s taking a chance,” he demurred. “Aren’t you scared folks’ll
jump in on you?”

The man made a sound like a laugh. But his face was unmoving.

“Not a little bit,” he said roughly. “I guess ther’ ain’t a guy in
Beacon with the guts to get out to the creek I got staked. If he’d
the guts he couldn’t make it. An’ if he made it he’d forgit wakin’
when the daylight come around. No, sir. I ain’t registered, an’
don’t figger to. I ain’t handin’ a map of my strike to any cursed
official. I ain’t handin’ the story to a deaf mute. I got my patch,
an’ I’ll keep it. I nigh sweated blood to locate it. Register
an’ haf the world would get right on my back. I’ll take all the
chances, an’ God help the son of a mule who gets within a mile of
it. What’s the tally?”

The teller read out the figures in a tone of wonderment his youth
could not conceal.

“Eighty-two thousand dollars and twenty-five cents,” he said, and
passed the figures to his chief for verification.

Cy nodded, while the banker examined the paper.

“That’s about my reckoning,” he said. “I’ll be totin’ another bunch
along when I’m through with my summer wash. I’ll just draw a dope
of ten thousand right away. Here’s the brief.” He passed a cheque
across the counter and waited to receive the money.

Burns looked up.

“Yes,” he said, seriously. “That’s the reckoning, sure. I
congratulate you. You certainly have a swell claim.”

Cy nodded. “I certainly have,” he agreed shortly.

The teller passed the roll of bills and he and his chief watched
their customer bestow it in a hip pocket. As he did so he revealed
a heavy gun strapped about his waist, and Victor, at least,
realised it was there as no mere ornament. Cy had said, “God help
the son of a mule who gets within a mile of it,” and somehow this
watching student of human nature realised that “God’s help” would
certainly be required in the circumstances. This man was not the
sort to stand at trifles.

Cy took his departure without the least ceremony, and it was only
the banker’s “So long” that forced common politeness from him.
They saw him mount one of the two ponies outside, and they heard
the coarse oath with which he urged the weary creature forward.
Then came the sound of the heavy slash of a quirt and the horses
clattered away.

“A mighty tough proposition,” Burns laughed quietly. “All the gold
in that boy’s claim wouldn’t tempt me to try and track him to his
hiding-hole. I guess he comes out of the mountains. An’ maybe
they’re somewhere across the border--seeing he’s not registered.
Well, there it is. Guess it’s no worry of mine. We’re here to
collect gold, and I’d say we’ve collected a swell bunch from that
boy.”

The teller laughed.

“Guess there’s certainly little else to collect from him, anyway,”
he said significantly.




                             CHAPTER VI

                        A Bunch of Humanity


It was the day of celebration at the Speedway. It was the
anniversary of its first opening and Max Lepende had ordained that
once a year high revel should hold sway in commemoration of the
foundation of his fortunes. The Speedway was to Beacon Glory what
the Casino is to Monte Carlo. It was perhaps a good deal more. But
then, Monte Carlo is in the eyes of society and Beacon Glory had
somehow contrived a position on the map more or less unrecorded. On
the whole the “Glory” citizens, as they loved to call themselves,
were well enough satisfied with their position. It was convenient
for many reasons, not the least of which was the feeling of
security it gave to most of them, and the general immunity they
enjoyed from the legitimate consequences of offences committed
against society in earlier life.

Max, being of Italian extraction and flamboyant in temperament, had
built and designed it in the manner that most appealed to him. The
place was literally a Bacchanalian temple, lavish with white and
gold and brilliant lights. It was gaudy with red furnishings and
glittering glass, and, generally speaking, was as good an example
of a whited sepulchre as the riot of debased human passions, and
the lavish brush of the decorator could make of otherwise perfectly
innocent woodwork.

The place stared out on the city’s main thoroughfare two blocks
below the Plaza Hotel, a wide-fronted, be-pillared edifice of two
stories. In the brilliant summer sunlight its whitened walls looked
dispiritedly grey and shabby, but in the dark months of winter its
blaze of electric light transformed it into a lure which the people
of Beacon Glory found impossible to resist.

Max had named it “The Palace of Pleasure.” But then Max wore a
pointed beard which concealed a pair of full, red, something
sensuous lips. Furthermore, he wore the rest of his hair long,
and a large, flowing black cravat adorned the evening clothes he
always appeared in when presiding over the nightly orgy obtaining
in his establishment. Beacon Glory, being frank, apt and unashamed
in its downrightness of phraseology, had promptly dubbed it “The
Speedway,” and, in the end, the ultra-artistic mind of its founder
had to yield, and as the “Speedway” it was known throughout the
length and breadth of southern Alaska.

Max’s annual celebration was not lightly to be missed, and,
generally speaking, Beacon Glory was not given to missing anything
at other people’s expense. Besides, Max would be offended if his
available customers absented themselves on this his especial
night. Then, too, why should it be missed? There would be a dinner
of exceptional quality in the grand dining-hall--free to invited
guests. There would be a flood of wine of the best quality.
The company, for once, would smoke the best cigars and lap up
expensive, sticky cordials. And it would all be free. Oh, no. There
was no missing it by those men favoured with an invitation.

There would be no women at the dinner; that was where Max
displayed his fineness of discrimination. He knew his men. And
perhaps his women--some of them. The women would be there for
the dance afterwards--they would be given a good time, but Max
sternly demanded that this, his evening of evenings, should
start--fair. Whatever the later developments, the night should at
least start with such dignity and decorum as an assorted line in
evening clothes could impress upon the manhood of a more or less
disreputable out-world city.

The Plaza was unusually full in the late afternoon on this day
of celebration. The weather was hot and windless, and the spring
mosquitoes were merciless. But the open verandah, overlooking
the main avenue, was liberally patronised. Mosquitoes were part
of the daily life of Beacon Glory, and their worst torture was
insufficient to disturb its citizens out of their routine.

Jubilee Hurst and his partner, Burt Riddell, were amongst those
foregathered. They were nominally gold men of the type which is
drawn from the big cities of civilisation. They come at the call
of adventure and easy money, and in the end, generally seek the
latter by means of an active application of wit rather than of
muscle. Then there was the well-liked, amiable and indifferent
Doctor Finch, Beacon’s leading man of medicine. He was reposing
his rotund figure in a chair of doubtful stability, tilted at a
perilous angle, while his heavily-booted feet decorated the rail
of the verandah. Abe Cranfield, the Plaza’s esteemed proprietor,
short, stout, and with a thrusting chin whisker, was squatting on a
low stool many sizes too small for him. And, reposing comfortably
in a prolonged cane deck chair, with a Rye highball on an adjacent
table easily within reach, reclined Victor Burns of the Occidental
Bank.

None of them had as yet disguised themselves under the uniform
required for the evening’s entertainment to which they were all
invited. That was an evil they preferred to postpone till the last
minute. They one and all preferred to remain the plain examples of
Beacon’s citizenship they really were as long as possible.

The irrepressible Jubilee Hurst made no pretence of his reluctance,
and he was airing his views with that simple freedom which he
claimed as his right at all times.

“You know, boys,” he said, smashing a bunch of mosquitoes on the
back of his bull-like neck, “Max is mostly a decent citizen for all
he’s a Dago. But his craze for patent shoes and hair oil gets me
all the time. You know, there’s no sort of reason in a guy acting
the way he does behind a bow-tie fit for a Dago revolutionary, and
wearing a sheath-knife on his hip fit to carve up whale blubber.
Maybe, with an elegant souse in prospect he fancies us boys fixed
the way he gets us because most of our party suits were invented
before the possibilities of the hip-pocket were guessed about.
I’d say the Speeedway’s no sort of joint to fall into without
a whole darn arsenal of weapons lying around to your hand most
all the time, and, I’ll sure be feeling like a lamb at slaughter
time settin’ around disguised like a first-class waiter, while he
belches up his annual hash of the pleasure it hands him having us
suckers around, and how grieved he is the cemetery’s added to its
stock of fancy mausoleums by way of advertising the amenities of
his darn booth.”

He smiled amiably round upon the company, and took half a highball
at a gulp. And his black, twinkling eyes finally settled on his
partner’s long and grievously unsmiling face.

“It’s all right, boy,” he said, grinning genially. “You needn’t to
feel the way you’re lookin’. I got two boiled shirts, and seein’
you’re a partner of mine, I’ll share ’em with you for haf a dollar.”

Burt raked at the calf of one hairy leg exposed about his sock
suspender to the attacking mosquitoes.

“Oh, beat it,” he cried irritably. “You wouldn’t miss a thing the
Speedway could hand you, if Max reckoned to have you around in your
underpants. You make me tired.” He turned to the banker. “I got
around the ‘Glory Hole’ this morning. It’s burnt out stark.”

The banker sipped his highball and gazed thoughtfully out at the
far hills.

“I’m glad,” he said quietly, after a moment’s deliberation.

It was coldly said and Abe Cranfield looked round at the speaker
quickly.

“I can’t say I’m glad for any feller to get burnt out,” he
exclaimed warmly. “The Aurora bunch are acting mighty gay. Wher’s
it goin’ to stop? Is it the Plaza or the Speedway next? How am I
to know when I’m offending their notions? Clancy Roscoe had been
runnin’ his saloon since ever Beacon started. I can’t see----”

“It was a brothel,” Burns spoke sharply. Then he laughed quietly.
“See here, Abe,” he said in a conciliatory fashion, “I guess you
hold a brief for Clancy and his Glory Hole because he’s in your
line of business--as far as liquor’s concerned. You sort of feel
it’s interference with lawful liberty, and maybe, that way you’re
right. But there’s no right-minded boy to this city’ll feel that
the Clan has done anything but a service to the credit of our burg.
Clancy was warned. He showed me his written warning two weeks back
and he was right up in the air. And his warning was straight and
right. It said, ‘Clear out your women and run your liquor joint
straight.’ It gave him two weeks. Well, he refused. And I got my
notions of the feller who makes his pay out of that sort of thing.
He banks with me and I can’t help it. But I’m glad his shanty’s
gone, and there are some more I’d like to see treated the same.”

“Sounds like he was the Chief Light of the Aurora,” laughed Jubilee.

Burns nodded.

“Maybe it does, boy. But think back to the days when you were your
mother’s kid and you’ll think like me. No, I guess there’s a worry
back of that Clan, but not when they burn up joints like the ‘Glory
Hole.’”

Doc Finch nodded over his cigar stump.

“I’m with you, Victor,” he said seriously.

“I’m sure you are, Doc.”

“Well, what of Max’s show?” Abe was still considering possibilities
from a personal point of view. “What of the women there? Are things
better there when you get right down to bedrock? Say, I want to
laff. Ther’s vice to the square inch right around that dance hall
’ud pave hell a furlong a minute. But then, Max could buy half the
city,” he finished up bitterly.

“I can’t stand for that,” the unsmiling face of Burt was suddenly
transformed. He was grinning but in real earnest. “The Speedway’s
the thing folks make it,” he said hotly. “It’s the only real joy
spot in a city that’s forgot how to laff. You can help yourself to
a portion of life there without a meal ticket. Ther’s light and
laughter there if you don’t get around with a grouch. You can burn
money there, or make a bunch, if you’re bright enough to beat the
other feller. Ther’s women who’re foolish, and women who ain’t,
and ther’s boys who’re a real imitation of men, and hogs disguised
under a bank roll. If the Clan was to get after Max’s joint it ’ud
be me for the coast and the first barge for the south. No, Abe, if
ther’s any sort of method back of those guys in their white shirts
and pointed sky-pieces you and Max can sit around without a worry.
An’, anyway, this bum hotel couldn’t have claim to vice, even in
the dreams of a bughouse inmate.”

Jubilee chuckled as a preliminary to one of his characteristic
outbursts. Then he took in the whole company in his expansive,
headlong way.

“Burt’s got a hell of a hunch, an’ I won’t have to charge him
haf-a-dollar for that shirt,” he laughed delightedly. “My, Abe, but
he got you plumb in the pit of the stomach. And he was right, sure.
I guess you can throw all the dirt you fancy in Beacon without ever
a chance of missin’ things. But the Speedway ain’t available for
that playing without hurtin’ folks who’re mostly your friends. What
’ud we do without the Speedway? Why, die plumb to death setting
around your verandah, smashin’ skitters. I can’t think of dying
worse.”

The grin died out of his eyes, and a curious sort of earnestness
replaced it as he went on:

“No, Abe,” he said, sitting up abruptly and spreading out his lean,
tenacious hands, which were carefully manicured. “Get a grip on
yourself and think of the women-folk who get glad there at night.
Do you grudge ’em? No, sir, you don’t. You couldn’t. It’s not in
you. You know a woman hasn’t a swell time in life when you think
about her. And in Beacon she wouldn’t get any time at all.” He
laughed again. “We’re told the first woman was made out of man’s
‘scrap.’ Maybe that’s how it comes she’s had to put up with man’s
‘left-over’ ever since.” He shook his head. “To my thinking,
woman’s never had a better time than a yaller pup ever since she
disappointed her folk with her sex. It seems to me a poor sort of
life fixing a man’s hash so he don’t take too big a chance on his
life policy. Think how she needs to smile every time a feller hands
her out five cents to make vacation on, same as if she was pleased.
Chores seem to be the limit of woman’s joy in life, and I guess
she’ll go right on chasing kids’ noses with a swab till she jerks
up at the graveyard. She’ll keep on trying to feed her whole bunch
on the change out of a dollar, and the promises her man hands out
to her like dead leaves in the fall. She’s got a hell of a life,
even if it’s only she’s expected to swallow a man’s lies whole and
sit around foolish waiting for ’em to come true. No, Abe, don’t you
ever go for to rob her of a moment’s pleasure. She’ll mother you
sick, and mother you well. She’ll lie for you and fight for you.
And when she’s broke her heart keepin’ folks from lynching you,
she’ll tidy you all she knows and pass you into the crematorium
in the hope of making you a real sanitary proposition for the
first time in your darn life. Ther’s all sorts of ’em find joy in
the Speedway. Some are foolish, but,” he finished up, turning his
perfectly serious eyes in the direction of the great dance hall,
“ther’s those who--aren’t.”

At that instant a raucous honk! honk! echoed down the wide,
dust-laden, unkempt thoroughfare, and every eye was turned in the
direction.

Out of a dust cloud a high-powered automobile raced down towards
them, rolling and bumping over the perilous unevennesses of the
road, regardless of every consequence. It was painted a curious
rich red, a big saloon body with black running gear and black
roof. It contained only two women, both expensively clad, one of
whom had a wealth of red hair that seemed to match the colour of
the vehicle. Every man on the verandah was craning. Every eye was
watching the car’s reckless progress. And as it passed, leaving
them almost lost under a fog of dust, it was Doc Finch who,
returning his feet to their resting-place on the verandah rail,
voiced something of the thought that occurred to the mind of each.

“No,” he said, smiling amiably round on the company, “there’s no
gang, or clan, or bunch of disorderly toughs in Beacon Glory that
’ud dare to do harm to the Speedway so long as St. Claire Carver is
its patron saint.”

The banker nodded prompt agreement.

“That’s a cinch, Doc,” he said. “She’s got every man in Beacon just
where any good woman could want him.”

Abe concurred promptly, if grudgingly.

“She’s a real dandy an’ a good spender,” he admitted, “and she’s
got the whole fancy of Beacon as well as its luck----”

“Luck?” Victor Burns drained the remains of his highball to wash
the dust of the automobile from his throat. “She’s made a pile
that would set some of the Wall Street guys screaming. Say!” He
laughed. Then he became serious. “And talking of gold and things,”
he went on, “there’s colour coming in just now from outside. A boy
bought himself a credit at my place this afternoon for eighty
thousand odd, and it was the sort of dust they used to collect on
‘Eighty-Mile’ years back.”

The banker watched the almost electrical effect of his words on
a company to whom gold was the beginning and end of everything.
Discussion of the Speedway and its morals, and even of its
beautiful patron saint, was forgotten. Every man at once sat agog.
And even Jubilee Hurst, who was mainly a sheer gambler, who had
been gazing down the avenue after the now-vanished automobile,
eagerly sought information.

“Where did it come from?” he asked, without hesitation or scruple.

Burns shook his head.

“Search me,” he said with a laugh.

“Who’s the guy?” demanded Burt.

“Guess I’m a banker.”

“Can’t you hand us a thing?” inquired Abe.

“Not a thing but just that,” Burns said quietly. “It’s the third
big bunch of dust come in from the same place, by the same boy, in
six months. And there’s more coming. I wanted you fellows to know
about it because it’s my job to collect the stuff, and the more
folks know about it the more they’ll worry to get after it. There’s
big gold coming into Beacon, and I guess that’s the best news
you----”

He broke off. Ivor McLagan had appeared in the open glass doorway
leading on to the verandah.

“Say,” he cried, after a moment’s pause, “I hadn’t a notion you
were in town, Ivor.”

Jubilee laughed.

“You ain’t much of a guesser, Burns,” he interjected. “Why wouldn’t
McLagan be along in? Is he missing Max’s show any more than you and
me? But say, Mac, tell us about oil. We just been hearing gold
from Burns and now we want oil. The oil king is right with us,
folk. He’s right in our midst,” he cried, with his ready laugh.
“The soft yellow stuff gets us all the time, but nice, black,
sticky oil’s only a short cut to it. You’re the guy to grease the
wheels of Beacon right. Gold won’t be a circumstance when you open
out one of your gushers. Sit around, man, and hand us news that’ll
help us digest Max’s Dago feast right. Talk to us of options and
borings and coal mountains, and all that sort of truck you can’t
eat and I’ll buy you a highball right now, and swear to set up a
swell piece by way of epitaph on your mausoleum when you’ve got
mired to death in the juice you’re going to flood Beacon with.
You’re our only hope of----”

“And a darnation poor one, Jubilee,” McLagan interrupted, “that
is, right up to now.” He pulled up a chair and leaned his great
body over it, while his plain face smiled indulgently on the
irrepressible man who never failed to amuse him. “But we’re right
on oil. We’ve hit a--trickle. A hell of a fine--trickle.”

Abe sat up.

“Is that right?” he demanded, his eyes lighting.

Ivor nodded.

“It surely is, Abe. You’ll be re-building this hogpen in a year’s
time and you’ll need to add a hundred rooms.”

Burns leant forward in his chair.

“Is it going to be big?”

“A real flood--if I’m not foolish.”

“Will you talk to-night at Max’s feed?” inquired Doc Finch, a
staunch believer in publicity.

“Not a whisper.”

“Why not?” inquired Burt Riddell.

“Because I got a deal too much that’s worth saying,” McLagan
laughed. “The only time it’s safe to talk is when you haven’t.”

Jubilee chuckled appreciatively.

“I’m buying that highball right away, Abe,” he cried. “And make it
for the whole darn house, if it’s my last buck. McLagan’s right.
Don’t shout till you want. Then shout like hell. Folk’ll hand it
you if it’s only to keep you quiet while they shout. Oil? And it’s
coming? Are there any options lying around? Are we to be in on the
ground floor, Mac, or is the darn door bolted and locked?”

McLagan shook his head.

“Sure it’s locked and I’ve hidden up the key,” he said quietly.
“My prospect’s a tight one. You see, it’s been a long trail and
I’m taking no chances. Easy money’s fine for those who make it.
But I’m not passing easy money to a soul. Guess I’ll go and clean
up for Max’s party.” He laughed pleasantly. “And I’ll collect your
highball on the way, boy. So long.”




                            CHAPTER VII

                            The Speedway


Max Lepende, for all Jubilee Hurst’s estimate of him, was a
creature of unusual mentality. His ability was quite beyond
question; his morals were something of a less buoyant nature; while
his poses were wholly Latin in their extravagance, and contrived to
set up an impenetrable armour against those who sought to discover
the real man underneath.

The Speedway was the reality of his own dream. Its inspiration
was a product of memories and experiences of early life in a land
of beauty and an atmosphere of bygone glories. And as such it
was a sufficient anachronism in its present setting to grip the
imagination of the crude minds which made up the clientele he hoped
to pillage in the outland territory he had chosen for his hunting
ground.

He boasted the refinements of his designing, and was mercilessly
jealous of the Speedway’s fame. The attitude of other minds was
less benevolent towards it. The citizens of Beacon Glory were prone
at all times to downrightness, and, consequently, they set no halo
about the place. But they delighted in the licence it afforded them
for indulgence in pleasant surroundings.

The fronting colonnade of five gaudily decorated pillars meant
nothing to the citizens of Beacon Glory. Yet they sometimes
marvelled at the costliness and the extent of the white paint that
looked so drab in the sunlight. Some never even paused to consider
the rich carpetings they trod underfoot in the gaming rooms, or
the wonderful block-flooring over which their heavy boots glided
in the great dance hall. But there were few enough who failed to
appreciate the raised private boxes which lined the walls of the
latter, furnished as they were with drinking tables, and deeply
upholstered chairs and divans, and hung with curtains to be drawn
at will. Then there was the glitter of innumerable mirrors, and the
broad staircase with its carved balustrades leading to the rooms
above, where every game from “crap dice” to “baccarat” could be
indulged in.

The general run of the men and women of Beacon Glory demanded a
good time. And the Speedway, under Max’s consummate guidance and
absolute control, provided for their every need in this direction.
Oh, yes, Max saw to that. For underneath his patient, smiling
veneer, and his pose of polished respectability, he possessed a
hard, unyielding, astute commercial soul, greedy for the last cent
of profit he could extract from his customers.

Hardened trail men, no less than educated men from the cities
of culture in the outer world, yielded to the seductions of the
Speedway. So did the women, who regarded it as a part of their
daily lives. The charm of subdued lights in the gaming rooms; the
dazzle and glitter at the gilded bars, and in the dance hall; the
subtle, rather sickly perfume of the place, the value of which Max
so perfectly understood; these things all contributed to make it a
veritable temple for the spiritual debasement of its devotees.

On the night of its birthday the Speedway was swept and garnished
to the last degree. Fashion and custom were no less strong in
Beacon than in the more enlightened dwelling-places of humanity.
Every visitor to the place would be clad for the occasion. No
woman would dare to appear for the festival without some sort of a
new gown. And as for the men, knee-boots would be taboo, and heavy
working shoes were under the ban. Every man who was accustomed to
resort there would be raiding the shoe store the day before, and,
failing evening suits as part of their wardrobes, certainly only
the best they possessed could be tolerated.

It was truly a splendid function and possessed all the outward
display with which humanity loves to hide up the wealth of moral
blemish to which it is unfortunately and unfailingly heir. The
place was super-heated and the air was heavy-laden, and Max, as he
welcomed his customers and guests, radiated smile, and perfume, and
punctilio without discrimination.

Jubilee Hurst, observing him after enduring his own portion of the
formalities at the foot of the great staircase in the central hall,
realised to the full the delicious mockery of it all. He whispered
his comment to Ivor McLagan, who stood beside him, clad in the
well-cut evening suit that was anathema to his downright soul.

“You know, Mac, there’s a heap to Max of the feline species. He’s
a mitt on him that ’ud shame velvet, and a tongue to match, and
I feel plumb sick in the pit of the stomach, and like handling a
newly hooked eel, when I get near enough to listen to his fancy
dope, and feel the tips of his polished fingers in my hand. Get a
line on him bowing around to folks whose bank roll he’s made his
life’s study. See his Dago antics. You’d guess he loves us all to
death, while all the time he’s out for plunder like any ‘hold-up’
that ever flagged a western express. And we’re all grinning back at
him to schedule. And we’re all saying a piece we’ve sort of learnt
by heart from years of repetition. Can you beat it? No. I’ll eat
his darn feed an’ likely get full up to the back teeth with the
liquor he’s going to hand out. But to me it’s simply the change
out of the dollars he’s collected out of my wad over a long period
of darn foolishness. It isn’t a thing else, unless it’s to say I’m
just one of the mutts of life mired at the wrong end of things, an’
can’t afford to act diff’rent.”

McLagan smiled.

“Don’t worry a thing, boy,” he said easily. “It’s just the game of
things we’ve all of us got to play more or less as we beat it along
the trail to the crematorium. I’d certainly say Max don’t need
showing a thing. I want to laff.”

But for all the bitterness of spirit the Italian’s antics might
have inspired in those who saw through the mockery of it all,
the whole comedy looked to be playing out as the master-mind had
designed. It was ordained that the gathering at the Speedway, on
this one night in the year, should be a vivid landmark impressed
upon the minds of the city’s people, from the banquet to the
invited guests, to the ball, and the great gamble that would
later take place at the tables. There would be impressive decorum
for just as long as decorum could be maintained. And after that,
circumstances and the proprietor’s tact, and, failing that, his
powers of other persuasion, would deal with every contingency that
arose. There would be nothing allowed to occur on that occasion
calculated to besmirch the record of the place. That was Max’s
purpose. A purpose from which he had no intention of departing.

       *       *       *       *       *

The banquet was over and the company had dispersed in such
directions as individual inclination prompted. Max had thrown his
annual shower of verbal bouquets, and had drunk in the responsive
adulation and laudatory expressions which custom demanded from
his guests. The courses had been disposed of by healthy appetites
which refused to be disguised, and an excellent brand of champagne
had flowed in no niggard measure to lubricate faculties that were
easily enough set in motion for full appreciation of the night’s
riot. The ballroom was already thronged with dancers of every grade
of ability, and the lure of the tables had claimed their devotees.
While not a few were sufficiently attracted by the magnetic glitter
of the bars where the white-clad bartenders were under orders to
dispense of their best mixtures without charge.

Ivor McLagan and some of his friends had passed over the
attractions of everything else for the shaded lights of the poker
hall. It was a spacious apartment with panelled walls of dark green
to match the colour of the baize-covered tables. It was carpeted
thickly with oriental reds and blues, and such woodwork as there
was was gleaming white. The tables were spaced evenly round the
walls, with one only somewhat larger than the rest, occupying the
centre of the room. The place was entered from a landing just
beyond a wide, decorated archway hung with curtains, and this, in
turn, gave on to the head of the great staircase.

It was a room with which little enough fault could be found. For,
apart from the charm of its shaded rose lighting, it was governed
by a number of unwritten laws so that its company could pursue its
devotions without let or hindrance, or any disturbing element. The
chip bureau was presided over by a seemingly voiceless autocrat,
while velvet-footed waiters ministered to the thirst of everybody
in the efficient manner of well-drilled club servants. It was all
admirably calculated to yield the best possible profit out of a
mixed company which consisted of men and women of substance and
undeniable beauty, down to the rough-clad trail men who sold their
“dust” for chips, and a gambling fraternity of every shade of
colour and almost every race.

Outwardly it was a sheer delight for those who were sufficiently
young and reckless. It was a place to grip the imagination.
Inwardly, or underneath its surface of pleasant seeming, there was
perhaps a different aspect. There was not one of the immaculate
waiters who was not a trained athlete in his ability to deal with
the toughest human violence, and each man was fully armed with an
automatic pistol or some other lethal weapon. Then the voiceless
president at the chip bureau was a dead shot, and had under his
fingers a system of switches which could summon any aid he needed
and close every exit of the establishment, at an instant’s notice.

McLagan had made no attempt to cut into any of the games that had
already started. For the moment he and the rotund Dr. Finch and
Jubilee Hurst were onlookers. Jubilee was sitting on an unoccupied
table, while the two others were smoking Max’s cigars, watching the
game in progress at the next table.

The doctor and Jubilee seemed more deeply interested than was the
oil man. A poker game was irresistible to Jubilee at all times. Doc
Finch had partaken of a sufficiently good dinner to find interest
in anything, provided it was witnessed from a comfortable chair.
But McLagan’s attention undisguisedly wandered to the curtained
entrance every time the hangings were drawn aside to admit a
newcomer.

He was a keen poker player, but only as a pastime. And he rarely
drifted into any of the really big games that were played at the
Speedway. Just now he had no desire at all to participate in any of
them. He was by no means a part of the Speedway’s human freight.
But for months, now, he had never failed to spend his evenings in
its scented atmosphere when business demanded his presence in the
city.

Jubilee shook his carefully oiled head in response to McLagan’s
challenge.

“No, I’m not cutting in yet,” he said. Then he added with a grin,
indicating the table in front of them, “Guess I couldn’t make a
one-night hotel bill out of a bunch like that. See that guy open a
fi’ dollar jack pot, an’ throw in at the first bet? They’re a close
bunch, without the nerve to buck four aces right. I’ll wait for the
Saint.”

McLagan’s quick eyes shot a sharp look into a grinning face.

“She plays a great game,” he observed quietly.

“Game? It’s a gift.” Jubilee chuckled. “If she’d take me as
partner,” he went on with meaning, “we’d clean up half the world.”

McLagan removed his cigar and dropped its ash into the fixed tray
provided on the table on which Jubilee was sitting.

“Have you put it to her?” he asked smilingly.

The other shook his head.

“Not on your life, Mac,” he said seriously. “I’m sure like every
other guy around the way I feel but I’ve a sight too big a respect
for a good woman to want to tie her up to the kind of life I live.
Maybe sometime I’ll make the pile I mostly dream about, and I’ll
be able to quit the game I’ve always run. Well, when that time
comes, and I’ve learnt Sunday School ways, I’ll be feeling and
acting pious. Maybe it ’ud be different then. Say, Doc’s doping off
his feed.”

“You’re wrong, boy.” The Doctor bestirred himself. “But likely
enough I was dreaming. I thought I heard you talking of
acting--pious. I----”

He broke off. The curtains had been abruptly drawn aside from the
great archway. Two of the waiters were holding them back. Suddenly
there was a curious hissing sound somewhere up in the shadows about
the domed ceiling. The next moment a fierce light flashed out,
filling the archway with the white-circle of its beam. It was a
“spot lime,” and it fell on the tall, slim figure of a beautifully
gowned girl as she appeared from the landing beyond. It was Max’s
greeting, on the night of celebration, to the beautiful Saint of
his beloved Speedway.

Just for an instant Claire Carver stood dazzled by the glare of the
unexpected light. Every eye in the room was turned in her direction
to discover the meaning of the terrific blaze. And in that moment
Ivor McLagan feasted himself upon the vision he had been awaiting.

The girl was clad in an expensive sort of semi-evening gown of
soft, black material, aglitter with the shining surfaces of
a myriad of black beads. At her waist was a large, sprawling
artificial flower that matched the ruddy tone of her vivid hair.
She was without gloves, and her rounded arms of alabaster whiteness
were bare to the shoulder, and her gown below the knees revealed
sheeny silk stockings which terminated in high-arched insteps and
exquisite shoes. But her glory was the hat adorned with flowing
Paradise plumes, and the wealth of her hair framing a face whose
beauty set the pulses of the gazing man hammering.

Never in his life had McLagan seen Claire a creature so exquisite.
And there flashed through his mind a memory of the girl of the
headland, tortured by the threat of Bad Booker’s usurious terms.
The change, the complete transformation, was amazing. There had
been change before. He had seen it and delighted in it. But there
had been nothing like this. This was the girl’s party gown. He
understood that. She was----

“God o’ my fathers!”

Jubilee breathed his astonished admiration into McLagan’s ears, and
was promptly silenced by a look.

Somewhat embarrassed Claire came down the room with heightened
colour, and eyes that smiled almost shyly. It was the same sweet
face which McLagan had always known. Only it lacked something of
that natural freshness which the wind and the sun of the coast had
bestowed upon it in her days on Lively Creek. The downy bloom of
those days had been replaced by a suggestion of powder. Even her
pretty lips seemed to have gained added ripeness from the careful
touch of cosmetic. But the wide blue eyes, the even brows, and the
rounded, perfectly moulded cheeks were the same, and, to the man’s
thinking, even more beautiful.

But some of the delight McLagan felt as the girl came quickly
towards him passed at once as he beheld the figure of Max close
behind her. Many a night he had looked on at the centre table where
Claire always played, and had even found amusement in observing
the crowd of men of all conditions who never failed to gather like
moths about a candle flame. He had watched them in their frantic
efforts to win her ready smile, and it had filled him only with
added pleasure in her beauty and simple charm.

But the sight of Max at that moment, with his sleek, dark head,
and his carefully cut close beard, his immaculate clothes, and his
good-looking foreign face, inspired a feeling he had never before
experienced. He remembered the method of this girl’s entrance.
The elaborate staginess of it. And he realised that Max had not
designed an entrance for the most popular gambler in Beacon Glory.
No. It was for the woman herself. And Max was rich and powerful,
and without scruple. And, furthermore, with immense resources for
achieving any purpose upon which he set his mind.

Anger rose behind the man’s keen eyes, and their usual easy humour
was changed to a glitter that had nothing mild or yielding in it.




                            CHAPTER VIII

                    The Man from the Lias River


The little burst of applause which greeted Claire’s entrance had
died out. Like the stage light that had descended upon her it had
left her with a slight feeling of embarrassment. But she understood
that the men, at least, if not the women, were in the mood to
applaud anything and everything, for it was a night of festival.
It was the first of its kind she had attended. She had known by
tradition what was expected, and had seen to it that she played
her part. So her gown was the most expensive she could import from
Seattle and the largish beaded handbag she was carrying was packed
with a roll of money of unusually large proportions.

In the brief eight months since Claire had plunged into the vortex
of the Speedway’s gaming life she had become a victim of the fever
of it all. Her original purpose had been the simple betterment
of her fortunes and those of her mother. She had desired nothing
more. For, in her heart, she had no sympathy with the reputation of
the place. The whole idea had been cold business. But by degrees
her viewpoint had changed, and the rich youth in her had gained
ascendency. The place, the life, the game, swiftly took possession
of her, and all of the dead father latent in her young soul had
stirred to an irresistible passion. The lure of that centre table
she had made hers, the rattle of the chips, the feel of the
delicate pasteboards in her nimble fingers, were all things she
had come to live for. She had learned to love it all with a real
passion.

In the process of time there had been scarcely a moment of
disillusion. Her beauty had gained her a deep place in the hearts
of the men. And the women, whatever their real feelings, bowed
before a creature whom the other sex had set on so exalted a
pedestal. Then her skill; her spirit. At the realisation of these
things even the women stood by in frank admiration, while her
amazing good fortune filled them with superlative envy.

Claire had been staunch and true to herself and her purpose.
Never once had there fallen a lapse. She eschewed the vices she
witnessed in others of her sex who haunted the place, while she
gave full run to her capacity for sheer enjoyment. Never once in
the thirsty, heated atmosphere of the place had she permitted any
beverage more harmful than a mineral water to pass her pretty lips.
She revelled in the scent of the tobacco with which men and women
filled the atmosphere. But she had not the slightest inclination
to essay the mildest of cigarettes herself. Then, too, she had
swiftly discovered herself to be possessed of an unerring instinct
in defence against the ardent and often crude advances she was
constantly encountering amongst the wild youth with which she found
herself surrounded.

She had been dubbed “The Saint” from the earliest days of her
career at the Speedway. And it was a natural enough appellation.
Her given name had suggested, and her methods had inspired. It was
the jealous minds of her own sex which had coined the designation.
And the manhood of the city had taken it up in real affection.

Before passing to her table Claire came over to the seat where
McLagan’s great figure was lounging. And her greeting of him had in
it no lessening of their old friendliness.

“Why, Ivor,” she cried, “I didn’t guess you’d be along in town.
This is real fine on a party night. And--and”--her lighting eyes
surveyed his evening suit--“say, don’t you look swell? You see, I
always sort of expect you in your tough old pea-jacket.”

The man’s plain face was alight with undisguised pleasure. He shook
his head, and his small eyes twinkled.

“Don’t just say a thing, Claire,” he said quietly. “If you knew
the way I feel I guess you’d hand me all the pity you know. I am
hating myself under a boiled shirt, but I had to be around to-night
anyway. And I’m glad. I’d have missed that dandy gown of yours
else, and the picture you’re looking. You’ve got Beacon plumb
dazzled and me well-nigh blinded.”

The girl flushed and laughed, but she left his compliment
unanswered.

“Are you going to sit in at my table?” she asked. Then with real
sincerity, “I’d be glad.”

But again McLagan shook his head.

“No, Claire,” he said reflectively. “I got other notions being here
to-night. Besides,” he added with a smile, “my bank roll isn’t
equal to better than table-stakes,’ and that’s no sort of use
when _you_ get busy. I’ll just sit around awhile. There’s Jubilee
yearning to lighten your wad. He sat right in on the jump when you
came along, and I don’t fancy he’ll squeal when you’re through with
him. No, I’m waiting on Victor Burns, and one or two boys. I can do
business here, and--I’ve pleased Max coming.”

Claire glanced round at her table and her eyes were no longer
smiling. Her table had filled with the men with whom she was
accustomed to play, and they were waiting on her pleasure.

“Why must you please Max?” she asked a little sharply. “Why is it
all of you men reckon to please Max?” Suddenly she lowered her
voice and inclined towards him. “He’s gone off to the dance hall so
I don’t mind. I’m getting to hate him like I used to hate Booker
months back. That play of his just now with his light. It sickened
me. It surely did, Ivor. And he’s getting like a tame cat. And I
hate cats. Give me a dog all the time, and a good, rough, fighting
trail husky at that.”

McLagan nodded. His eyes were smiling inscrutably.

“Don’t worry with him,” he said. “Don’t worry with any feller. Max
has his uses, which don’t need to concern you. But your boys are
looking gun-play my way.”

Claire laughed. The man was dismissing her. This big, burly, plain
creature who had persistently asked her to marry him. Just for a
moment a sense of pique disturbed her, but it passed immediately,
lost in her laugh. There was no other man in that room would have
done the same. She nodded at him and took her dismissal.

“Swell clothes hide up all sorts of things, I guess,” she cried,
as she moved away, “but it’s queer how the rough in a man can leak
through. I guess those boys at the table won’t be in such a hurry
to lose me.”

She was gone. And with her going a sense of loneliness at once
stole in on McLagan. He desired her for himself. He desired Claire
Carver above all things in the world. He could cheerfully have
driven the crowd about her table headlong. But that was the feeling
that was his at all times at the sight of the men who gathered
about her. However, he had come there with a resolve from which he
would not deviate, and, in accordance with that which lay at the
back of his mind, he had dismissed her to the game which he knew
was her passionate delight.

Victor Burns had just passed the curtained archway, and hard on his
heels was a newcomer who at once claimed all McLagan’s interest.
For a moment he observed the man while the banker strolled
leisurely over towards him. He was a broad, powerful creature in
dark clothes, with a pea-jacket tightly buttoned over his chest.
His face was clean-shaven and dark, but his eyes were of the palest
hue of blue, and as expressionless as those of a dead codfish. It
was his eyes that interested McLagan most, and Burns came up almost
before he was aware of it.

Burns laughed.

“Hello, Mac, where are the boys? Busy? You seem to be having all
sorts of a time to yourself. I’ll hail a flunkey an’ collect a
cocktail.”

McLagan edged round towards the empty chair which the banker took
possession of.

“Nothing for me, Victor,” he said brusquely. “Jubilee’s in the
game there, and the Doc’s oozed off to get a look at the dames
in the dance room. Abe’s passed back to his own booth, and young
Burt Riddell’s sitting in where his game can’t butt in on his
partner’s.” He laughed. “We’re outside it all, eh?”

“I surely am,” the banker admitted promptly as he surveyed the
crowd. “You can’t run a bank and play big money at the Speedway.
Say----”

He broke off as he caught sight of the man with the pale blue eyes
thrusting his way unceremoniously through the crowd about Claire’s
table. McLagan followed the direction of his gaze.

“Who’s that tough-looking guy?” he asked quickly.

“Cy Liskard,” the banker said. “He’s a client of mine. And he’s
full to the back teeth with dollars and dust. And,” he added
slowly, “looks like he is with liquor, too. Guess he’s out for a
time. He’ll get it if he sits into the Saint’s game. She’ll skin
him to death.”

The stranger’s movements were rough and forceful. He made no
pretence. The crowd where he joined it about Claire’s table was
at least three deep. It was composed of men in every fashion of
clothing, and women whose faces were sufficiently disguised under
paint to hide up the worst traces of aging and dissipation. He
shouldered his way through and came to a halt immediately behind
one of the players. McLagan wondered at the ease, the impunity,
with which his purpose was accomplished.

“He’s a roll of ten thousand in his hip pocket, and I can’t say how
much more. I wonder the kind of game he’s got lying back of those
dead eyes of his.”

Burns spoke reflectively, but his companion made no answer. McLagan
had bestirred himself out of his seat. He had perched himself up on
its arm, the better to view the scene. His gaze was on the stranger
and was swiftly reading the thing that must have been obvious to
any onlooker sufficiently interested. The man was clearly under the
influence of drink, but by no means drunk, and his “dead eyes,” as
Burns had called them, were fixed in a devouring stare upon the
girl at the far end of the table. It was not the game that claimed
the man. No, it was the girl, who remained utterly unconscious of
his regard, lost in the absorbing interest of the hand she was
playing.

“You know, Mac,” Burns went on, after a moment’s contemplation
of the man, “there’s faces with features that mark a man down in
a feller’s reckoning, and leave him with an opinion that he’s no
right to on the face of things. But his feeling generally proves
right in the end. That boy’s eyes leave me cold in the spine,” he
laughed. “To me they’re the eyes of a dead soul. To me, they’re the
eyes of a feller who’d better have been smothered at birth. I’d
hate----”

He broke off. Above the murmur of voices with which the room was
filled the tones of a voice jarred harshly. It was Cy Liskard, and
he was speaking to the man behind whose chair he was standing.

“I want to cut in right away,” he was saying. “Ther’s fi’ hundred
dollars for your chair, Mister. Does it go?”

McLagan had straightened up from his lounging attitude. Burns,
too, was on his feet, and both had moved nearer to the table.
Five hundred dollars offered for a “cut-in.” It was sufficiently
extravagant. And every eye of those standing around was on the
stranger who made the offer.

A few moments passed. The hand came to an end, the pot passing to
the man whom the stranger had sought to buy out. Then there came
movement, and the player’s voice made itself heard.

“Hand us the dough,” he said sharply. “You can cut right in. If
you’ve the nerve to bid five hundred for a chair, I guess you’re
more entitled to it than me.”

He rose from his place and Cy Liskard dropped into it. Then he
made his way through the smiling crowd.

“Fifteen hundred dollars for six hands leaves me at peace with the
world,” he said, as he approached McLagan and the banker. “Ain’t
that so, Mac?” he asked, with a wink.

He stood for a moment looking back at the table, and his smile of
self-satisfaction suddenly faded out of his eyes.

“I’m kind of sorry I fell for it, though,” he said, lowering his
voice. “That guy’s haf soused, and I’ve let him into _her_ table.”

“Maybe it’s just as well you did, Soo.”

Soo Tybert stared at McLagan wonderingly. He was a burly youngster,
partner in a dry goods store, and hailed from his father’s
wholesale house in Seattle.

“How so?” he asked.

McLagan shrugged.

“He meant cutting in, anyway.”

Burns smiled.

“I guess the Saint’s going to have a swell night,” he said. “Mister
Cy’ll be along in the morning to replenish his dollar reserves. Can
you beat these boys who come easy by the stuff lying around the
creeks? Haf a highball under their belts and the good air of the
hills blown out of their vitals, and they’re as ready to pass on
their stuff as an elderly, new-made widow-woman.”

But McLagan and the dry goods boy were paying no heed to the
banker’s reflections. They were talking earnestly in a low tone,
and when they had finished, Soo made a somewhat hurried departure.

“Where’s he gone?” asked Burns, when McLagan returned to his side.

“To hunt up Max.”

“Why?” The banker’s keen eyes had sobered, and a sharp look of
doubt accompanied his interrogation.

McLagan indicated the table at which Claire presided.

“What d’you know of Cy Liskard?” he asked, curtly.

“Not a thing. He’s a customer at the bank, that’s all. He’s on pay
dirt and hit it good.”

“Where?”

“Don’t know.”

Burns shrugged. But the look in his friend’s eyes interested him.

“There’ll be trouble before the night’s out. I’m going to stop
around.”

McLagan’s words came sharply, but in a tone only meant for the
banker’s ears. There was a curious hard set to his plain face,
and his small eyes were coldly bright. Victor Burns held him in
deep regard, and his understanding of him was the understanding of
years of intimate association. He had long since probed McLagan’s
interest in Claire Carver, and made his estimate of it. And now, as
he observed the man’s hard-set look, he realised something of the
depths to which he was stirred.

“You don’t need to worry,” he said quietly. “There’s no man around
here to-night crazy enough to play tough--not to-night.”

McLagan’s reply came with cold conviction.

“Ordinarily, I’d say you’re right, Victor. But ther’s mischief back
of that feller’s eyes. He paid five hundred to cut in. Why? For a
hand at poker? Not on your life. I’m going to get in and watch the
game.”

       *       *       *       *       *

McLagan was far too familiar with the poker games played at the
Speedway to concern himself with the bigness of the game he was
looking on at. It mattered little enough to him the relative
value of the heavy red, white and blue chips. Their value might be
twenty-five, fifty and one hundred calculated in cents or dollars.
It made no impression whatsoever upon his imagination, but the
skill of the players was a never-failing source of interest. The
human psychology in the game was fascinating beyond words.

To him the young girl, who seemed literally to have given up her
life to the lure of the game, was the epitome of all that was
demanded of human nature in the play. Her beautiful face smiled
or remained serious as mood inclined her. But no change in it
was wrought or influenced by the progress of the game. Her mood
seemed at all times buoyant, and her flashes of inspiration came
and passed without a moment of apparent effort or hesitation. In
three hands she had her opponent’s measure with an instinct and
observation that were unerring, while she played her own hand
with the baffling inconsequence which only a beautiful woman
could achieve. The values of every hand, estimated through her
understanding of her opponent’s methods, were instinctive knowledge
to her, and she played on the instant at all times, while her skill
in the draw proclaimed her utter and complete mistress of the game.

A hand had been dealt since Cy Liskard had sat in and the ante had
remained unchallenged. Now a jack-pot was being dealt for. Claire’s
smile was good to watch, and a light of deep absorption was shining
behind her beautiful eyes. She dealt the hand, and sat waiting for
the opening or passing of the jack-pot.

Jubilee shook his head and closed his cards up. The next man
refused. Cy Liskard picked up some chips and counted them.

“I’m opening for ‘fifty,’” he said, while his curious eyes levelled
themselves at the dealer. “Guess that calls a hundred.”

The hush was profound. The onlookers foresaw a big gamble if all
the table came in. Then again, it might be a crude bluff on the
part of this man who was almost a stranger to them.

McLagan was observing the man with almost cat-like watchfulness.
Victor Burns was smiling interestedly, wondering the while how long
his customer would last in the hands of these skilled and merciless
gamblers. To him there was, there could be, no doubt as to the end.
This man would stand no chance. He would stand no more chance than
a lamb in the midst of a wolf pack.

Of the six players at the table Jubilee alone refused to come in.
He threw his cards in and sat back while Claire began to deal for
the draw. The betting started at fifty dollars, and the spectators’
interest deepened, for, after the draw, all but Claire and the man
who had opened the pot threw in their hands.

Claire’s instant response to the stranger was a raise to five
hundred dollars.

It was the sort of thing expected of her, and interest deepened. Cy
Liskard had drawn two cards, and the smiling dealer had matched his
draw. There could be no indication as to what either of the players
held beyond the fact that the man had opened the pot.

Cy’s response was slower in coming. He glanced at his cards and
closed them instantly. Then, in a moment, he raised the girl’s bet
by one hundred dollars.

McLagan never for an instant withdrew his gaze from the man, for
it was the man who interested him. It seemed to him the dead eyes
had somehow come to life under the purpose driving him, and he
was endeavouring to read and grasp that purpose. To McLagan it was
a face masking completely every sign of emotion, but he felt that
emotion was burning deeply behind the lustreless eyes, and somehow
the conviction of lurking evil was irresistible.

Victor Burns, like all the rest around the table, had eyes only
for the beautiful woman, with her graceful figure a-shimmer with
the twinkling beads of her gown, and with her wealth of vivid hair
under her modish hat framing a face which he was never tired of
gazing upon.

Claire smiled her prompt reply, her lips parting and revealing a
row of perfect teeth as she “saw” the bet and raised it another
five hundred. The challenge was thrilling and on the instant every
eye focussed on the man at the end of the table.

He raised his strange eyes and gazed hardly into those of the girl,
and as he passed his chips into the centre of the table, McLagan
drew a deep breath.

“Curse it, ther’s your fi’ hundred, an’ another on top of it. Will
you see it?”

“Surely. And raise it.” Claire’s retort came in tones of smiling,
unruffled calm. “It’ll cost you a thousand more.”

The man laughed. But the laugh was harsh and unconvincing in its
lack of mirth.

“I like it in thousands,” he cried, as the girl’s chips were slid
into place to swell the pot. “There’s your thousand and another.
Well?”

There was a shuffling of feet amongst the spectators and several
coughed. It was an expression of the wave of excitement surging.

“Perfectly well.”

The girl matched his bet and raised it another hundred. And the man
laughed again with a further challenge.

“It’ll cost you another thousand!” he cried, and his tone was
exulting.

Victor Burns found himself holding his breath while he waited for
the girl’s move. Just for one instant her eyes flashed out of their
usual calm. There was real excitement in them now. And he wondered
if at last she had been caught out of her depth.

“And more,” she said. And her voice was perfectly steady. “One
thousand more.”

Her chips had become exhausted and she thrust forward a roll of
bills. Then she sat waiting for the man to come again.

It was the supreme moment when the test of nerve was at its highest
pitch. The onlookers understood. Big game as they were used to
witnessing at this centre table, it was the first time they had
looked on with stakes rising by a thousand dollars at a bet. The
question in every mind was the same. The man was obviously a gold
man with a pouch full of dust. What was its limit? How far would he
go under the influence of the surroundings and the liquor he had
obviously consumed?

Cy Liskard clutched his cards and laughed harshly.

“Come again,” he shouted. “There’s your thousand an’ another.”

He literally flung the bills on the table, for he, too, had
exhausted his chips. “Ther’s nigh fifteen thousand in the pot. Can
you see it an’ raise it? Raise it--if you’ve the grit.”

“Sure, I will,” Claire replied with just a suspicion of sharpness
in her tone for all her smile. “Come again, Mister man. Let’s see
your colour. You haven’t the stuff in you to raise that. It’ll cost
you fifteen hundred.”

The girl’s breath came quickly for all her self-control. There was
challenge in her tone, a woman’s taunting. But to McLagan, who
knew her every mood, there was more. In his mind he questioned her
nerve if the man came back at her, and he edged his way nearer, and
his instinct was to support and strengthen her in the weakness he
fancied she was beginning to betray.

He reached her side, and her opponent was forgotten. Just for one
instant her pretty eyes flashed a smiling upward glance into his
plain face, and a wave of relief surged through his anxious mind.
Her eyes were full of the confident courage he had feared for.

“It’s good enough!”

Cy Liskard threw his cards on the table face downward.

“It’s yours, my lady. I’m done.”

A gasp of astonishment came from the onlookers. The man’s defeat,
his weakness, left them amazed. Then, as Claire reached out and
collected the pool, short and sharp came Jubilee’s challenge.

“Your ‘openers,’ Mister!”

Cy Liskard turned his unsmiling eyes on the man. His gaze was cold
for all the harshness of his response.

“What the hell!” he cried.

Then he reached towards his cards and sought to turn them. In doing
so he displayed all five. Perhaps it was intentional--perhaps, in
a fury of resentment at the challenge in his defeat, the thing was
inadvertent. Whatever it was, the revelation was complete and a
gasp of amazement greeted his action.

He had thrown in _four aces_!

A chorus of derision followed. There was laughter. There were
epithets of undisguised contempt for the play that could yield
four aces so tamely. Even Claire smiled her contempt at her late
opponent while she thrust her own cards deeply into the remainder
of the pack. There was only the straight flush to have beaten that
hand, and the man had parted with something like eight thousand
dollars.

The comments of the onlookers remained unheeded. The man’s dead
eyes were on the woman opposite him. He seemed oblivious to all but
the smiling contempt in her eyes.

“Say, ain’t you satisfied?” he demanded, a curious note underlying
the harshness of his tone.

Claire laughed derisively.

“Sure I am,” she cried. “I’m always satisfied with easy money.
Guess I’m ready to take all that’s coming, even from a feller who’s
fool enough to throw in four aces. The deal’s with you, Jubilee.”

She turned to her grinning neighbour, who was shuffling the cards,
but the man at the end of the table was not yet done with.

“Say,” he cried again, and his tone matched the frigidity of his
soulless eyes. “Ain’t ther’ no change comin’? I handed you better
than eight thousand dollars. Guess you didn’t win that pool. I
passed it you. You didn’t bluff me a thing. Eight thousand couldn’t
scare a feller with my wad. No, sir. You’re queen of this layout,
and I don’t seem to yearn for any lesser dame. You got eight
thousand a present. An’ ther’s fi’ thousand more fer a dance. Guess
that’s what you’re here for, ain’t it? Here’s the stuff. I’m out to
buy. It’s right up to you. Well?”

The coldness of it was icy. The brutal purpose consummate. The man
was in liquor, but it was no drunken proposal. It was considered
and confident.

A hot flush swept over the girl’s beautiful cheeks. It dyed her
fine brows right up to the roots of her no less vivid hair. Then
she smiled, and her eyes glittered. She shook her head.

“You’re drunk or crazy,” she said. “I don’t know where you come
from. I don’t even know your name. But I guess you best get back to
the dirt you scratch your gold out of. It’s the only place for men
like you.”

Claire spoke quietly, but there was that in her words and tone
that was indescribable in its utter contempt. Cy Liskard withdrew
the bunch of money he was grasping with a jerk. He stood up. And
his cold gaze passed swiftly over the crowd of faces watching the
scene. Then his eyes came to rest again on the beautiful creature
he so obviously coveted, and dull fury looked out of them.

“You b----!”

But the filthy epithet was smothered. A man’s great fist crashed it
back into the foul throat that had inspired it. Cy Liskard reeled.
He fell backwards against the chair from which he had arisen. And
when he recovered himself he was looking into the muzzle of a heavy
automatic pistol with the fierce, narrow eyes of Ivor McLagan
behind the weapon.

“You swine! Beat it! Beat it right out of here or I’ll send you
plumb to the hell you belong to! Push up your hands, darn you! Push
’em up, an’ beat it!”

But the man made no attempt to obey. His pale eyes stared back
into the fury burning in the engineer’s. His hands remained by his
sides.

Those looking on realised the thing about to happen. There was
movement and scurrying as those in other parts of the room
scrambled out of the line of fire. This stranger man was looking on
death, calmly and without yielding. Another moment and----

But in that moment an amazing thing happened. It almost seemed
as if by magic the room had become peopled by a small army of
ghostly, white-robed figures. They came in a sort of wave through
the curtained archway through which Claire, earlier in the evening,
had made her triumphal entry. And they swept down upon the gold man
from behind in the voiceless fashion of avenging spectres.

It was all over in a moment. Cy Liskard was engulfed in the
white wave that rushed upon him. There was a moment of confused,
voiceless struggle. Then the white-hooded spectres had vanished
as they had come and McLagan returned his heavy weapon to the
hip-pocket of the evening clothes he so cordially detested.

Cy Liskard had been spirited away by the white-clad Aurora men, and
almost on the instant the momentarily interrupted game was resumed
amidst a chorus of laughter and eager comment. Nothing would be
allowed to interfere with the Speedway’s routine. Even matters of
life and death were of no real concern comparable with the success
of Max’s annual festival.




                             CHAPTER IX

                          The Aurora Clan


It was brilliant moonlight. Millions of stars were shining on the
velvet of the heavenly dome, but their sheen was dimmed against the
vivid spread of moving colour that lit the northern horizon. In the
cloudlessness of the night the mysterious blaze of the Aurora had
transformed the hours of darkness.

It was somewhere beyond the city limits where the plain rose gently
towards the distant, surrounding hills, and the open gave place
to wide bluffs of forest land. The scene was set in a spacious
clearing, with a wealth of spruce and poplar and jack-pine rising
out of the tangle of undergrowth encompassing it. And somewhere
about its centre stood an aged Western cedar, which looked to
belong to other latitudes, other climates.

The cedar was a forest giant of immense proportions. It stood
out in the splendid twilight black and overwhelming, for all its
height was dwarfed by the lofty, tattered crowns of its aloofly
respectful neighbours. It formed a wide canopy of shelter beneath
its far-reaching boughs, matted with their manifold carpet of
curious foliage. It was a shelter admirably suited to the ghostly
scene being enacted beneath its shade.

Twenty white-robed, white-hooded figures stood in an unbroken
circle at a point where the wide-flung boughs were at their
greatest spread. Right above them, almost exactly bisecting their
circle, a monstrous bough reached out supporting a dangling,
rawhide rope which terminated in an ominous noose. Within a foot
of this noose, gazing squarely at it, bound hand and foot, stood a
white man prisoner.

For the moment complete silence prevailed while Cy Liskard’s pale
eyes surveyed the thing with which he was confronted. He was sober
enough now, and there was no lack of understanding in him. He
knew he was the victim of no play game. For even he, comparative
stranger as he was to the life of Beacon Glory, had heard of the
doings of the men of the Aurora Clan.

He had offended. He realised that. He had offended these
self-appointed custodians of the city’s morals, and he was
searching acutely the doubtful chances confronting him.

His cold eyes passed over each silent figure in its white cloth
gown. He sought to penetrate the conical hoods which enveloped
each head, masking it completely and falling generously upon the
shoulders. And all the time he was aware of the ugly thing which
hung precisely at the level of his neck.

The futility of his search quickly impressed itself upon him.
Bound fast, he was completely helpless. These people had left
him with sufficient freedom to stand erect, but that was all. At
length the silence, his own impotence, and the hideous threat of
the dangling rope got the better of his none too generous stock of
self-restraint. He stirred, and sought to twist his powerful arms
free under their painful bonds. Then of a sudden his voice rang out
sharply, harshly, in a characteristic challenge.

“Well? What the hell--next?”

There was fury in his challenge. There was a shadow of something
else in its violence. And as the sound of it died away the silence
of the night came back at him, filling him with a sense of his own
utter helplessness.

A few moments later one of the white figures stepped out of its
place in the circle. It came forward and halted before the hanging
rope. It raised its arms and took possession of the noose, and when
the rope was finally released the captive realised that the noose
had been considerably widened.

Then the man stood a pace back and made a sign with outstretched
hands. He beckoned in two directions. And, in a moment, the captive
was seized from behind and securely held by his bound arms.

Putting forth a tremendous effort, Cy Liskard sought to free
himself. It was quite hopeless; and the effort, as a result of his
bonds, only cost him his balance, and, but for the support of his
captors he would have fallen to the ground.

The prisoner was no longer under any illusion. The thing about to
happen was obvious, and the silence of it all suddenly drove panic
surging. The man in front of him had again possessed himself of the
swinging noose. He approached slowly. Then, in a moment, the rope
was placed over the prisoner’s head and rested loosely upon his
shoulders.

The figure withdrew at once to the tree-trunk. And a moment later
the noose drew sharply tight about Cy Liskard’s bull-like neck.

With the tightening of the noose the last vestige of the prisoner’s
self-restraint vanished. He cried out, and his whole impulse was
for blasphemy and vituperation.

“Name of God!” he cried violently. “Cut this adrift if you’re men
and not swine. What have I done? What d’you want? Gold? If you’re
‘hold-ups’ I’m ready to pay. You’ve got me where you need me. Turn
loose your lousy tongues. If you cut this gear adrift ther’ ain’t a
man amongst you ’ud stand up to me two seconds.”

A voice replied to him. It sounded muffled, and hollow, and far-off
as it came from behind the mask of the man at the tree-trunk. But
to the prisoner it came in welcome relief. For it was the first
human voice he had heard since his capture.

“We want nothing from you, Cy Liskard,” it said. “We aren’t out to
rob dead men. You’re about to be dealt with according to the laws
of the Aurora Clan.”

The voice seemed to fade out rather than to cease speaking. Then
the controlling figure at the tree-trunk gave a further sign. The
two men standing ward of their prisoner withdrew on the instant,
and with a jerk the rope tightened viciously about the prisoner’s
neck.

The man writhed under the sudden pressure. He struggled fiercely.
But every effort he made only caused a further tightening of the
rope. In panic and complete and sudden despair, he ceased his
struggles. And on the instant the rope relaxed, and the muffled
voice came again.

“Your struggles are useless,” it said. “There’s no escape from the
Aurora Clan. Our men are everywhere in the city, the valley, the
forest, the plain. If you broke from us now, you’d be recaptured
within an hour. Our purpose to-night is simple. To-night you
die--unless you swear never to return to Beacon Glory. If you swear
that you’ll be freed at once, and your goods and ponies will be
handed back to you here and now. There’s no alternative. No woman
in Beacon will ever be insulted by you again. We’ll see to that.
Remember, if you ever return to Beacon your death will be instant.
You can choose. You’ve two minutes in which to do so.”

       *       *       *       *       *

The ballroom was a blaze of light. The raised boxes about the walls
were crowded with resting couples refreshing themselves at the
expense of their host. The band, which was more brazen than seemed
necessary, was blaring out a fox-trot with a haunting melody, which
seemed to be the joy of the heart of the uniformed man behind the
slide trombone. The softer strings were almost drowned under his
super-human efforts, and even the notes of the cornet were hard put
to it to obtain a hearing.

The dancers were many and various in their methods and appearance.
There were dress suits in evidence among the men, and the women’s
garments ranged from prodigal scantiness to redundancy. There
were burly men and fat. There were lean creatures who looked to
spend their days on short rations and hard work. While the women
appeared, as they ever do to the casual onlooker, a rainbow
spectacle of femininity pleasing enough to the masculine eye
careless of the details of their variegated costumes.

Doc Finch was among the stouter dancers and his partner was only
little less ample. They looked comfortably hot and in no danger
of foot entanglement. Jubilee was striding vigorously with a
good-looking woman whose beauty owed much to her gown and the
careful application of facial make-up. Bad Booker was smiling over
the shoulder of a young thing who was frankly absorbed in the joys
of the dance without regard for the company she was keeping. While
Jake Forner, his chief clerk, was straining every nerve to keep
pace with a woman whose efforts suggested gymnasium training rather
than terpsichorean. He was perspiring freely, and a far-off look
of troubled concentration gazed out of his student’s eyes, leaving
it a matter for speculation as to when the breaking point would be
reached.

It was a scene of real and comparatively decent human revelry.
Outwardly, at least, its decorum was complete. The night was
still young enough for the human nature gathered there to retain
possession of the cloak of seeming which the occasion imposed. It
was a _bal masque_ without its phantasy of costume.

Claire Carver and Ivor McLagan were in possession of one of the
boxes. The waiter had just deposited a tray of refreshments on
the table between them. True to her fixed rule the girl had
ordered coffee and a savoury sandwich. But the oil man had no such
scruples. His refreshment was a Rye highball.

Claire had abandoned her game immediately after the discomfiture of
the stranger gold man. The thing had startled her out of her usual
equanimity. Trouble of one sort or another was by no means new to
her. But in her eight months of the life of the Speedway it had
been the first time she, herself, had been subjected to downright
insult. She had always understood the risk she ran. Her mother and
friends were always behind her ready to remind her if in her more
generous moments of happy optimism she should chance to forget. But
for all that the shock had been no less, and for once she had been
glad enough to accept the company of the man who had so promptly
defended her, and turn her back on the shrine of the temple at
which she worshipped.

McLagan read through the mask of levity she was endeavouring to
impose upon herself. Out of his love and great sympathy his pity
had promptly leapt. It stirred him to her further aid. And so he
had gladly availed himself of the mood that had made her laughingly
appeal to him for the dance she had refused to the man who had so
grossly enriched her.

They were talking now as they rested, watching the antics of the
buoyant crowd moving rhythmically to the brazen efforts of the band.

“You know, Ivor,” Claire said smiling but reflectively, “those
white fixed folk get me scared to death. It’s the first time I’ve
seen them close up. Once before I saw them, or thought I did. I was
out in the automobile, and I kind of thought I saw a bunch of them
move off the trail ahead of me in the dusk and hide up in the bush.
I wasn’t sure, but I was scared enough then. It’s queer. How--how
did they know to-night? How did they come along right on time? was
it Max on the ’phone? I didn’t see Max around at all. Say, does he
run them? Are they sort of his police? They scare me. I was glad
enough to see them get around. You see, that feller didn’t put his
hands up to you when you had him covered. But I sort of feel we
don’t just know where we are with such a gang operating.”

The girl was gazing down on the moving crowd while she voiced her
apprehensions, and the man was left free to feast his eyes on the
picture she made in her beautiful gown and the hat that was so
perfect a crown to the wealth of vivid hair beneath it. He was
smiling happily in the reward her presence bestowed upon him for
his efforts in her defence.

“It’s kind of queer, Claire,” he said, and there was that curious
harshness of tone which he rarely seemed able to avoid. “But some
way I don’t feel it’s for you to be scared a thing. If this gang is
what it’s reputed I’d say it’s only the folks with unclean minds
and ways that need to be scared. But there certainly are things
calculated to set folks worrying the way the Clan learns and acts
when things are wrong. I don’t reckon Max has a thing to do with
’em. Though you never can tell. I was talking to Max when we came
down. I allow he’s quite an actor. But--well, if he was acting it
was mighty clever. He was raising hell to learn how those folks got
in on his precious Speedway.”

The girl turned from the scene that so entertained her.

“Was he?” She shook her head. “He’s got a head as long as--as the
body of that girl dancing with Burt down there,” she said with
a laugh. “He’s not going to give himself away. I’d say he’s a
great bluff when he feels like it. You know I’ll have to quit the
Speedway or----”

“Or what?”

McLagan’s eyes were no longer smiling.

“Or marry him.”

The girl’s smile had passed. Her eyes were no less serious than his.

“You mean that?”

McLagan was leaning across the table with his hands supporting his
plain face. He waited while Claire sipped her coffee and nodded
over her cup. Then he went on deliberately and almost harshly.

“You can’t! You mustn’t! You shan’t!”

He was stirred out of his usual calm. And Claire’s gaze lowered
before the hot fire she beheld leap into his eyes.

“He’s wealthy,” she said slily.

“And he’s like a tame cat. The creature you hate.”

Claire set her cup down and laughed happily.

“That’s no argument,” she cried.

“Argument?” McLagan shook his head. Then he added significantly:
“If you want argument I can give it you.”

“Not that sort,” Claire warned him sharply. “I have your promise.
But I’d like to hear any other--from you.”

The man sat up. He leant back in his chair and gulped down half
his highball. His moment of unrestraint had passed. He was smiling
again, but a feeling something approaching bitterness laid hold of
him that Claire would tolerate only his friendliness. He gazed into
her face and smiled. But he was yearning with a passion that well
nigh devastated his sternly controlled composure. He shook his head.

“No, Claire. You mustn’t marry Max,” he said. “You know him as the
actor he is. I know him as he really is.” He leant over the table
again. “Say, I wouldn’t marry a she-wolf to Max.”

“Why?”

McLagan shrugged.

“Leave it at that,” he said brusquely. “Here, kid,” he went on
quickly. “You’re right. You must quit the Speedway. Quit it all.
It’s not for you. Don’t you see? Oh, yes! I know. The folks are
good to you. Sure they are. They’re mostly men, and you’re a swell
girl that sets them crazy to be good to you. But it’s all on the
top. There isn’t a thing underneath but the ordinary muck of human
nature. You’re going to get it sometime when I’m not around, if you
keep on. And there’s sure no need for you to keep on. I----”

“But there is.” Claire’s interruption came sharply, and she held up
a warning finger at the threat of storm she again read in the man’s
hot eyes. “Here, Ivor. I said plain argument. Listen. I’m making
money in bunches. Big bunches. I need the money. And I love the
game. But some day I’ll need to quit. I know that. But it won’t be
till my luck breaks, or--Max turns. If Max turns first I’ll need to
get out quick. No! I’ll never marry Max! I’d sooner marry--Satan.
Oh, yes! When that happens I’ll get out quick. I know. I’m wise.
You don’t need to be scared for me. But meanwhile I go right on----
Hello! Say--look!”

The girl was pointing down the ballroom. Her eyes had widened. They
were sparkling with a queer light.

McLagan was leaning forward. He was following the direction of
the pointing finger, peering out half hidden behind the curtain
hangings. And as he gazed upon the queer scene that had startled
his companion the braying of the band crashed awkwardly into
complete silence, and the dancing floor was cleared as if by magic.

Three white-robed figures were making their way in silent
procession down the length of the room. They moved slowly, and with
monkish dignity, their high-pointed mask hoods, with their goggling
eyeholes, creating an atmosphere that hushed the onlookers to dead
silence. Behind them the arched entrance was crowded with similar
ghostly figures. But the illusion in this direction was largely
counteracted by the array of heavy guns held ready for prompt
action by hands all sufficiently human.

It was a tense moment. The silence was deathly. Only the sound of
the footsteps of the moving figures broke it. The whole company was
shocked to impotence. And the eyes of all were preoccupied between
the array of arms in the far archway and the progress of the moving
trio. The “hold-up” was complete.

The three figures halted before the buttress pillar which centred
one of the walls, and on which was fixed the notice-board whereon
was pinned the dance programme for the night. They gathered about
it, and for some moments their movements clearly told of their
purpose. Then they moved away, returning as they had come, without
haste and without a word. Again they passed over the polished
floor. They reached the archway and their supporters. They passed
through the closed ranks. Then, in a moment, the whole of the
silent white army had withdrawn as abruptly as it had appeared.

A rush, a scramble followed. Men and women, even the orchestra men,
hurried over to the notice-board. The dance programme was lying on
the floor below it and its place had been usurped by a large sheet
of paper covering the whole extent of the board.

McLagan and Claire had abandoned their box and joined the curious
crowd. They were standing on the fringe of it, gazing at the white
sheet of paper bearing its written notice in crude, hand-printed
lettering. There was no need to get nearer. The text was plain
enough and large enough to be read from across the room.

  TAKE NOTICE

 The people of Beacon Glory are warned that the presence of one, Cy
 Liskard, on the premises of the Speedway will be the signal for
 its complete destruction by fire.

  Sgd. CHIEF LIGHT OF THE AURORA.

Claire turned to the man at her side.

“Max isn’t around,” she said significantly.

McLagan shook his head.

“He’ll be along,” he said, and glanced expectantly in the direction
of the arched doorway.

The crowd was recovering itself. It was moving away, and comment
and laughter made themselves heard in every direction. The bandsmen
were hurrying back to their dais where the conductor was summoning
them with sharp taps of his baton on his music stand. The boxes,
too, were rapidly refilling. Doctor Finch approached McLagan and
Claire. He laughed with a little uncertainty.

“Things are kind of busy,” he said. “Max’ll need to have a sharp
eye. These boys don’t bluff any.”

McLagan shook his head.

“No,” he admitted seriously. “They don’t bluff. If that boy shows
up inside the Speedway I wouldn’t give five cents for Max’s fire
policy.”

Claire looked round quickly. The band had just started a One-step.
She had been interestedly watching the entrance.

“Let’s dance, Ivor,” she said quietly. “Max has just come in.”

McLagan glanced round quickly. Max, dark, sleek, picturesque, was
coming towards them hurrying down the room. His face was unsmiling,
and to those who knew him the signs were sufficiently ominous.

McLagan quickly took possession of the girl and drew her away from
the region of the notice-board and Max, and as the latter came
up and stood himself before the insolent threat it contained, he
found himself alone with such emotions as the message inspired.
Claire and McLagan, like the rest of the dancers, were observing
him half-amusedly, half-doubtfully as they glided about over the
polished floor which was so much his pride. They knew that his
wealth and power as the reigning monarch of his beloved Speedway
had been challenged, and they wondered as to its possible effect
upon a man of his temperament.




                             CHAPTER X

                     The Haunt of the Clansmen


For all the glory of the night had waned, lost in the deeper
shadows of the hour before dawn, the house stood out stark and
decaying on the low foreshore of the lake. Once upon a time the
place had represented luxury. It had possessed an enclosure where
its owner had sought to cultivate a flower garden about it. There
had also been a pile-built landing at the water’s edge, and a stout
boat house. There had even been a roadway approach from the city
which was more than a mile distant. But, like the house itself,
these things had long since yielded to the fierce battle of the
elements. A few up-standing timber-baulks reared their rotting
heads above the water. The original fencing of the enclosure lay
rotting on the ground, and the roadway to the city was almost
completely submerged by the encroaching waters. For the most part
the house was well-nigh roofless. The shingles had been torn from
their places, and the underlying joists stood out bare to the
storms which swept the plain in the howling winter season.

It was a relic of the vaunting days of the boom of Beacon Glory
when easy money so often robbed even the astuter souls of that
longer vision of which they stood in so much need. It had doubtless
been the pride of some more than usually fortunate creature’s
heart, who yearned to possess a lake-side summer residence. There
were many signs about it to give such an impression. There were the
remains of the deep-roofed stoop for lounging in the sweltering
heat of summer. There were the French casement window frames
overlooking the lake. Then the woodwork and the joinery were of
the finest quality, while the whole planning suggested a type so
beloved of the heart of New England.

But now, with the waters of the lake lapping about the foundations
of the verandah, with the garden and the roadway approach a partly
submerged wilderness, in the chill windlessness of the last of the
night, the place only added to the general impression of distance
and darkness and utter desolation.

The moon had lost its cold brilliance. It lay fallen from its
high estate in the dome of the heavens, lolling wearily, a dull
yellow disc just above the horizon. The stars, too, had yielded
their twinkling brightness, while the cold fires of the Aurora
were burning low, and their ceaseless movement suggested a hasty,
disorderly retreat to the mysterious fastnesses of the northern
world which had given them birth.

Yet life was stirring, and it centred about this derelict
habitation.

Two men had passed the rotting fencing and made their way through
the tangle of growth to the back entrance, which clearly opened
into the kitchen premises. They paused before the closed door and
remained talking in low tones for some moments, then one of them, a
man of big physique, raised a clenched hand and his knuckles rapped
sharply and peculiarly on the resounding woodwork. There was a
further moment of delay, then the door swung open inwards, and the
darkness beyond swallowed up the newly arrived visitors.

After awhile there came a further arrival. He was a stoutish
creature who gazed searchingly about him in the darkness before
passing on beyond the line of the containing fence. But finally he,
too, passed from view as had the earlier comers, and the engulfing
solitude in which the derelict habitation was wrapped returned to
its unbroken sway.

After that, in quick succession, there were two further arrivals.
They came, both of them, from the direction of the sleeping city.
They came singly, and in each case their approach was in similar
method to those who came before. It was as if rule governed them,
they approached cautiously, peering and listening in the dim
twilight of the night. Then came the signal knock upon the door,
and after that the gaping darkness of the interior swallowed
them up in the voiceless mechanical fashion which suggested a
contrivance controlled from somewhere in the far interior of the
deserted habitation.

As the last of the five visitors passed into the house there came
the sound of the bolting and barring of the entrance door, and the
final operation was completed just as the first streak of dawn
transformed the eastern horizon, and brought forth the waking
chorus of the wild fowl upon the lake.

       *       *       *       *       *

The room was bare of all ordinary furnishings. The brick walls
were cracked and decayed and discoloured with damp patches. It
was a windowless apartment containing the rusted boiler and gear
of a steam-heat furnace. In one corner lay a small quantity of
anthracite coal and a rusted shovel, and the concrete floor of the
place was a-litter with rubbish and damp patches, and odds and ends
of old packing-cases clearly left there for the original purpose of
kindling.

The place was lit by an oil lamp suspended on a hook in one of the
timber joists supporting the floor of the house above, and by its
dim, yellow light four white-robed figures, with their sugar-loaf
hoods, pierced with eye-holes, were revealed lounging on such of
the upturned packing-cases as afforded reasonable security. A fifth
was standing, leaning in his immaculate garment against the rusted
side of the derelict furnace.

It was a spectacle for humour to witness these queer, ghostly
figures in their secret haunt, holding solemn conclave in a cellar
which in ordinary life probably nothing on earth would have induced
any of them to enter. But their purpose was utterly and completely
serious. They formed the Supreme Executive of the “Council of the
Northern Lights,” which was the whole control of the great body of
the men of the Aurora Clan.

The big man at the furnace was clearly the leader and prime moving
spirit of the organisation, and he was talking in the cold, hard
fashion which so much suggested his position. His whole manner was
that of keen command, but for all the coldness of his tone there
was neither roughness of language nor the least vaunting display of
authority.

“We needed this council right away,” he said. “We need to take a
clear decision before the sun gets up. That’s why I sent you boys
word when maybe you were yearning to make good the sleep you’re
needing. We’ve had a busy night. And I reckon, as a result of it,
we’ve a busy time in the future.”

He paused. His hooded head was raised so that its eye-holes were
directed at the lantern above him, which had begun to splutter. As
the flame settled again to its business he went on:

“Our job is primarily to clean up some of the muck lying about our
city. I know that. But I never had any doubts, from the moment of
our foundation, that an endeavour like ours might easily lead us
into other work--other responsibilities. The logic of the whole
position is simple. If we reckon to clean up the muck of the city,
we also need to set its furniture into decent order. It’s no use
setting hogs to live in a palace. If we’re cleaning up morals,
let’s look to folks’ rights.”

He paused again. This time he was listening acutely. There was a
sound drifting somewhere out over the bosom of the lake. It was the
rising of the wind as the sun approached the horizon.

“Now, boys,” he went on, speaking more hastily, “I don’t want
to keep you from the sleep you’re all needing, but this is the
proposition as a result of this night’s work. Beacon stands right
at the crossways to-day. Maybe soon there’ll be a flood of oil
come to its rescue through those folks on the Alsek River. That, I
guess, is in the lap of the gods and the feller running it. Then
there’s the other thing--gold. It was gold that raised this city.
Well, Beacon can go up, or further down, as a result of those two
things. A big gold strike or a big oil strike, can send her sky
high. That’s all right. But it seems to me our work demands that
whether it’s the feller, McLagan, with his oil, or any other boy
with gold, we need to see that Beacon gets its due success as a
result of any strike in its neighbourhood. I guess McLagan’ll play
white. If he don’t the remedy is with our Clan. But the gold boys
are more difficult.”

He stood up from the rusty stove, and his white robe was sadly
besmirched, but he gave no heed and went on sharply and with
obvious feeling.

“It’s that feller, Cy Liskard, we’ve been dealing with to-night. I
believe he’s made a strike that looks like transforming Beacon from
a derelict city to a hive of prosperity.”

There was a movement amongst his audience which clearly displayed
the impression, the effect of the magic of gold upon these men of
the gold city. A voice came back at him out of one of the hoods.

“He comes from the Lias River.”

“I’ve heard that, too.”

“An’ the Lias River runs right back into the mountains, hundreds of
miles,” said the same voice.

“Sure.” The man at the stove nodded his cowled head. “That’s so.
It runs right back into Canadian territory. If that feller has
made a big strike, and I know he has, Beacon should know it. No
feller’s entitled to more than his claim. Beacon should know the
place. Beacon should have a right to jump in, too. There’s decent
men and women with as much right as Cy Liskard, and maybe more, to
handle the wealth of this territory, and it’s up to us to hand them
the chance. We ask ’em to live clean and wholesome. Well, we’ve
the right to show ’em how, and help ’em. We must send a bunch to
the Lias River and locate this strike. We must respect Liskard’s
claim, whether it’s in Alaskan or Canadian Territory, but we want
its secret for the folks of Beacon. Well?”

Discussion followed promptly. It came in the quick, hot fashion of
men whose main outlook on life is bounded by the precious metal
that first brought their city into being. And the discussion tended
to complete agreement with the man whose guidance they had accepted.

The leader listened closely to every argument his council put
forth. He agreed to, or negatived, each argument with calm
impartiality, and when, at last, nothing further was forthcoming
from his Counsellors, he leant again against his supporting stove,
and raised up one warning hand in sign that the debate was finished.

“I put the proposition,” he said formally, “we appoint a bunch of
the boys to investigate on the lines we’ve laid down. There must be
no other action taken. The man must be shadowed to his destination.
His movements must be watched, and when the discovery is complete,
or sufficient has been ascertained of the whereabouts of his
strike, full report must be made to this council. Then we will
decide on procedure. There are gold men amongst us, but our oath
must prevail. The result of this investigation is for the community
of Beacon Glory, regardless of all individual personal interests.
Is it agreed?”

The prompt show of hands was unanimous. Finally the “Chief Light of
the Aurora” himself raised his right hand.

One by one the hands were lowered and the leader spoke again:

“It’s sufficient. The investigators will set out forthwith. We
shall need a competent leader for the work. Therefore, I call
on you, Number Three,” he said, pointing at the stoutish figure
sitting third amongst his audience. “You are best qualified in
every way. You have years of the gold trail behind you, and you
will know how best to deal with any opposition you may encounter
from this man. The meeting is closed.”

He reached up and unhooked the lantern in the roof. The next moment
the cellar was in complete darkness.




                             CHAPTER XI

                    The Wreck at the River Mouth


Sasa Mannik was down at the seashore. He was labouring over his
fishing tackle, which was only little less primitive than that of
his Eskimo fore-bears. His sturdy bluff-nosed, sea-going boat was
lying nearby on the shelving beach, awaiting the moment when she
would be run down into the racing waters waiting to receive it.
The man was a half-breed Eskimo, in whom White and Indian ran a
neck-and-neck race with the original stock from which he sprang.

Sasa was a characteristic creature. In build he was squat, and of
enormous physical strength. He had a beardless face that might
have belonged to almost any native race. His eyes were mere deeply
set slits; his mouth was large and loose; his nose was as flat and
broad as his cheekbones were high and prominent; while his lank
black hair suggested nothing so much as a horse’s mane. He was
certainly unprepossessing and even crafty to look at, but he was
by no means without many redeeming qualities. He was a fisherman
first and before everything, but he was a reasonably faithful
servant, too. His greatest weakness, however, was an addiction
to a picturesque and superstitious lying which Ivor McLagan, who
employed him, chose to condone for the sake of his otherwise useful
service. The engineer liked the man. Sasa made a curious appeal to
him. And so he paid him ten dollars a month, and permitted him
to cook, and wash, and look after the log shanty, which, like an
eyrie, he had set up on the high cliffs overlooking the mouth of
the Alsek River.

It was a no less bleak and desolate inlet than a hundred others
which serrated the southern coast line of Alaska. Attacked from
sea and land, a way had been driven through the granite cliffs so
that river and sea merged in an iron-bound bay, sea-bird haunted
and without a vestige of softening from its barren austerity. Its
waters were set with numberless upstanding granite fangs, and the
swirl of its turbulent tide revealed submerged traps in almost any
direction. The bay possessed two definite, comparatively free and
wide channels. One travelled southwards while the other hugged
tightly to the northern shore. But even in these the racing tide
looked ready to crash the adventurous navigator upon unguessed
disasters.

Sasa Mannik stood up from his labours and his narrowed eyes gazed
contemplatively out over the racing waters. He, like his employer,
saw none of the natural terrors with which their high-perched home
was surrounded. Ivor McLagan had no business with the hauntings and
dread which Nature strives to inspire in her harsher moments. His
was the hard, practical, hungry mind of one of the earth’s seekers.
His only care was for the lure of the business which was his. His
home had been pitched in the heart of this natural wilderness,
that, in his brief moments of rest from the labours of his
enterprise farther up the river, he might look out on the wide-open
sea. Whatever the storms that howled about his staunch homestead
there were always hope, and health, and sunlight in the breath of
the restless ocean.

Sasa was quite without any concern in the matter of where his
existence was set, provided the sea was within his reach. If his
boss chose to live like some foolish sea-fowl, perched on the
summit of barren cliffs, that was his affair. For himself he
would undoubtedly have chosen some sheltered bluff on the river
where the worst storm would be powerless to fan the flame of his
camp-fire. But then he was not a white man and foolish. So he
contented himself with things as they were, and fished, and traded
his catch at his leisure, and carefully pouched the money he so
earned. And meanwhile he ate and drank well at his boss’s expense,
and fulfilled as much of his side of the contract between them as
suited him.

The man’s eyes looked to be almost tight shut as he searched the
swirl of waters sweeping by, and the cloud-flecked sky above them.
All his experience was in full play at the back of his mind. It was
a fresh spring day, and the waters were smiling as much as they
ever permitted themselves to smile, and the restless gulls were
winging in every direction accompanying their efforts with mournful
cries of joy. A light breeze was coming out of the northwest.

In Sasa’s mind the indications were not all that he might have
desired. The northwest wind was always something that could leap
suddenly into a howling gale. But then, on the other hand, it was
good for the salmon shoals, which at no time of the year he had any
scruple about attacking. Yes. On the whole the day was too good
to miss. Besides, the risk of a sudden gale added spice to his
labours. His boat was stout. It was ready. So was his gear. Then,
too, there were many shelters on that broken coast he knew of in
case of need.

He turned his dark face to windwards, where a sharp and lofty
headland shut out something of his view. His movement possessed no
real inspiration. It was the mechanical result of his thought. This
way lay the northern channel which surged round the rugged beach
at the foot of the headland. He had no thought of passing out that
way. It would be simple madness to make the attempt. Besides, it
would be impossible. No boat could face the torrential rush of the
current in that direction. He knew it as the “Channel of Death.”

Not even a crazy white man with his boat of iron and smoke could
face that channel and hope to reach the sea. But the current had
its uses for a real sailorman like himself. Oh, yes. A hundred
times he had sailed home to this beach upon it. And even to do
that was an adventure that stirred his native vanity and yielded
him vaunting satisfaction in his own skill. No. He would run down
on the southern channel. He would fish with the ebb till it was
nearing flat water, then he would beat up northward and sail home
down the northerly raceway with a free wind. That is, if no gale
arose to----

His train of thought suddenly broke off short. Something had
caught and held his whole attention out there somewhere beyond
the sharp-cut headland. And as he gazed, his eyes screwed up in
the brilliant sunshine, he drew a sharp breath which was his only
expression of astonished incredulity. Just for one brief moment he
stood thus. Then he suddenly set off at a run, making all speed for
the fierce beach where the ocean rollers roared impotently at the
foot of the headland.

       *       *       *       *       *

More than a month had passed since the night of the Speedway’s
festival. It had been a time of intensive work for the head of the
Mountain Oil Corporation. The summer was short, all too short, for
the work he was engaged upon, and of necessity he was forced to
drive hard while the season permitted. Now he was at home drafting
an earlier survey of a territory which looked like revolutionizing
the work of his company.

In the midst of his labours he looked up as the door of his log
shanty was unceremoniously thrust open.

The table before which he was seated was a rough enough piece of
furniture, as were most of the fitments of this shelter he had set
up on the wind-swept cliffs. It was littered with the mechanical
drawings, and charts, and maps he was at work upon. There was a
queer assemblage, too, of the instruments of his profession lying
scattered over the completely untidy apartment.

Peter Loby stood regarding him with a smiling look of relief.

“I’m glad I took the chance, boss,” he said, with a laugh of
content. “Guess I was two minds about it. You see, I came down the
river because I wanted to save you the trip up--an’ to gain time.”

“Why? What’s doing, Peter?”

McLagan spoke quietly, but his eyes were sharply questioning.

Peter was a tall, lean creature whose whole horizon was bounded
by oil and the business of extracting it from the bosom of mother
earth. He was a practical expert to his finger tips. But he
possessed no knowledge beyond its sheerly technical side. He was
glad enough to serve under McLagan. He knew his chief’s worth as
a dogged, fighting, companionable creature who held his place as
the principal representative of the world’s greatest oil concern by
sheer ability. And he knew his own expertness would have full play
under McLagan’s control, and such reward on results would come his
way as rarely enough fall to the man in his position. Furthermore,
he liked the man, and desired nothing better than to serve as his
foreman of works.

“Why, I spent three weeks on that coal belt you located last fall.
An’ I’ve made a further rough map of the thing you guessed about it
but didn’t figger to chase up at the time. Here’s the map. Maybe
you best read it. I’ll talk after.”

He passed a large linen tracing across to the man behind the table,
and drew out a plug of chewing tobacco from the hip pocket of his
moleskin trousers. Then he propped himself against the doorcasing
and gazed out seaward, while his lean jaws masticated the chew he
had bitten off.

After awhile McLagan looked up from the carefully drawn chart.

“That belt passes right back into Canadian territory,” he said.

Peter turned.

“Sure, boss,” he replied, with a light of triumph in his keen eyes.
“But there’s more than that to it. A heap more. That’s why I got
around on the dead jump.”

He stood up from his leaning attitude and his hands were spread out
in an expressive gesture. The man was simply bursting with his news.

“It looks to me we’re in the heart of the world’s biggest coal
beds, an’ the signs are we’re surely right on the fringe of the
oil field that’s mixed up with it,” he went on. He came over and
rested his hands on the table, leaning forward the more surely to
impress the man behind it. “I tell you, boss, right here we’ve hit
the biggest cinch since the world began. We’re on oil now, and
drilling through hard black lime. That’s all right. But further
back is where the real stuff lies, an’ it’s right in the heart
of such a coal belt as I’ve only dreamed about. It’s a range of
coal mountains. It’s nothing less. And the valleys are the natural
drainways for the thick juicy oil we’re yearning to tap. It’s that
brought me along. I want to take you right up there to see the
thing it is. But I’m crazy for you to wire this report I’ve got
here, from Beacon to our folks down home. Here it is, boss,” he
went on urgently, as he drew a folded sheet from an inside pocket.
“I wanted you to get that, an’ send it from Beacon first, an’ then
come right along up where I can show you oil lying around where
ther’ ought to be only creeks of mountain water.”

The man was wellnigh beside himself with excitement. Oil was his
job. Oil was his whole life. And out of his experience and keen
practical knowledge, he knew he had jumped into the heart of such
an El Dorado as he had only found hitherto in his dreams.

But McLagan refused to be caught up by the infection of the man’s
excitement. It was not that he doubted. He never doubted when Peter
Loby gave his considered opinion on such a subject. But he knew
the amazing nature of the man’s assertion, and he knew that never
before had he experienced a moment when calm judgment was more
surely needed.

He read the written report. Then he looked up at the man who still
stood leaning over the table awaiting his decision. He nodded.

“If this is right, Peter, it’s--the biggest thing in the world,” he
said.

His eyes were shining.

“It’s right, boss. You’ll pass that on?”

McLagan shook his head.

“It’s too--big--as it is,” he said. “Too sweeping. I’ll rewrite it,
and let you see what I’ll send. I just daren’t send it all till
we’ve tried it out. I’m glad you came along down, Peter.”

He held out a hand and the oil man gripped it.

“Act the way you think, boss,” the man said, but with a shadow of
disappointment. “You know best. Say--it’s great.”

“It surely is. After this I guess you’ll be able to quit the game
and sit back--Hello!”

Sasa Mannik’s stocky body was filling up the open doorway. He stood
there breathlessly gesticulating.

“Boss! Boss! You come quick!” he cried. “It dam’ fool white man
with big ship, plenty much sail. Him come along by raceway tide.
Him break all up sure. All no good break up. You come quick. Crazy
white man. All dam’ fool. No good.”

       *       *       *       *       *

The three men were standing outside the hut perched so perilously
near to the sharp-cut edge of the sheer cliff. They were standing
at an altitude of something over four hundred feet, gazing over
the wild scene of the bay. It was the highest point immediately
overlooking the mouth of the Alsek River.

Behind them, to the north and to the south, rose the great hills
which had remained snow-clad throughout the ages. But there the
iron cliffs of the coast line stretched out at something like
a uniform level. Far as the eye could see the smiling ocean lay
spread out, glittering under the keen spring sunshine, while below
them, marked clearly, sharply, lay the ugly ruins of torn rock
which the storms of centuries had hewn from the parent cliffs.

It was a scene these men knew by heart. All three were gazing out
seawards. Their eyes were fixed upon a vessel that looked to be
driving head on, under full sail, for the merciless rocks guarding
the entrance to the river mouth.

It was a sight that stirred the white men deeply. It was a sight
that filled them with a strangely oppressive feeling of complete
helplessness, and left them no longer concerned with those things
which a moment before had completely preoccupied them. Here, on a
calm Spring day, with a seemingly flat sea, a white man’s vessel
under full sail--no wreck, no derelict with broken masts and spars,
and with perhaps the steering-gear carried away--was heading
calmly, almost it seemed, happily, to become a total wreck on
perhaps the cruellest coast in the world. It was amazing! It was
staggering! The awesomeness of the spectacle left them without a
word.

Not so, however, the half-breed who had brought the news. Perhaps
he was less stirred by such a vision of coming disaster. Perhaps,
in his curious, savage mind, the life or death of a few crazy
white-folk was of no serious account. At any rate, he was under no
spell of silent awe.

“It all same lak I see this white man do all time,” he commented
for his companions’ benefit. “What you mak? I tell you this. White
man sailor see big bay. He see it all through much long glass. He
say, ‘Yes, it good. We mak him land.’ He not think nothing. He
not think ever. He white man. He do as he please. Yes. It same all
time. White man boss look for oil. He say, ‘We find him.’ So he
look where only hill, an’ forest, an’ river. He look for oil. Psha!
I see white man down the coast same lak this, too. He come down in
big canoe. He look, look all time for some thing. I not know. He
search much. He climb rock. He peek in cave. All time he look where
nothing is. That white man, sure. All time look where nothing is.
I know. This man sailor. He mak break up all bimeby. He look for
some thing. So he come. He sure find something bimeby. Plenty rock.
Plenty all break up. Plenty all go dead.”

“Oh, beat it!”

It was Peter who flung his impatience at the half-breed. His
chatter at such a moment was insufferable. Out there far beyond
the headland the vessel was steadily heading on its course. It was
racing down out of the northwest straight, almost as an arrow’s
flight, for the desperate entrance to the bay.

McLagan remained silent. He seemed oblivious to everything but the
amazing vision of the doomed ship. His narrowed eyes searched her
closely. She was smallish, as sea-going vessels went. He gathered
from her sails and masts she was some sort of full-rigged ship,
perhaps a coaster. Her sails were full in the fair wind. She was
yawing slightly, but not sufficiently to set her aback. But it was
sufficient to suggest some lack of control. Suddenly an inspiration
took hold of him. He turned to the now silent half-breed.

“You, Sasa,” he said sharply. “It was blowing yesterday an’ you
didn’t go out poaching the salmon. That poor devil of a ship’s
caught in your death current. She’s made a lee shore and got
caught in the current. She’ll pull up right on the beach of our
river, do you understand? He’s no fool skipper looking to make a
landing. He can’t darn well help himself. Don’t you see? Here,
Peter.” He turned to the oil man on the other side of him and his
tone was urgent and thrilling with the horror of the thing he
realised was about to happen. “You don’t know this coast like we
do. There’s a maelstrom current out there. The only crazy man in
the world who’d go near it is this feller, Sasa. Ther’ isn’t a
steamer in the world could beat its way out of it if it once got
caught up in it. As for a windjammer like that--psha!” he threw up
his hands expressively. “That’s it. He’s made a lee shore in the
gale. And now--God help him.”

He turned again to Sasa.

“Where’ll he beach?” he asked sharply.

The half-breed pointed down at the wide foreshore on the south side
of the river mouth.

“He mak that beach,” the man replied promptly. Then he pointed down
at the northern beach where his own boat was still lying. “I mak
him dis way. But I know. I sail him all time by the headland. So I
slip him current, an’ mak quick shelter by the headland. Big ship
not slip him current. Oh, no, he mak so.” He swung an outstretched
arm from right to left, indicating a great sweep across the bay.
“He full current. An’----”

“Sasa.”

“Yep, boss.”

“Can we signal from that headland?”

The half-breed’s eyes widened.

“Wo’ for we signal. It no good sure. Him crazy white man not
understand nothing. Him ship in the Death Current. He go on. Oh,
yes. Crazy white man break all up bimeby.” He shrugged. “It all
same all time. Same lak that other who look into caves an’ climb
rocks. I see him one time mak right out to sea in canoe only built
for river. Him current tak him. I get him with my boat. I tak him
back. He not say nothing but curse me for a black son-of-a-bitch.
Sure he all break up bimeby.”

The doomed vessel was crashing on at terrific speed. Already it
was looming large as it approached the headland. And now, as it
drew nearer, its yawing became more and more pronounced. For some
moments no one spoke while they contemplated the wretched vessel’s
impending fate. Then, as her high bows disappeared behind the
upstanding belt of the headland, McLagan turned on his contemptuous
servant.

“Who’s the feller you’re talking about? The feller who looks into
caves and climbs rocks?” he asked sharply.

The half-breed shrugged without withdrawing his gaze from where the
vessel was disappearing behind the headland.

“How, I say? I not know. He come down the river out of the hills.
What you call him? All white mans say him Li-as, yes? Indian man
say him Devil River. Oh, yes, he come this way. I see him one, two,
three time this man while I fish. He not see me, only one time.
Maybe he fish. I not know. Plenty fish by Devil River. Oh, yes.
Say, look, him come as I say. See? The Death Current take him. So.
See?”

He pointed. His narrow eyes were alight with something almost like
joy as the bows of the vessel cleared the headland and the doomed
ship raced on for the far beach.

“It much big tide. Oh, yes. He go right up to the big rocks.
Bimeby the tide fall. Then us go find plenty thing. Food, clothes,
blanket. All thing dead white man not need more. So. I----”

“Quit it, you darn thief!” McLagan’s eyes were furious as he turned
on his ghoulish henchman. “And you’ll stay right here and not move
a step till Mr. Loby and I get back. You’re nothing but a dirty
scum of a half-breed. And if I get you near that wreck without my
permission I’ll take you right in to Beacon and get you hanged.”

He turned to Peter.

“It’s no good, boy. I can’t stand it. We’ve got to do something.
Poor devils, they’re surely doomed! Come on. Maybe we can help
some. We’ll go right on down. We’ll get Sasa’s boat and ferry
across to where she’ll hit that beach. I----”

“I go too, boss.”

Sasa was no longer contemplating the wreck he had hoped to enjoy.
His attitude had suddenly become one of pleading.

“You not mak that crossing without me,” he urged. “I know. Him my
boat, an’ I sail him good plenty. You my good boss. You drown sure
you sail him, my boat. I come. Yes? I not tak white man’s blankets.
His food. His----”

McLagan raised a threatening hand.

“For God’s sake, shut up and come on!” he cried impatiently. “Come
on, Peter. Maybe ther’s women down there. We’ll do what we can.”

The engineer waited for no reply. The vessel was looming largely
half-way across the bay. Now, as she passed into the shelter of
the towering cliffs, her sails were flapping and booming in the
breeze. But she was racing on to her destruction on the tremendous
current, helpless yet almost magnificent in her white suiting over
her black hull. It seemed incredible that nothing could be done to
save her. A fresh, calm Spring day with a flat sea. And yet there
was no help for her.

Not a sound came up from her decks but the crashing of her great
sails. There was not a single human voice crying out its agony
of despair. Only there came the mournful shrieks of the circling
sea-fowl as the men raced down the rocky pathway to the beach
below.




                            CHAPTER XII

                       The _Limpet_ of Boston


The outlook of the day had materially changed with the tide. The
wind had increased mightily, and the fine, fresh, early summer sky
had changed to one of banking storm-clouds which drove down out of
the northwest. It was a prospect of rough weather, for all there
were still moments when the sun broke through the grey, and strove
nobly to lighten the depressing outlook.

McLagan and his companions were standing on the slippery,
weed-grown rocks. They were gazing speculatively up at the high
sides of the wrecked vessel as she lay cradled upon the jagged
belt of rocks which the ebb of the tide had laid bare. She was
lifted high out of the water, for the flood tide had long since
abandoned her. It had done the work it had striven to accomplish.
It had flung its victim crashing upon the trap concealed within its
merciless bosom. And now, in turn, satisfied, perhaps satiated, it
had itself yielded to the greater forces of Nature. As the waters
receded the vessel was left with her high, bluff nose stubbed
deeply into the sharply shelving beach, which alone had saved her
from complete destruction upon the granite walls of the cliffs
beyond.

It was a sight for real pity. Even to the unskilled minds of these
landsmen she was a fine, sturdy craft that deserved better of
the elements. There she lay, slightly a-list, wounded and sorely
stricken. Her forepeak was literally disembowelled and they could
only guess at the damage the rest of her bottom had suffered. Her
yards were groaning under a hectoring wind, and her torn sails were
slashing and whipping viciously in response to its onslaught. Her
plates seemed to be sprung in every direction, and she lay there
utterly helpless, awaiting the inevitable and complete destruction
that was yet to come.

McLagan had first approached the wreck on the height of the tide.
His purpose had been the simple succour of those poor souls he had
expected to find on board. The adventure had been full of risk,
even under the consummate skill of the half-breed, who had done his
best. But the terrible tide, and the increasing wind had defeated
them, and, reluctantly enough, they had been driven to a perilous
stand-off while they hailed the doomed vessel.

They had shouted. They shouted again and again, seeking to make
their voices heard above the roar of the ocean rollers driving down
upon the vessel’s side. But the effort had been unavailing. There
was not a sign or sound of life about her, and their only response
was the roar of the sea and the mocking cries of the sea-fowl
whirling about her protesting rigging.

So in the end, they had been forced to yield. There was no
alternative. They dared not approach nearer. Under the prevailing
conditions their only hope of approaching the wreck was to await
the fall of the tide and make the shore upon which it was piled.

But even so, their attempt had not been wholly fruitless. They had
discovered many things of deep interest. They had discovered the
vessel’s name, which was set out plainly on her bluff stern. She
was the _Limpet_, and her port of registration was the city of
Boston. Furthermore, they realised that though her rudder post
remained in place the rudder itself was gone. Then they understood
that she had the shape and qualities of a coasting vessel of more
than usual deep-seagoing type. She was built for heavy weather as
well as the lighter work of her coasting trade, and they beheld,
too, a wireless aerial was still in its place between her main and
mizzen masts.

But in McLagan’s mind the greatest significance lay in the fact
that she was still laden with a deck cargo of lumber, and all her
top gear was intact, and all her sails were set, and the only signs
of her distress were the inroads which the wind had made upon
her canvas suiting. From the distance, when she had first been
discovered, she had looked to be riding proudly, gallantly to her
death under full sail. But at close quarters it was clearly evident
that this had been something of an illusion. Her sails were full
set, it was true, but there were many sad rents that were widening
every moment, and, in many places, their clews were straining upon
a last desperate hold.

Now, with the tide at its lowest ebb, standing beside her on the
rocks these men were less concerned for her superstructure than
for the evidence the rocks had imposed upon her. Peter Loby was
staring in simple wonder at the yawning gash torn out of her bows.
Sasa Mannik, in true “wrecker” fashion, was contemplating her from
the point of view of his own advantage. He was a sailorman, and
here were gear, ropes and canvas and possibly all the needs of his
heart, for the simple process of collecting them. He had no concern
for anything else. But Ivor McLagan gazed upon her wrecked bows
while his mind was preoccupied by the mystery of her presence in
the remote inlet where he had set up his home.

He was convinced now that she was without life on board, but
the condition of her fully set sails also convinced him that
her abandonment had taken place in fair weather, perhaps, even,
in a dead calm. He was left quite unimpressed by her rudderless
condition. He argued that this disaster must have occurred after
her abandonment. For even to him it seemed impossible that any
responsible shipmaster could have set full sail on a vessel without
steering gear. Then, except for the almost paintless condition of
her rusted hull, there was no other sign of distress about her. Her
deck cargo was aboard, and her boats, as far as he had been able to
judge, were snugged as though there had never been a thought of the
necessity for launching them.

No, it was a curious, even mysterious visitation. He understood, he
had often enough heard of a lee-shore and its dangers to a sailing
vessel. Clearly something of the sort must have happened. But not
in association with this vessel’s abandonment.

He turned abruptly to his subordinate and pointed at the mass of
rusted cable strewn about the rocks fallen through the rent in the
vessel’s side like the litter of some wounded monster’s bowels.

“That looks to me the easy way aboard,” he said sharply. “I don’t
figger to know a deal when it comes to sea-craft. But it likely
seems the hole that belched up that junk ought to be a way up to
her decks.”

Peter nodded. He glanced up over the sprung plates of her sides.

“It surely looks that way,” he agreed. “Maybe--Holy gee! Here! Get
a look up there! Look at ’em!” he cried excitedly, pointing up at
the vessel’s rail. “Ther’s scores! Ther’s regiments of ’em! Get a
look at those darn rats!”

All three men were staring up at a sight rarely enough to be seen.
Peter’s excited estimate was by no means exaggerated. Just above
the vessel’s rail was an upstanding pile of lumber, and it was
literally swarming with rats of all sizes, from the full-grown,
long-whiskered, grey patriarchs down to the extreme youth of the
colony. They were running hither and thither without apparent aim
or object till it seemed they must be participating in some sort of
curious rodent gambol or driven by senseless panic.

It was sufficiently repulsive to gaze upon. There was something
utterly repellent in it. For some reason it is against human nature
to view these pests without deeply stirred feelings. And for all
the hardiness of these men the effect upon them now was wholly one
of loathing.

The scene only occupied a minute or so. Then, of a sudden, one rat,
bigger, it seemed, than all the rest, suddenly made its appearance.
He came to the rail of the vessel. He seemed to be contemplating it
closely, or perhaps he was contemplating the men standing below him
on the rocks. Then, at last, apparently satisfied with his survey,
he set off along the rail on the run. In a moment the rest were
following behind. They ran close together in single file, head to
tail, till they looked like a long, thick, moving, grey rope. At
a given point, the leader turned off back on to the deck, and the
swarming creatures pursued him.

With the passing from view of the hindmost, McLagan spat and
shrugged his shoulders.

“Quitting,” he said. Then he laughed. “It’s the way of things.
She’s doomed. So--the rats are quitting. Guess it makes me sick in
the stomach. I’ll hail you boys if I get through this way.”

He moved over to the great hole in the vessel’s side and, stooping,
peered within the dark cavity. He stood there for a moment. Then
Peter saw him move forward and the hole swallowed him up.

For all the extent of the rent in the vessel’s side the forepeak
was dark and low and dank with the stench of bilge and rust.
McLagan was forced to move cautiously over the piles of rusted
cable, for he was utterly unfamiliar with his surroundings. But
soon his keen eyes grew accustomed to the twilight and he was able
to measure with some accuracy the place in which he found himself.
A steel bulkhead shut him off from the rest of the vessel’s hold,
and the walls of the place sloped inwards till their point of
meeting was lost beneath the tangle of chains at his feet. Right
in the centre he discovered a fixed iron companion ladder standing
sheerly erect. And examination showed him that it mounted up
through manholes to the top deck, where a small, gaping hatchway
revealed full daylight.

In a moment he was swarming towards the light above.

       *       *       *       *       *

The three men were standing in the narrow limits of the ship’s
cabin. It was small and unpretentious enough, but not without some
refinement of decoration. The deck of the ship’s poop roofed the
room, and, as is usual in such cases, the ceiling it made to the
cabin was picked out in panels which were outlined in somewhat
striking but sufficiently harmonious colours. It was the same
with the walls, and the doors which opened out of the apartment.
The fixed chairs against the centre table were of the usual ship’s
mahogany, and the upholstery was well-worn leather. There was no
other furnishing to the place except strips of somewhat decayed
carpeting pinned securely to the deck.

But there was that set out on the table which held both the
white men deeply preoccupied with its significance. It was a
meal obviously arranged for only _one_ man. And it was only half
consumed. There was no confusion, no litter, no sign of hasty
abandonment, except that the meal appeared to have been broken off
in the middle of it.

The table was partly covered with a white cloth that had seen
better and cleaner days. There was a dish containing some sort
of hash that had become dried up. In front of what was obviously
the captain’s seat at the head of the table, and which faced the
alleyway entrance to the apartment, was a plate containing the
remains of a portion of the hash. This, too, was dried up and
shrivelled, and beside it lay a knife and fork which were both
smeared as with use in consuming the food. Besides these, again,
were the gnawed remains of some broken bread, and a drink that was
clearly whisky and water.

Further along the table stood a dingy cruet. And beyond this again
was an uncut fruit pie. The crust of this was almost gone, and
that which remained was sour-looking and mildewed. This, too,
had been obviously consumed by rats. And it was the same with
the contents of a bread basket which stood beside it. Even the
table-cloth itself had failed to escape the insatiable depredations
of the rodents. But the signs were unmistakable. The meal had been
interrupted. The man who had been devouring it had clearly been
suddenly inspired to abandon it, and for some unguessed reason he
had clearly failed to return.

McLagan raised a hand and pushed his cap back from his forehead. It
was a gesture of perplexity.

“It looks tough,” he said slowly. “It looks like that feller didn’t
take time to eat right for the darn hurry he was in. He was a plain
liver, too, I’d say. But he surely was in an almighty hurry.”

Peter Loby nodded. Imagination in him was working hard, but the
result was negative. He glanced up from the table and his eyes
surveyed the walls with the doors which opened out into what were
clearly the officer’s sleeping quarters. There were only three
doors besides the entrance from the alleyway.

“It’s the kind of thing to leave you guessing,” he admitted. “We’ve
looked right into it all from the fo’castle head to this cabin. But
ther’s still those state-rooms yet. Maybe one of ’em’ll hand us the
ship’s papers and the log. That ought to tell us the story of it.
It’s most certainly queer.”

“Queer?” McLagan laughed shortly. He shook his head. “That don’t
say a thing. Think back, man. What have we found so far? From the
carpenter’s shop under the fo’castle head to the men’s quarters and
the galley, and this, we’ve found just the thing you’d expect to
find in a full-crewed, well-found ship--except the ship’s company
itself.” He shrugged. “There were chips and wood lying around in
the tool shop--and tools--just as if the boy who worked there had
only just quit his job. The men’s quarters in the fo’castle looked
to be in the sort of order you’d find in a ship about to set out
for sea, an’ before she’s taken on her crew. As for the galley,
you could start right in to fix food there now and not be worried
a thing, except for being short on pots an’ things. Look at the
lumber stacked on the deck. It’s there ready for a sea-trip without
a stick or lashing out of place, and I’d say the hold cargo’s
likely the same. And as for the boats----” He paused and gazed
thoughtfully about him, and his eyes came to rest again on the
rat-gnawed food on the table, which held him fascinated. “That’s
the queerest thing of it all. This craft was built with four boats
and they’re all in place snugged down, and I’d say they’ve never
been unshipped except for a coat of paint. Here’s a darn craft been
sailing loose for maybe weeks or months without a soul on board we
can locate, not even with the rats belonging her--now. And there’s
not a sign of how or why the folks belonging her quit.”

He turned and flung himself into the chair that had obviously been
that usually occupied by the captain of the vessel. He seemed to
be completely at a loss. Peter moved over to one of the doors, and
peered into the apartment beyond. Sasa displayed no curiosity. His
dark eyes were unusually wide, and a curious brooding light left
them almost expressionless. He stood staring down at the littered
table, and after a few prolonged moments of silence, McLagan
stirred irritably in his chair.

“Get around in those three state-rooms, or whatever they are,
Peter, an’ take the darn breed with you,” he cried. “Poke around
and smell out. Sasa’ll be more use that way than gawking like some
darn mutt around here. If you find a thing, shout me. I’m stopping
around to worry this thing out right here.”

McLagan was rarely enough given to irritation. But oppressive
irritation was driving him now. He remained where he was until
his lieutenant and the half-breed had passed into the first of
the three compartments. Then, as the door swung to behind them,
he started up and passed swiftly from the room. Moving down the
alleyway, beyond the steward’s pantry, he came to the break of the
poop and out into the daylight.

Here he paused. It was good to be out in the air again, and a sense
of relief came to him as he surveyed the scene. The main deck here
was clear of cargo. It was clean, almost as clean as if it had only
just endured the attentions of the sand and canvas so beloved of
the seaman. Rope-ends, that should have been neatly cleated, or
coiled away, were littered where the weather had flung them, but it
was the only sign of any confusion.

He breathed his relief as he leant against the doorway and surveyed
it all with contemplative eyes. The wind was screaming through the
rigging and the torn sails were booming out their protests. The sky
was darkening with a real threat of storm, and beyond the high prow
of the wreck the grey walls of the bay rose up gaunt and forbidding.

The whole thing had gotten hold of McLagan in a curiously
depressing fashion. He felt that somehow there was an unusual story
lying behind the circumstances of this fair-weather wreck. And his
practical mind was searching every avenue that opened up to its
vision.

Mutiny? His mind naturally turned to mutiny, but he dismissed
the thought immediately. There was not a sign of mutiny from the
ship’s bows to her stern-post. There was not a sign of force or
struggle, and her boats were in place. Storm? He shook his head.
No storm had broken the heart of her crew. What else was there to
cause her abandonment? Nothing. No. Look which way he would, there
was no reasonable solution in the vessel’s condition. There had
been a purely voluntary exodus, orderly, quiet, even if hasty. Of
that he was convinced. There was no other conclusion to come to.
No. Whatever there still remained to be discovered in her holds,
and in those cabins behind him, there was nothing much else for
him to do but to drive into Beacon on the work he had in hand, and
carry in with him the report of this wreck to Alan Goodchurch, who
represented the United States Government for the district. That
would have to be done. But meanwhile----

A curious look crept suddenly into his narrow eyes. He was looking
out straight before him down the deck. Immediately in his focus
were the securely battened main hatch and the galley and the
fo’castle. There were the iron-shod steps of the companion-ladder
up to the roof of these, and, to the right of that stood a
tarpaulin-covered winch, with behind it the donkey-engine room. His
gaze was riveted on the deckway that passed beyond this and which
was stacked high with great baulks of lumber.

But it was not these things which had inspired the curious,
questioning, incredulous look with which he gazed upon them. It
was something else. Something which startled him, and made him
turn quickly to the stormy sky, which, at that moment, had broken
to permit a pallid beam of sunshine to make its way through. It
was only for a moment he looked up, however. Then again he became
absorbed in the deck ahead of him.

Suddenly he stood erect. He had abandoned his lounging. The
doubt in his eyes had given place to something else which baffled
description. He drew a deep breath, while a chilly sensation passed
through his great body and left him with a feeling of curious
helplessness.

He remained unmoving. His fascinated gaze was still held. Not for
a moment did it shift. It almost seemed as if it were impossible
for him to look away. Then the grey of the storm-clouds closed up
again and the sunbeam faded out. And as it did so he raised a hand
slowly, almost involuntarily, and passed it hesitatingly across his
forehead.

With that movement mobility returned to him. He turned and glanced
back into the alleyway. The next moment the sharp tones of his
voice rang out.

“Anything doing, boy?” he called, harshly. And he followed up his
question by hastily passing back into the cabin.

       *       *       *       *       *

The search was over. McLagan and Peter Loby were standing at the
break of the poop-deck. Sasa Mannik had separated from the others
and was squatting hunched upon the main hatch. He was watching
the white men, contemplating them with narrowed eyes while his
shrewd native mind was following a train of thought which deeply
preoccupied him.

“I’m not a thing wiser,” Peter said in reply to a question. “There
wasn’t a scrap of paper, or a bunch of human clothes. But I
wouldn’t rely on that too much. You see, I hurried, an’ when you’re
looking that way you’re liable to miss things. Ther’s one of those
rooms for wireless. The other two were bunks. One with one bunk
and the other with two. Both had bed fixings and they looked so
they hadn’t been slept in. It gets me beat. The lockers were plumb
empty, just as though they’d been cleared out to leave no trace.
It’s the queerest----”

He broke off. Sasa’s harsh voice had broken in on him. He had risen
from his place on the hatch, and his eyes had widened out of their
usual narrowing.

“I go,” he said, sharply. “This bad ship--no good. Bimeby I not
come back ever.”

He turned and glanced almost fearfully about him.

“Why, Sasa? You don’t like it? Why?”

McLagan’s questions came sharply and on the instant. There was a
half smile in his eyes. But there was nothing smiling behind them.

Sasa spat viciously on the deck.

“Bad spirit plenty,” he said with native panic in his widened eyes.
“I go.”

And without waiting for reply, or, perhaps, because he feared lest
he should be detained, he passed quickly across to the vessel’s
rail where a heavy downhaul was sprawled on the deck. He flung it
over the side. And in a moment he had followed it, and was swarming
down to the rocks below.

“This thing’s got on his nerves,” Peter laughed.

McLagan nodded. But there was no responsive laughter.

“And I don’t somehow wonder,” he said. Then he shrugged. “I guess
we can’t do any good here now. I’ll get along back, and pass right
on into Beacon. I’ll need to make a report to Goodchurch on this. I
surely will.”




                            CHAPTER XIII

                          The “Come-back”


A radiant sky was smiling down upon the forest-clad hills.
Somewhere away to the West the sun was lolling just above the
horizon. For the moment its glory was lost behind the ranging hills
with their garments of every shade of green. There was no cloud
to be seen anywhere from the purpling distance of the snow-capped
mountains in the East, to the western splendour of the summer
sunset.

Cy Liskard was squatting over a camp fire that was built just
outside his log home on the hillside. Nearby his dogs were pursuing
some evening pastime that appealed to their savage natures. Maybe
it was play, but the snarls that were so frequently accompanied by
the fierce snapping of ivory-shod jaws suggested the narrow line
dividing it from canine warfare.

His ponies were beyond the fence of a small, roughly constructed
corral, and they stood close up to it at a point most nearly
approaching the home of the man it was their life’s burden to
serve. Their shaggy heads, still rough with the remains of a winter
coat, which neglect had left clinging to them, were thrust over the
log rail. They were clearly waiting with equine patience the long
overdue attention to which they had full right.

The man disregarded their appeal; he was in a mood to disregard any
duty that might have been his. Even the claims of his own stomach
were forgotten in the consuming depths of impotent rage that were
driving him. His expressionless eyes gazed out through the smudge
of smoke which lolled heavily upon the still, fresh mountain air.
His view was over the range of his gold workings, which lay down
below upon the wide bank of the creek. But for all, his gaze was
for the thing which held him to his mountain solitude, his thought
was left all unconcerned for it.

He had returned from Beacon only that noon. The long trail had
claimed him for days, as the condition of his fleshless ponies
testified. He had driven hard and mercilessly, for there was that
behind him which impelled him in a fashion he had never known
before. But the thing which had driven him had no relation to fear,
or, if it had, his apprehension was utterly lost in the rage that
smouldered behind his pale eyes. He had driven his ponies to their
last extremity out of an almost crazy desire for speed and movement
that he might reach the security of his home for the sole purpose
of nursing his fierce desire for swift vengeance upon Ivor McLagan.

He sat with his rough hands clasped about his knees. He remained
unmoving. There was room for nothing in the mind behind his stony
stare but the fierce longing to hurt, and the method by which it
could be achieved.

He felt himself to be beyond the reach of the men of the Aurora
Clan. He felt himself free from every threatening human danger,
lost in the heart of these distant hills. As for the threat of that
which his return to Beacon might mean, he dismissed it without
a moment’s consideration. He intended to return to Beacon just
whenever it suited him. It might entail watchfulness. It would
undoubtedly entail sufficient weapons of defence. But he never
moved without these. And in the open and in the daylight fully
prepared, he knew himself to be a match for these absurdly tricked
out bunglers who sought to impress their will upon a foolish,
credulous, awed bunch of white-livered citizens.

No. It was not against the men of the Aurora Clan that his fury was
directed. He held them in contempt for all they had forced from him
an oath under threat of hanging. He knew well enough the nearness
to disaster to which he had been brought. He knew they had meant
their threat and would have hanged him out of hand had he failed to
yield his oath. Their other doings were not unknown to him. He had
heard of Bernard’s and other outrages, but the whole thing had left
him unimpressed. When men were driven to spectre-play to achieve
their ends he felt that sufficient boldness could defeat them all
the time. So these white-shirted creatures with their cedar boughs,
and rawhide hanging ropes, were dismissed from his mind leaving him
free to contemplate that other who had brought about his undoing at
the Speedway.

Ivor McLagan! Oh, he knew the man by reputation. Furthermore, he
knew the work he was engaged upon and where that work was being
done and this was the man against whom all his rage and desire for
vengeance were directed.

Once he released his clasped hands, and, reaching out one heavily
booted foot, kicked the embers of his fire together. With the
sunset the air of the mountains was chill enough. For all the man’s
toughness, for all the thick pilot cloth of his pea-jacket, and the
thick flannel he wore underneath, the chill bit harshly and forced
him to regard the life of his fire. He flung a number of logs on to
it from his near-by stack of fuel and edged closer to the leaping
blaze. Then again his arms embraced his knees, and he yielded
himself to the schemes and plans which sprang so readily to his
mind.

The wound inside his lips was still raw where McLagan’s blow
had split open the flesh against his teeth. But he needed no
reminder. He never would need reminding. The memory of that night
was indelibly fixed upon a mind which was utterly incapable of
forgetting an injury. But such evidence as still remained only
the more surely drove his headlong desire. He meant to kill Ivor
McLagan, and the only problem that presented itself to him was the
manner he should prefer for the accomplishment of his purpose.

Oh, yes. He would kill McLagan. He would have killed him at
the Speedway, or some time that night, but for the men who
had smothered him in their numbers. Well, he was beyond their
interference now. He was out in the open. There was only the open
between him and McLagan, a vast, rugged back country, where there
was no human agency to interfere between him and his vengeance.
Yes, out there they were far hidden from the rest of the world with
only the hills to fling back the death-cry he would wring from
his----

He broke off from his lusting thought. A broad beam of the dying
sun’s light drove its way through the loose arms of a woodland
bluff. It lit the ground on which he sat, and enveloped his hunched
body. He turned with all the alertness he might have displayed in
the presence of an enemy, and his expressionless eyes looked into
the blaze of light. For a moment the illusion was complete. Low
down on the horizon the sun was sinking to its final rest, and
as it passed from view it looked like a world of consuming fire
devouring the woods which lay in the path of its amazing light.

It was only for an instant that his narrowed eyes confronted the
intolerable burden of its fierce light. Then he sprang to his feet
and moved away, and his going was something almost precipitate,
headlong. In a moment he had vanished within the doorway of his
primitive home.

       *       *       *       *       *

The moon was at the full of its glory. The night was no less
cloudless than had been the close of day. The sky was ablaze with
stars, but from the heart of the hills no aurora was visible.

Down on the creek below Cy Liskard’s home the world seemed severely
limited. On either hand, before and behind, the hills rose sharply
in every direction. It was overpowering, overwhelming. The sky
above was transformed into a narrow canopy, with the silver of the
moon shining directly down upon the bosom of the little creek. The
region was brilliantly lit by its ghostly light. Every detail of it
was sharply outlined, and it flung the ghostly shadows of the trees
in every direction. Then the waters of the creek, still flowing
with something of their Spring freedom, were transformed into a
perfect ribbon of silver.

Midnight was gone and the small hours were slowly growing. The
valley was full of the strange night sounds of a creature world
whose day it was. Cries came echoing down through the forest which
clothed the hillsides, and the voices of water life kept up an
incessant chorus. It was a world of Nature’s unutterable peace--and
something else.

There was movement about the banks of the creek. There was movement
amongst the gear of the gold-seeker. So, too, was it on the broad
hillside about the cabin where Cy Liskard had abandoned himself to
the blankets which nightly claimed him. It was the silent, ghostly
movement of white-robed figures. They stood out in sharp relief
under the brilliant light of the moon. They came and passed on.
They paused. They crouched, searching. They moved without haste,
or apparent fear of disturbance. And their long white gowns and
high-peaked head pieces transformed them from living humanity into
the spirits of the night.

The thing that was in progress was plain enough to read. The
white-clad figures were searching the valley of the gold workings
for information of the “strike” which the sleeping man had made.
Their movement made it impossible to estimate their numbers with
any accuracy, for the forest, reaching down to the water’s edge
in many places, hid up much of it. Possibly there were a dozen.
Possibly less. But, whatever the number, the search was utterly
exhaustive. The corral, the log hut on the hillside were not
left unexplored, and the presence of the man’s dogs only made it
something curious that no canine voice had been raised in protest.

There was not a sound to disturb the night or to give alarm to the
sleeping man. The dogs lay huddled on the ground as though in the
deepest slumber and the man slept on profoundly while the figures
moved about the interior of his quarters.

It was all curious. But there was doubtless an answer to it. These
men had travelled far and hard under the strictest orders to return
with a full report of the gold strike made by Cy Liskard. Their
report depended on a complete and uninterrupted investigation.
There were many means of accomplishing this. It would have been
simple enough to deal with the man himself. In their numbers they
could have taken him in his blankets. But perhaps they had no
desire that he should be aware of their visitation. In that case
there were other measures. Similar measures such as had doubtless
silenced the dogs. A whiff of some pungent narcotic and the sleep
of these creatures, human as well as canine, would be infallibly
prolonged.

The search went on to its conclusion. It was prolonged and
completely thorough. And when the movements of the Aurora men
ceased and their ghostly figures no longer haunted the valley, the
moon had passed from her throne in the heavens and the star-light
was already beginning to fade out. Then came darkness, utter and
complete. It was the darkness preceding dawn. And the valley of the
Lias River was given up wholly to the haunting sounds of the night.

       *       *       *       *       *

Cy Liskard was ashore at a landing on the river he had made his
own. His stout canoe was lying moored to the overhanging trunk of
a tree, and it swung away at the end of its rawhide to the easy
stream. A roll of blankets lay in the bottom of it while his camp
outfit was littered upon the gravelly foreshore about his feet. It
was noon or thereabouts, and the day was overcast and threatening.
But down here on the river was the pleasant warmth of a summer day.

He was gazing out downstream, and his view was of a great expanse
of flowing water moving heavily on towards the sea. There were many
miles between him and the coast yet. The journey would run into
something approaching one hundred and more, which it would take
days to travel. But it was not the distance he had yet to go that
preoccupied him. It was not the scene set out before him with its
amazing hills and dense forests growing down to the water’s edge.
He was literally and perhaps spiritually at the parting of the ways.

Directly ahead of him a hill reared its lofty crest. It stood
up an indestructible barrier to the rushing waters hurtling on
towards the distant ocean. It had faced the fierce onslaught of the
stream throughout the ages. It had yielded nothing but the loose
soil about its rocky base. And so the waters which refused denial
to their progress had turned sharply away in face of its heroic
resistance.

Somewhere to the north of that hill he knew that another river
flowed over an almost parallel course. It was a smaller river which
owed its source to the same world of hills as that which bred
the flood of the Lias. But it was not for its proximity he was
concerned. It was not for its relation to his own. It was because,
somewhere further down its course, Ivor McLagan’s oil camp was
pitched. And Ivor McLagan was the man who had hurt and thwarted him.

Somehow the night had at first wrought a change in the almost
insane mood in which Cy Liskard had sought his blankets. He had
awakened heavily, with a feeling of unusual depression. He had
awakened without any yearning for immediate action against the man
who had hurt him. He had found himself contemplating his future
outlook without enthusiasm or deep interest, and it was not until
he had broken his fast, and perfunctorily executed the simple
chores he was accustomed to perform, that his evil spirit returned
to its full dominion.

But even then he had been incapable of rising to the pitch of
desire which had stirred him the night before. Perhaps it was the
balance of sanity reasserting itself. Perhaps it was the result of
that long, deep sleep which had robbed him of the night vision of
the movements of the men of the Aurora Clan. Whatever it was, he
decided definitely that his vengeance upon Ivor McLagan could wait.
There was all the summer for that, and meanwhile, there was urgent
work lying ahead of him in another direction. Perhaps a year more
of these solitudes and his work would be finished. Yes, in that
time he would have completed everything. And the while, McLagan
would have forgotten and lulled himself into a sense of security.
Then, at his leisure----

So he had gone about his simple preparations. He prepared his
boat down on the river. He loaded it with his camp outfit and
provisioned it. Then he turned his ponies loose to fend for
themselves on such mountain feed as they could find in his absence.
And his trail dogs he treated in similar fashion. These creatures
were subsidiary. His boat was the thing he knew and understood.

But this more temperate mood had been in the early morning. Since
then there had been hours of labour on his journey downstream.
And the work of it had lightened the dullness of his earlier
inspiration. By high noon he had been completely flung back upon
his desire for the life of the man he had encountered in Beacon.

So he stood before the great bend of the river where the angry
waters beat impotently against the foot of the mountain and raced
away to the south in search of the outlet they refused to be
denied. And all his passion for revenge was burning deep behind his
soulless eyes.

Why should he wait? Why should he deny himself? There was all
summer for the rest as well as for that other. Why not reverse the
thing? The rest could wait, far more easily wait than the vengeance
he desired. It would be better so. For just so long as Ivor McLagan
lived, he, Liskard, would never know peace of mind. What was it? At
the most a ten or twelve mile portage to the north of that hill. He
had made it before when he had looked to discover for what purpose
his neighbours were around. Yes. And the Alsek was an easy river.
He could pass down it at his leisure until he came to the oil
camp. He could cache his boat while he searched the place for the
man whose life he desired. Then, if he were not there but down at
the river mouth where he had built his crazy home on the cliffs,
he could pass on down beyond the camp in the night and stalk his
quarry.

It would be easy--so easy. There would be no need to take chances.
His rifle could do the job at his leisure. The man’s home was
perched up for long-range shots. He could remain under cover----

Yes, the rest could wait. It must wait. His desire was
overwhelming, irresistible. He would eat at once and pass over to
the landing he knew of at the foot of the mountain. The water was
turbulent enough there. There were rapids of no mean proportions
to be negotiated. But they were nothing to him--nothing this river
could show him could match his watercraft.

He moved back from the water’s edge. His decision was final. So he
prepared a fire for his noon meal.




                            CHAPTER XIV

                          In the Sunshine


“I’m kind of glad you could run down, Peter. I’ve put that report
through to our people. This is the message I handed ’em.”

Ivor McLagan held out the copy of the message he had despatched
from Beacon, and, while his assistant read it, he stood with
narrowed eyes gazing down upon the wrecked vessel standing high out
of the waters of the bay below.

He had not long returned from Beacon, and Peter Loby had made a
special trip down the river to meet him. Deeply as McLagan was
concerned for any further news his subordinate might have brought
from the camp on the river, the wreck below had lost none of its
interest for him. In fact, for some unexplained reason, it had
taken even a firmer hold upon his imagination.

Curiosity had by no means a prominent place in his psychology.
Ordinarily he was not seriously concerned for happenings which
had no intimate relation to the affairs of his life. He was
sufficiently self-centred in the work that was his to leave such
a thing as the sudden appearance of a derelict of the sea, flung
almost on his doorstep, a thing without more than passing interest,
after he had ascertained that no human life stood in need of his
succour. But strangely enough the vessel lying upon its deathbed
below him, claimed him with greater force than he would have cared
to admit. His mind had been full of it on his journey into Beacon.
Its memory had remained with him and deeply increased its spell, as
he made his report to Alan Goodchurch, and his journey back to his
home on the cliffs had been made with haste inspired by the strange
feeling of unrest with which the thought of those last moments he
had spent on the deck of the vessel had filled him.

Now the wreck was standing out amidst its rugged surroundings,
under a blaze of sunshine, and, as his gaze took in its details,
his mind was full of questioning and unease. The condition of the
vessel had apparently changed very little. The tides that had
passed since his first visit to it had left it wholly undisturbed.
Its sails were in worse shape, and their tattered remains fluttered
and whipped furiously in the breeze and sent the gulls screaming as
they sought to find resting place on the creaking yards. But he was
not thinking of any of these things. No, he was thinking----

Peter looked up from his reading.

“That’s a good report, McLagan,” he conceded with a grin. “It’s a
deal better done than mine. I surely guess that’ll set our folks
smiling a mile wide.” He drew a deep breath. “Well, they can keep
right on grinning. They’re on a bonanza, or I’m all sorts of a
mutt.”

He gazed up into the face of his chief as he offered his frank
comment and passed back the copy of the message.

“It makes me feel good,” he went on quickly, “standing around out
here, perched right up on this darn rock breathing good sea air an’
soaking in elegant sunshine with our play coming right. Makes the
world seem right someway. Makes me sort of feel I want to holler
like a school kid on Thanksgiving Day. Oil? It’s the most crazily
wonderful thing in the world--when you strike it.”

“Yes.”

McLagan’s response was without a shadow of the other’s enthusiasm
and Peter turned questioningly. Instantly he realised the direction
of his chief’s gaze and the meaning of his preoccupation. He
chuckled.

“I’d forgot that crazy barge,” he said. Then he added: “You handed
Goodchurch the dope?”

The difference in the attitude of these men was profoundly marked.
The lean, practical oil man was alert and thrilling with the
prospect lying ahead of the work they were both engaged upon.
The wreck and the atmosphere of mystery which it had originally
impressed upon him had entirely passed out of his concern. He had
witnessed the wreck. He had explored it. He had shared in the risk
of that first approach. But none of these things, not even the
vision of the deserting rats, had been sufficient to persist in
a mind absorbed in his lifetime’s pursuit of oil. The affairs of
the oil prospect were paramount with him, first, last and all the
time. And the report he had just perused represented something
approaching the crowning of his life’s work. But at that moment,
oil and coal were the two things farthest from McLagan’s mind.

The latter moved away and approached the edge of the wide ledge
upon which his hut was set. Peter moved up beside him and bit a
chew of tobacco from the disreputable fragment of plug tobacco
which he carried in his hip-pocket.

As McLagan nodded his gaze was still upon the wreck below.

“Surely,” he said. “I handed it the best I could, and Goodchurch
guessed things would need looking into. He took down the name of
the ship and its port of registration. He’s wiring right away to
the proper authority and promised to get it broadcast by wireless.
I asked him for that. You see, I kind of got a hunch the folks who
quit that vessel might be glad to locate her--if they’re alive. He
reckons we’ll likely get word from the owners. You know, Peter, I
feel ther’s a mighty queer story lying back of that wreck.”

“You mean--the boats--and----”

McLagan shook his head. He was gazing out to sea now and stood
abstractedly filling his pipe.

“No,” he said. Then his eyes came back again to the scene of the
wreck with the screaming sea-birds circling about it. “Psha!” he
cried impatiently. “What’s the use? Yes, the boats if you like.
It’s the whole darn thing. It’s got me guessing, so I can’t forget
it.”

Peter chuckled.

“That’s all right,” he said. “It don’t worry me a thing. It’s oil
for mine. You can play around with all the wrecks if you fancy that
way. I’m beating it right back to camp.”

McLagan nodded.

“Yes. It’s oil, not wrecks, for you an’ me,” he said, as though
striving to convince himself. “I know that. But--yes, you beat it
right back to camp and I’ll be along up the moment I touch the
answer our folks send to that report. I’ll just wait around for
that. I’m figgering there’ll be a big move on that new field when
we get word. The drilling we’re doing now looks like it’ll be a
circumstance to the thing coming. Maybe I’ll even have to run down
to Seattle, after I’ve made my own inspection. Still, that won’t
be till the late fall.”

Peter agreed, his keen eyes lighting afresh.

“That’s how it looks to me,” he said.

“Yes. Are you stopping around to eat?”

“No. I’ll make camp on the river. I’ll pass up on slack water and
grab the tide later.” Peter laughed and nodded down at the wreck.
“You’ll get another look at that while you’re waiting reply from
our folks,” he observed slily.

“Sure I will.” McLagan looked round quickly as he thrust his pipe
into the corner of his mouth, and his strong jaws shut tight on its
well-bitten stem. “Just as soon as you beat it.”

“I thought so.” Peter was chuckling. “Well, it doesn’t rattle me
a thing. The only thing worrying me is the yarn lying back of the
coal belt we’ve located. I’m sure crazy to get after that. So--I’ll
beat it. So long.”

McLagan smiled at the other’s thrust.

“So long, boy.”

He stood gazing after the slim figure of his lieutenant as he
hurried towards the head of the pathway down from the ledge on
which they were standing. He waited till the last of his cloth cap
vanished below the level. Then he lit his pipe and turned again to
his absorbed contemplation of the mystery boat below.

       *       *       *       *       *

The breeze was dead flat. It was low water. In something under an
hour the tide would be starting its flood again. Meanwhile, the sky
had clouded over. But it was without any storming threat. It was
only the fleecy shading which came so frequently with the change of
tide.

Sasa Mannik’s eyes had curiously widened as they gazed up into
the face of the man he served. They were alight with all the
superstitious fear of his kind. He had just concluded a long
and almost incoherent protest which his boss’s demand for his
assistance aboard the wreck had brought forth.

McLagan’s face was frowning. His eyes were coldly contemptuous. He
stood a towering figure over the sturdy little man who was in open
revolt.

“You’re worse than a darn fool, Sasa,” he said sharply. “You’re
a low, miserable coward. You’re the worst coward I know. You’re
such a coward you’d run a mile from a jack-rabbit. You make me
sick to death, and I feel like sending you to hell out of my
service. I tell you there’s not a thing to this poor darn wreck to
scare a buck louse. There’s not a thing. She’s dead and done, and
there’s not a living soul aboard.” Then he changed his tone from
condemnation to derision. “What the hell scares you about her? What
d’you think she’s got aboard her? Devils or--what?”

The half-breed turned away. He glanced down at his own boat lying
half out of water on the smooth surface of the rocks on which it
had been hauled up. Perhaps he desired to reassure himself it was
still there for his safe retreat. A moment later he turned again to
the white man, and from him he gazed up at the high sides of the
great vessel which loomed monstrously as they stood on the slippery
rocks below it. And as he gazed up at the hated object his eyes
further widened, and he spoke in a tone that was almost a whine.

“Maybe, boss,” he said. He shook his dark head vigorously. “This
thing bad. So bad. I see him same lak you see him, too. I know. It
in your eye when you look. You scare, too, plenty. You not know. I
know. I much coward this thing. Nothing else I scare lak him dis. I
not go aboard. Never.”

McLagan’s gaze was compelling. He held the other while he put his
question.

“This thing? What did you see?” he asked sharply.

The half-breed shifted his position uneasily. He sought to avoid
the white man’s questioning eyes. He turned away. But his fearful
eyes came swiftly back to those they had sought to avoid.

“I not speak this thing,” he said in a low, surly tone. “It bad.
What you ask him? You see. Oh, yes. I know.”

He made a movement. It was almost like a shudder. Then without
waiting he passed down to his boat.

“Sasa!”

McLagan’s voice brought the terrified creature to a standstill.
He turned and waited. And then he heard the white man laugh as he
flung his final orders.

“You take your boat and go back to the beach. You wait there till
I hail you. If you leave that beach till I hail you I’ll beat the
life out of you. Now go.”

       *       *       *       *       *

McLagan had made no further attempt at investigation of the secrets
of the wrecked vessel. It was with an unusual feeling of repulsion
that he climbed up through the gloomy precincts of the forepeak.
And somehow the memory of the half-breed’s accusation stung him
sharply, as, involuntarily, his searching gaze sought to penetrate
the darkness surrounding him. In his heart he felt the man was not
without justification in his charge. From the moment he had set
foot on the ladder a strange sensation took hold of him, and, with
every upward step, he wondered what revelation the next would yield.

Once on deck, however, the uncanny sensation passed. Here was
daylight. Here were the things he knew and recognised. But somehow
he did not want to use the forepeak again, and forthwith he set
about discovering some other means of reaching the deck.

He found it quickly. It was there lying amidst some sprawled gear
upon the deck, besides a stack of lumber. It was a long rope
companion ladder with broad teakwood steps. It was still secured
to the down haul cleats against the ship’s rail near the main mast
where it had evidently been flung by some previous user. And he
dropped it over the vessel’s side, and saw that it reached almost
to the rocks below.

His view was out over the bay. And from where he stood he could see
his hut perched high on the cliffs, and, below, the long, low line
of the distant beach. He smiled to himself as he beheld the figure
of Sasa busy mooring his fishing boat. He knew that for all his
rebellious mood, the half-breed would very literally obey his final
orders.

He turned away. His searching gaze took in the deck in every
direction. It was the same, precisely, as he had found it on his
first visit. The litter of gear was in evidence everywhere. The
stacked lumber. There was the canvas-sheathed winch with its
close-hauled raking arm. The galley with its steel door ajar. Then
the closely battened main hatch, and, beyond it, the break of the
small poop-deck above, with its two alleyways, one to the cabin,
and one to the half-deck on the starboard side. Yes. It was all
just as he had left it, and he glanced quickly up at the sky.

There was a thin overcast of cloud, but still without any threat of
storm. Even the restless ocean breeze had flattened out, and the
usually protesting gear above him was completely silent.

McLagan had told himself that he wanted to explore the hundred and
one details which he knew must have escaped him at his first visit.
There were the battened holds. There were those cabins which Peter
and the half-breed had looked into. There were the pantry, and the
half-deck. All these things he had promised himself to look into.
It was his excuse for his visit. But he knew that in reality they
had little enough to do with his coming now. It was that other
thing which had brought him there. That thing which had inspired
terror in the half-breed’s heart, and---- He moved over to the
cabin alleyway and leant against the break of the poop. And he
stood gazing down the deck in the direction of the winch as he had
stood there once before.

For all Sasa’s challenge McLagan’s nerve was completely unruffled.
He was a man of cool courage and utterly ungiven to vain
imaginings. Imagination was by no means lacking, but it was under
the perfect control of a completely healthy mind.

He remained for some time in the position he had taken up, and
smoked contentedly for all the expectancy in his eyes. But after
awhile, wearying of his vigil, he moved away, and squatted himself
on the battened hatch in precisely the position which Sasa Mannik
had once occupied. Here he hunched himself with his arms locked
about his knees, and sat regarding the long prospect of the
littered deck.

The trend of his thought had remained unchanged. And the look in
his eyes retained its unvarying expectancy, even when now and
again he turned them skywards searching the summer shading. Time
seemed to concern him not at all. That presently the flood tide
would begin, and there might be difficulty for Sasa to bring his
boat alongside, did not seem to enter his thought. He sat there
completely preoccupied with the thing that was in his mind, and
luxuriating in the comfort of his pipe.

Suddenly he started. And his watchful eyes changed from expectancy
to a flashing alertness. A sound had broken up the perfect quiet.
It was a sound that had no relation to creaking gear, or the flap
of sail cloth, or the raucous screaming of sea-fowl. Seemingly
it had no relation to anything he understood. For he remained
precisely where he was, waiting, while his eyes focussed on the
spot whence the sound came.

It came from nearby to the main-mast. It came from somewhere just
abreast of the carefully covered winch. There was the galley
entrance there, and beyond that a stack of stowed lumber----

He started to his feet, and the look in his eyes had changed again.
He was smiling. A head had appeared over the vessel’s rail. It was
a head adorned by a woman’s modish hat, with, underneath it, a face
the sight of which filled him with nothing but delight. He hurried
down the deck.

“Why, say, Claire,” he cried. “How did you---- Here, wait. Get a
grip on my hand. You shouldn’t have----”

There was a moment of effort while McLagan took firm hold of
the girl’s two small hands. Then after a struggle, a little
breathlessly, she jumped lightly down from the rail and stood
beside him on the deck.

“I just had to come, Ivor,” she cried, gazing curiously about her
while she made her explanation. “I heard about it in town, and set
out right away. Mum’s back there with the car on the hill road,
and I came along down to the beach where I saw your man with his
boat.” She laughed. “He didn’t want to, but I made him. I asked
for you, and he said you were aboard here. I asked him why, and he
said because you were ‘dam fool white man.’ Then I guess I offered
him five dollars to bring me across, and he nearly threw a fit. He
refused. But I insisted. It cost me ten before I was through, and
the threat you’d beat him if he didn’t. Even then he tried to dodge
it and guessed you’d beat him if he left the beach. But I got my
way. And----”

“As you mostly do.”

McLagan was thinking rapidly and with sudden deep concern. This
girl was all the world to him, and her presence, her proximity
filled him with a wild sensation of joy that he was powerless to
deny, that he made no attempt to deny. But, of a sudden, he had
become horrified as he contemplated the real purpose of his own
visit to the derelict. In a moment his mind was made up. By some
means he must get her off the ship--before----

There was no smile in his eyes now.

“I kind of wish you hadn’t, Claire. I guess I’ll have to deal with
Sasa for disobeying his orders. He was told not to quit that beach
for--anything.”

The girl looked up into the man’s face and the flash of hot
resentment in her eyes was unmistakable. But she shook her head
and refused the impulse his roughness, his downright rudeness had
stirred in her. Somehow she always found it easy to make excuse for
him.

“The same. Always the same,” she said impatiently, for all the
smile she forced herself to. “Some day, Ivor, you’ll wake up and
wonder the reason you were built with a rough tongue and a foolish
grouch.”

The man glanced quickly at the sky. Then he indicated the main
hatch where he had been squatting and led the way towards it. He
seated himself and left the girl standing. And promptly seized
on the opening she had given him, and sought to drive home his
purpose. At all costs he must get her away before----

“There’s times when a rough tongue’s needed. When a grouch is
surely dead right,” he said, without any softening. “Is it right
for women to give way to a sort of low curiosity to look into the
trouble and bad luck helpless folk are up against? You came for
that, Claire,” he said deliberately; “it was a swell drive out of
Beacon to pass an idle time. I kind of wouldn’t have thought it of
you.”

It was one of those moments when the engineer felt that somehow he
ought to have done better. He wanted to drive this girl away. And
on the spur of the moment it was the only thing he could think of.
He wanted to get her off that vessel without explanation. And so
he designed to anger her as the simplest, most direct method of
achieving his purpose.

But the whole thing missed fire for the reason that Claire was
shrewd, and knew him, and because her reason for coming was
something which had far deeper object than the idle curiosity of
which he accused her.

The blaze of anger he had expected was not forthcoming. Claire’s
colour heightened, and her soft blue eyes were less wide as she
gazed down into his plain, unsmiling face. Then the corners of her
mouth dropped. And somehow her whole expression suggested distress
to the man who so absolutely worshipped her. She shook her head
slowly.

“Not curiosity, Ivor,” she said. “Not that.” Then a shadowy smile
lit her eyes. “And as for the swell drive to pass an idle time, I’d
have said you knew the Beacon trail better than that. If you don’t,
why, just ask Mum, and get a look at the tires of our automobile.
If you’d had some one you guessed the sun rose and set in who was
travelling home to you in a ship that’s never been heard of since
she handed out an S.O.S., why, it seems to me you’d feel like
chasing the ends of the earth to get a look at any old wreck that
blew in on to the rocks from Australia to the Arctic. Curiosity?”
she cried scornfully. “Well, you can call it that way if you fancy
it. I’m here because I couldn’t live with peace in my mind till I
knew this boat wasn’t the one that should have brought our Jim back
to us.”

The girl’s reply drove a wave of contrition surging through the
man’s heart. He felt as though he had struck her a blow in the
face. He felt as though he wanted to flee before the gentle
reproach he interpreted in the look in her half-smiling eyes. And
yet---- He glanced uneasily up at the sky.

“Your Jim’s ship was the _Imperial_ of Bristol, Claire. You told
me that months back,” he expostulated. “This is the _Limpet_ of
Boston. Your Jim wouldn’t have been aboard a coaster like this.
Beating it from Australia he’d have been on a swell ocean-going
vessel. Goodchurch knew all about this wreck. You must have got
its name. I’d handed him the story myself and all the details. He
should have told you and saved you from the Beacon trail. Say,
little girl, I’m sorry I handed you that. I didn’t think, or----
You see, I know all your brother meant to you. We’ve talked about
it, you and me, and maybe I ought to have guessed right away when I
saw your dandy face peeking over that darn old rail.”

Again he looked anxiously up at the sky as a crack of the tattered
sails warned him that the breeze was springing up with the flood
tide.

“But I just tell you we daresn’t stop around here. You don’t know
this bay like Sasa and I do. The tide’s setting in, and in a few
minutes ther’ll be no getting off these rocks in Sasa’s boat or
any other. It’s the most devilish place in the world. It was that
current that caught and drove this poor blamed barge high and dry.
We must get away right---- Eh?”

The girl had suddenly reached out a pointing finger. She had
clutched his arm violently.

“My God! What’s--that?”

The cry broke from her in a low, almost inarticulate fashion. She
was standing facing down the deck, her horrified gaze fixed on a
spot on the deck in line with the canvas-sheathed winch. Her face
had blanched to ashen whiteness, and the arm held out pointing was
shaking like an aspen.

McLagan was on his feet beside her, and somehow her clutching hand
had fallen into one of his. He held it tightly as he, too, gazed
down the deck in the beam of sunlight which had broken through the
haze of cloud which the breeze had stirred.

“What do you see?” he cried quickly, in a low, suppressed tone.
“Tell me, Claire. I want to know. I can see it, too. But I want to
know the thing you see.”

“It’s--it’s the shadow--of a man. See?” The girl was staring
straight in front of her and her voice was faltering. But the arm
she still held out had steadied under the influence of McLagan’s
presence and touch. “Oh,” she went on, with a gasp. “He’s coming
towards us. I--I can’t stand it. He’s big, too, and--and--Oh,
God!--for pity’s sake, Ivor, take me away--take me away!”

But the man made no attempt to obey her. Instead his words came
gently and full of confidence and encouragement.

“Stand your ground, little girl,” he urged. “Quit your scare. I’m
right here, and nothing’s going to do you hurt. It was this I was
trying to save you from. The sight of it. It’ll pass with the sun.
It’s just a queer shadow, and doesn’t mean a thing--to hurt. I’ve
seen it before, and know about it. It’s the sun makes us see it.
But it’s queer. It hasn’t a thing to do with the gear above. Look.
Its outline’s in the air. An’ its shadow’s on the deck. See? It’s
the outline of a man, a big man. He’s carrying something in two
hands. You can’t see what it is. You can’t see any face. Just an
outline. And he’s walking this way and don’t come any nearer. Isn’t
it queer? What is it? A spook, or--or a trick of the sun? Say, it’s
queer. Ah!” He drew a deep breath. “Look, it’s fading out. It’s
going with the sun. Look! That’s better. Now--now it’s gone.”

The sun had suddenly passed behind the clouds again. And as it did
so the shadow had completely disappeared.

Claire drew a deep sigh. On the instant the man’s arm was flung out
to her support. But it was unnecessary. For all the ghastly hue
of her cheeks, the utter pallor of her lips, the girl was not of
the fainting sort. He watched the slow return of her colour with
anxious, troubled eyes.

Suddenly she spoke. Her eyes were still on the spot where the
terrifying shadow had moved so meaninglessly.

“Let’s--let’s get away, Ivor,” she said, in a low, hushed tone.
“It--it was a ghost--a--I--I----”

McLagan resorted to the only thing his mind suggested. He laughed.
He felt it was the only thing in face of the girl’s condition.

“I guess it’s a mighty harmless spook, anyway,” he said lightly.
“The poor darn thing’s pinned right down to that spot. He hasn’t
moved a yard since I first located him days back. But maybe you’re
right though, kid. There’s no sort of use standing around gawking
at a fool spectre that hasn’t sense but to stand around waiting
to show himself when the sun shines. He ought to know better.
Moonlight’s his playtime. Yes, come right along, and we’ll beat it
back to your Mum.”

For all the man’s banter he hurried the girl down the deck,
carefully avoiding the spot where the shadow had stood. They stood
for a moment at the down-haul cleats, and Claire looked back over
the deck. She felt safer here. There was McLagan, big and smiling.
And there, beside her, was the means of retreat.

“I guess I’m not brave, Ivor,” she smiled a little pathetically.
“When it comes to that sort of thing I’m like dead mutton. I’m not
scared of a thing living. But the dead----”

“Dead?”

Claire nodded.

“Sure. Some one was killed right there. A big man. Do you wonder
this vessel blew right in here without a soul on board? I don’t.”

She turned to the rail, and the man moved to her assistance.

“Can you manage that ladder, Claire?” He had no comment to offer
concerning her summing up of the thing they had both witnessed. His
only desire at the moment was her safe departure from the mystery
boat and its haunting. “Can you?” he went on.

Then of a sudden he reached out and caught her slight body in his
arms. In a moment he had lifted her on to the rail and held her
safely while she set her feet on the rungs of the ladder beyond
it. He waited while she lowered herself step by step. He was still
holding her warm, soft hands firmly in his when her now smiling
thankful eyes came on a level with his.

“It’s all right, Ivor,” she nodded. “Guess I’m safe now. But, but
you’re strong lifting me that way. You’re coming right along down,
too.”

“Yes,” he said. “Sure I am.” For an instant the blood surged to his
head. The pretty eyes, the sweet face were so near, so very near to
his. But slowly it receded, and, as the girl passed below the rail,
McLagan drew a deep breath. He turned abruptly. His gaze was down
the deck where the shadow had been. Then he glanced at the sky. The
next moment he passed over the ship’s rail and followed the girl.




                             CHAPTER XV

                       The Man from the Hills


The labour of it was tremendous. The sturdy ponies were a-lather
with sweat in the pleasant warmth of the summer day. Their burden
ordinarily was sufficiently light. A rattling, aged buckboard
driven by the man they had known for nearly five years. It
contained no outfit, no burden of any sort but the reckless
teamster who had literally made the trail by his own many journeys
between his home and the city of Beacon Glory. But it was the final
stage of the journey. A heart-bursting haul up an incline steeper
than one in four.

At the summit were rest and feed in plenty. Unlike other men in
the region using horse labour, McLagan cared for his ponies better
than he would care for himself. He worked them to the limit if need
be, but his care of them was the same. In his undemonstrative,
unsentimental fashion he loved his shaggy, stocky Alaskan ponies,
and saw to it that they knew it in the fashion they understood.

Already the crowning plateau of his home was in view through the
gaunt arms of the tattered forest trees with which the track was
lined. A hundred yards or so more and the labour of it would be
over, and the ardent creatures would snuff the ocean breeze in
their gushing nostrils. The man’s whip lay gently playing over
the ponies’ backs, urgent for their last ounce of effort. He was
leaning forward on the hard sprung seat as though to spare them
weight. It was an instinctive attitude that was of no real help. It
was the attitude of a man accustomed to the saddle.

McLagan was more urgent for his home just now than usual. He had
gone into Beacon to meet the message he expected from his partners
and employers. But that had been excuse. He had, in reality, made
the journey for Claire Carver and her mother. On their return from
the wreck in the bay they had discovered the girl’s mother in a
state of panic. The automobile had been put completely out of
action by the terrible road over which it had passed. Not a single
one of its tires was standing up. The mother was helpless. The girl
was in little better case. And McLagan did what he could in the way
of repair. But it was quite useless. The outer covers were wrecked,
and incapable of containing the inner tubes.

In the end McLagan was able to impress on them sufficiently the
immediate necessity of himself making a visit to Beacon. He assured
them that he had long since planned it. That his business was
pressing. And the good luck of it was that his buckboard would just
carry the three of them, if they did not mind being somewhat packed
into the seat and badly jolted. They had by no means minded. And
the older woman sighed her relief as they planned to have a man
sent out with new tires to fetch in the derelict automobile.

“You know, Claire, girl,” she had said, in her downright fashion,
which no improvement in her fortunes had been able to modify,
“them automobiles is liable to set folks thinkin’ you’re all sorts
of a dame ridin’ around in ’em. But give me a team of decent
mountain-bred plugs, with a bunch of grain inside ’em. Maybe they
ain’t a blue streak of lightnin’, but they’ll mostly get you there
an’ haul you back, which it’s a God’s truth is a thing you can
only guess about with one of these oil cans. Ivor’s wise. Maybe
his business depends on his bein’ there to do it. So he gambles on
these dandy four-legged creatures.”

And she had affectionately patted and stroked the warm flesh that
was ready to help them in their emergency.

The man had had a better reward than he had looked for. He had
found his reply awaiting him at the mail office. A reply that
he had never hoped to get until the heads of the Mountain Oil
Corporation had held an important meeting. He realised that it must
have been despatched within a day of the receipt of his report. It
was a clear, definite, decided reply such as pleased him mightily.
It was from the chairman of the Board of Directors.

 “Complete prospect earliest possible date. Sailing in ten
 weeks. Be with you early fall. Make all preparations for big
 forward move. Prospect for large territorial concession. Prepare
 everything. Big money.”

The very brevity of the message was its greatest joy to McLagan. It
was, he felt, the message of a big man unfettered by any smallness
of consideration. His interpretation of it was no less big. To him
it meant go right ahead, grab all you can, and to hell with the
cost. And the engineer, being the man he was, needed no further
urging. So he had spared his ponies on the home trail less than
usual.

He reached the plateau just as the sunset was at the height of its
glory beyond the bay. The waters were dead flat, a mirror of liquid
fire under the radiant light. Even the ugly, iron-bound coast was
rendered something gracious for once in its ruthless existence.

He had planned as he came along, absorbed in the prospect that
lay ahead of him. The whole thing was quite simple. Everything
must be got ready. He must set out on a big trip round with Peter.
They must make a broad survey. He would set out with Sasa to join
Peter at the camp. He would close up his shanty and quit it for
the summer, or, at least, until the Directors had completed their
inspection. Early fall. They would be with him in early fall to
settle the final details. That was nearly three months from now.
Yes. He could get everything ready for them by that time.

Sasa took the hard-blowing team as it drew up at the log barn, and
McLagan walked round the ponies and helped unhitch them.

“Turn ’em loose, boy,” he said. “Let ’em get a roll, and feed ’em
hay. Don’t water ’em till they cool. Then set ’em in the barn and
push their blankets on. Feed ’em corn in two hours.”

He passed on to the door of his hut. But he paused on the way. As
he stepped out into the open the wreck of the _Limpet_ came into
his view. In a moment he had forgotten everything else as the
memory of his last visit to the derelict came back to him.

Somehow the whole episode had been swept out of his mind by the
text of the message he had received from his own people. It could
not have been otherwise in a man of his temper and purpose. He
was at the threshold of a tremendous achievement which years of
infinite labour had brought to his hand. Peter Loby was the oil
man, the expert creature who dealt in drills, and pipes, and the
immediate localities for his operations. But it was McLagan whose
knowledge and vision searched the territory. It was he who had
first realised the possibilities of that black belt of territory
which he had sent Loby to explore. His whole horizon was bounded by
such prospecting, just as Peter’s was by oil. Yes, the news that
these men of finance were ready to put themselves and their money
behind his work had completely cleared his healthy brain of the
cobwebs which his last visit to the _Limpet_ had woven there.

Now, however, it was different. Just as the other had overwhelmed
every other consideration, the sight of the derelict flung memory
back upon those things which are never failing in their grip on
human imagination.

He stood gazing down at the queer object and every vestige of his
earlier enthusiasm for the work in hand faded out of his unsmiling
eyes. He had forgotten. And now he remembered. And so he stood
there, for all he was ready enough for the cooking food which Sasa
had prepared, and which smelt so appetising on the still air.

The sun sank lower upon the horizon. It dipped into the sea and lit
a broad path across the bosom of the waters. The circling gulls
screamed out their night chorus before perching for their rest.
And all the time, deeper and more surely, the fascination of that
derelict below took hold of him.

At last McLagan stirred. He unfastened the pea-jacket it was his
habit to wear. Then he raised one hand and the palm of it was
passed across his forehead thrusting back his cap in its gesture.
He turned and called over his shoulder.

“Sasa!”

The half-breed came sturdily across to him from behind the hut. And
he stood there beside him following the direction of his gaze till
his own rested upon the remains of the _Limpet_.

“Your canoe. Your kyak. Is she in good shape?”

“Sure. Him all time same. I mak him so.”

“You’ll beat it up the river to-night. Get it?”

The dark-skinned creature looked up into the face of his boss. Then
he turned away, for the white man was still gazing at the wreck
below.

“You’ll beat it up the river and fetch Mr. Loby right down here.
You’ll beat it quick. You’ll tell him to have an outfit ready at
the camp to go into the hills. He’ll know just what I mean. But
he’s to come right--No. I’ll write it. I’ll give you a ‘brief’ to
take to Mr. Loby. It’s nearly low water now. You can ride up on the
tide.”

He turned to pass into the hut. But the half-breed detained him.

“Boss, you think dat ship all time. Yes, I know. I see him in your
eye. Dam’ ship no good. Bad. I go, yes. You not go by dam’ ship
with no man? You not go? No? It bad. So bad.”

The man’s tone was almost beseeching.

“You’re a damned coward, Sasa, as I told you before,” McLagan
laughed as he turned away. “You’re a damned coward about everything
but the big water. You get busy right away. You’ve got to have Mr.
Loby down here early to-morrow. I’ll write that brief for you.”

       *       *       *       *       *

The Alsek River had none of the greatness or splendour of its
southern neighbour, the Lias. But then it flowed through a far
different territory as it approached its mouth. Its lower reaches
were marsh and tundra-bounded. It was a deep, sluggish channel
occupying the lowest level in the heart of a wide muskeg, some
thirty or forty miles in extent. Higher up, however, amidst the
great hills, where lay the camp of the Mountain Oil Corporation,
it lacked nothing of the scenic beauty of the hundreds of mountain
creeks and rivers which scored the coast territory of the Alaskan
Hills. In spring, under the fierce freshets, it was a roaring,
blustering watercourse without mercy for any obstructions in its
path. In summer it was a shallow, shoaly stream of guile and
treachery.

Cy Liskard regretted the river he had made his own as his light
craft passed out of the hill country and entered upon the flat of
muskeg, which would continue until the barrier hills of the coast
were reached. The Alsek River was not only ugly to him. It was a
good deal more. He knew that the vivid, brilliant green of this
limitless plain was one of Nature’s vilest snares. It was one
vast, treeless swamp, thinly disguised by an alkali crust, and as
bottomless as only a northern muskeg can be. It was without life,
animal or human. Only was it swarming with wildfowl for whom it was
a never-failing refuge from trap and gun.

But he laboured indefatigably. He was running with the stream, his
muscles at ease, but with mind and eye alert and uneasy. He knew
the dangers of this dreary channel. It was deep enough. Oh, yes.
He knew that. At times it was monstrously deep. But its sodden,
reed-grown banks yielded no footing for landing; there were mud
banks dotted throughout its course; and in its open channels masses
of submerged weed flourished abundantly. So his vigilance was
unceasing, and he drove a course whose constant zig-zag suggested
incompetence.

But there was no incompetence in Cy Liskard on the water. He
travelled swiftly and without doubt or hesitation. For he meant to
reach those distant coast hills with the last of the tide, driven
hard by that which lay back of his mind.

His search for his quarry about the oil camp in the hills had been
fruitless. He had prosecuted it with infinite determination. He had
lain cached when he encountered McLagan’s river men. He had well
and truly covered his tracks, when at night he had reconnoitred the
camp itself. Then, when he had ascertained beyond all possibility
of doubt that the man he sought was not at the camp, he had passed
on all undetected, unsuspected. Now he was on the last stages of
his journey to the coast. The coast and that crazy, high-perched
shanty overlooking the bay.

Cy Liskard betrayed no outward sign. He looked to belong to the
long trail of the wilderness whose peace and calm his soulless eyes
expressed so well. His outfit looked to be the outfit of those who
live by trap and gun, and the protruding muzzle of a modern rifle
over the curved bows of his craft increased the illusion. But his
purpose was no less for these things. Perhaps, even, it was the
contrary.

The miles passed rapidly behind him. They drifted away on a winding
course that flashed and gleamed in the brilliant summer daylight.
But for all his speed, the outlook seemed to remain the same, the
distant hills to come no nearer.

But they were approaching very rapidly. And, as the late afternoon
ripened the sparkle of earlier day, at last they rose abruptly
till their height seemed to overwhelm the monotonous level of the
muskeg.

Now the watchful eyes became less watchful. The need was less. The
level, sodden banks had given place to sharp-cut, solid granite,
and the widened stream had slackened and given place to deep,
clear water free of all hidden traps. A sense of ease and safety
permitted the man’s attention to wander to that which lay ahead and
about him.

The river bent sharply away to the right behind the first of the
foothills and doubled its breadth. Farther on was a leftward sweep,
and as he approached it he realised that he no longer had the river
to himself. A canoe--an Eskimo kyak--had swung round the far bend,
on the outer circle of it, and was driving like an arrow against
the sluggish stream.

Just for an instant there was hesitation, and the dip of Cy
Liskard’s paddle was less unruffled. Then, seemingly, the man’s
doubt passed and he kept straight on. He made no attempt to hail
the stranger. He never even permitted his gaze to turn in his
direction. But nothing escaped the search of his pale eyes.

He had recognised the man in the kyak for what he was. He had seen
him before. Something of an Eskimo or Indian. A sturdy, squat
figure, with broad, fleshy shoulders and lank black hair, and eyes
that might have been the folds of a crease in the flesh of his ugly
face had it not been for the deep sockets in which they were set.

Oh, yes. He had seen him before, and he let him pass him without
word or greeting.

       *       *       *       *       *

The mouth of the Alsek River from the land side was a curious
and interesting effect of erosion. Even granite, that almost
invincible barrier which Nature sets up against the onslaught of
her own fierce elements, had ultimately yielded. The river on the
one side and the storming seas on the other had beaten upon the
granite anvil till the white flag of surrender had been hoisted.

The attacking elements had met through a narrow gap which had
helped to set the scene for the appalling race of tide which
swept in through it. Two gaunt, barren headlands stood sentry on
either side with less than three hundred yards of water dividing
them. Outside these lay the bay with its guarding headlands and a
multitude of rocky warriors still defending. Inside was an expanse
of water that was nearly a mile wide. This was no less rockbound
than the outer bay, but it was completely sheltered so that no view
of the bay beyond could be obtained except that which was visible
through the narrow opening.

It was early morning. The sun had just lifted above the eastern
hills. Nature was astir. The restless sea-fowl were breaking
their fast upon such fare as the waters provided, and sunrise had
brought up with it a freshening breeze. The night tide was rapidly
running out and the race of water was still fierce and strong and
threatening.

Cy Liskard was laboriously clambering along the foreshore of the
inner cove. He was moving up towards the headland guarding the
southern shore of the river mouth. He was searching for the most
promising direction whence he could attack its lofty summit.

Such was the nature of the shore that his movements were largely
hidden. It was the thing he desired most. Now he was passing along
in the shadow of mountainous boulders. Now he was full in the
open, scaling a barrier impossible otherwise to pass. But he was
making progress, rapid progress onwards and upwards. He had swiftly
realised the danger of passing the gateway on the open water. It
would have been to court discovery on the instant, to say nothing
of the chances of disaster from the race of the tide, so his boat
lay cached behind him while he confronted the task of scaling the
headland.

       *       *       *       *       *

The man was standing on the windswept crest of the southern
guardian of the river. He was sheltering from observation behind a
boulder, and from the whip of the breeze which stung with a wintry
bite. The whole of the great bay lay there below him, calm and
peaceful, and completely inviting. He was gazing down upon it, but
without regard for its austere beauty. For that he had no interest
whatever. The ravishing shimmer of the summer waters, the tattered
magnificence of the element’s aged battle-ground. These things were
matters of complete indifference to him. Even his view of McLagan’s
high-perched home for the moment seemed to make no claim.

His searching gaze was preoccupied with the thing he had never
looked to discover. He was gazing down upon the wreck of the
_Limpet_ lying upon its deathbed of rocks, which the night ebb had
left bare. He was studying it, searching it, shape and rig and
every detail as might some sailorman who still retains all his
interest for a calling he has long since abandoned.

For a long time he stood in the shelter of the boulder, and the
fascination of the wreck held him until its spell was abruptly
broken by a thing of more immediate consequence. Suddenly he became
aware of a small boat making its way from the north shore in the
direction of the wreck. And in a moment he understood. He raised
his eyes to the house on the cliffs. He dropped them again to the
beach below. Then they came again to the moving boat with its
solitary occupant.

       *       *       *       *       *

Cy Liskard had made the great descent. Now he was standing in
the shadow of the vessel lying upon the rocks, gazing up at the
lettering of her name on her bluff bows. Some distance away behind
him lay an empty dinghy hauled clear of the lapping waters.

The man had approached the vessel in a mood that was sheerly
exulting. Here, undoubtedly, was his goal at last. It was a
different goal from that which he had expected. But that was of
no consequence. He had watched the dinghy behind him approach the
rocks. He had seen the man leap out of it and haul it clear of
the water. Then he had seen him approach the derelict and climb
on board it. There was no mistake. He had recognised that tall,
powerful figure on the instant. It was impossible for him to
mistake it, even though it had been clad differently that night at
the Speedway. He felt that he had his man in a trap, and it was a
trap from which he had no intention of letting him escape.

There was a curious look in his pale eyes as he stared up at
the vessel’s name. For once they had been stirred out of their
customary expressionlessness. There was something almost like a
smile in them. But it was shadowy. It was of the vaguest. And it
only contrived to transform them into something tigerish.

At last he turned away, and as he did so a harsh sound broke
from his lips. It might have been a short, hard laugh, only that
not a muscle of his face had stirred. He moved slowly down the
vessel’s length till he came to the rope ladder amidships. Then he
paused. He thrust one hand into the pocket of his closely-buttoned
pea-jacket and produced a heavy pistol. It was an automatic, and
he examined its loading carefully. Then, with a hunching movement
of his broad shoulders and a quick, frowning upward glance at the
blazing sun, he seized the rope ladder and set foot on its bottom
rung.




                            CHAPTER XVI

                            The Lazaret


The last of the daylight had only just passed. It was nearing
midnight, and the sky was clear and with every moment the night
lights of the heavens were gaining power. Already a moving belt
of Northern Lights had made its spectre-like appearance above the
horizon, and the rare, clear atmosphere was ideal for their perfect
development.

It was a wide flat in the hills something removed from the highway
of the Alsek River, and, dotted about it, were the shadowy outlines
of box-like human habitations, and the litter of a wide-flung oil
camp. Here and there could clearly be seen the upstanding machinery
of the drills with which the earth’s bosom had already been pierced.

It was in the doorway of one of the shanties that the lean figure
of Peter Loby was lounging. He was only partly dressed. He had been
suddenly roused from his blankets, with only sufficient time to
haul on a pair of earth-stained, moleskin trousers. His first keen
resentment at the breaking of his night’s rest had passed. He had
completed the reading of the brief note which had promptly been
thrust into his hands; but his manner still remained short enough.

“What in hell made you push this at me now, Sasa?” he protested.
“We can’t start down that darn river till daylight, anyway. We need
all the light if we’re to get through the muskeg bottom right.
What’s keeping McLagan down there? Seems to me it’s dead waste me
going down to the coast only to make back again.”

His resentful gaze took in the sturdy figure of the half-breed. But
his words were rather an angry expression of his feelings than an
invitation to the messenger to attempt explanation. Sasa Mannik,
however, took the white man literally.

“I do as boss McLagan say,” he replied, in his halting fashion.
“He say, ‘I mak this brief. You give it boss Loby right away; then
you bring him right down quick. Early to-morrow.’ We mak him trip
right now? Then you speak boss McLagan early to-morrow. The muskeg
nothing. Not nothing. I know dis thing sure. You mak fix all thing
now? Yes?”

The half-breed’s urgency was something more than his orders
suggested. His eyes were wider than their wont. Altogether the man
seemed to Peter to be disturbed.

“What is it, Sasa?” Peter’s manner was less irritated. Something
he saw in the coloured man’s eyes left him curious. “Has anything
happened that your boss hasn’t set in this letter?”

The half-breed looked away behind him in the direction of the
faintly outlined hill behind which lay the river where his
treasured kyak was securely cached. It was a native mannerism of
unease.

“I not know the thing that ‘brief’ say,” he said evasively, after a
moment’s thought. “Oh, no. You tell me, then I know. I not read the
thing boss McLagan mak. I know all thing I see. I know all thing
white man do. Oh, yes. The boss say I bring you down quick. I mak
that. It good, too, yes?”

“What d’you mean?”

Peter was studying the dark face intently.

“I think it good you come--quick.”

“Why?”

The half-breed shrugged. Then his hands moved in an expressive
gesture.

“One thing. Two thing. I mak think it good you come quick,” he
said. “Boss McLagan go by big ship. All the devil mans get him,
sure. Plenty devil mans by big ship. I know. I see him. Him call
boss all time so he go crazy, sure. Boss look at him ship. He hear
him call. All time call. So boss mak forget all thing. Him mak this
trip with me this night? Oh, no. Devil man call him quick. Him
listen. It not good. Boss go right down by big ship, so devil man
kill him all up. Sure. One thing.”

The worried man raised a lean, dark finger to count the item. Then
he raised a second finger beside the first.

“Two thing,” he went on. And now the widening of his eyes lessened.
They closed to slits from which all his superstitious awe had
passed. “I not know this two thing sure,” he said thoughtfully. “I
just think him. I mak up dis river. I meet canoe. I see dis man, I
tell you an’ boss McLagan. Him dis man I see one time, two time, by
the coast. Him go down river. I come right here. What him mak go
down river I not guess. He bad man. Much bad. I see him eye look
all time bad. Him eye lak devilfish. Oh, yes. Bad. Why him go down
river? I not know. Him look all time for some thing. I not know.
You mak this trip right now, quick. Then we mak him coast so quick
this bad man not know us there. No.” He pointed in a low easterly
direction. “Him sun by that place, then us with boss McLagan sure.
I go lak hell quick.”

Peter Loby wanted to laugh at the simple earnestness of this
creature whose benighted mind was so full of the spectres his
forbears had bred into it. He wanted to deride out of his
superiority and enlightenment. But somehow he refrained from doing
so.

“You say you don’t know this man? Yet you’re plumb sure he’s bad?
Why?” he asked sharply.

Sasa’s gesture was full of profound contempt for the limitations of
these “crazy white men.”

“You shoot up fox. You shoot up wolf,” he said. “You not eat him.
Why? Him good meat, sure. White man not eat him. Eskimo not eat
him--only when he starve. So. You see good man. You say ‘good’! You
see bad man. You say ‘bad’! Why? All man do much thing him not know
why. Why?” The brown finger was raised again, and it tapped the
man’s broad low forehead with its stubby tip. “It here. This man
bad. So bad. I say him. You come quick.”

Peter nodded.

“All right. Get right back to your boat, Sasa,” he said resignedly.
“Get her all ready. I’ll be along right away. How’ll the tide serve
down below?”

“Him good. We mak him in dead water,” Sasa said, with a quick,
ready nod. His air of relief at having persuaded the white man was
almost child-like. “I go mak ready right away. I mak dis trip so
dam’ quick.”

       *       *       *       *       *

Ivor McLagan stared about him in the feeble light of his hurricane
lantern. It was the lazaret of the _Limpet_. A smallish apartment
between decks, with an entrance through a trap in the deck above,
which was also the floor of the steward’s pantry. He had just
descended the ladder and stood gazing upon the iron tanks with
their tightly screwed-down manholes.

The place contained four of these. Their purpose was obvious enough
even to his landsman’s mind. They were food containers for biscuit
and flour, and such supplies as must be kept safe from the rats
with which the vessel had swarmed.

But the place contained other things besides. There were packing
cases, and chests of various sizes littered about all round him.
There were barrels, too, which he shrewdly suspected contained
salted meat, beef and pork. Some of the chests were empty. Some
were still nailed fast. Each of the barrels was obviously as it had
been originally shipped and stowed.

He stood there for some contemplative moments. He had come there
to search this place thoroughly as he intended to search the rest
of the vessel. But he had discovered this storage of food supplies
quite accidentally, and with no suspicion of its existence. It
is even doubtful if he had ever heard of a ship’s lazaret. While
examining the steward’s pantry above he had observed the trap in
the deck, and forthwith had proceeded with his investigations.

Now he was considering the best means of examination. A shaft
of daylight came down through the trap above him and he had his
lantern. But the double resource left the place ill-lit and
difficult. After awhile he found an iron hook suspended from the
deck above, and promptly availed himself of it. He hung his lantern
thereon and instantly appreciated the added illumination so gained.
He moved slowly amongst the litter. Right at his feet lay two
chests of stout make. They were different from the rest scattered
about. They were iron-bound and of dark, heavy wood. Their iron
bonds had been cut and the lids thrown back, and they were quite
empty. He bent down over these and examined the lids closely. There
was no stencilling upon them to give any clue to their source.
There was no address of any sort.

He left them, passing on to the rest in deliberate and careful
succession. He had made up his mind that nothing should remain
unexamined. For, he argued, here were the ship’s stores, and these
stores might give him some clue as to whence they came. An address.
A purveyor’s business name. Anything and everything of such a
nature might surely help materially in solving the mystery that so
profoundly intrigued him.

For a while his search was unproductive of information, although,
in another direction it was not without interest. Each chest he had
discovered had had _all markings carefully erased with a scraper_.
Why?

It was a curious discovery. It was deeply significant. To McLagan’s
acute mind there was but a single answer. The whole thing suggested
secrecy. Again why? After turning over the last chest he stood
up and gazed about him, and, in the stuffy heat of the place, he
passed a hand across his sweating forehead. But his gesture was in
reality one of perplexity and had no relation to the heat. Clearly
there was only one thing to be done. After he had explored the
sealed tanks he must examine the contents of those cases that still
remained full. They might contain canned fruit or milk. Anyway,
something which would clearly tell him its source.

Yes. He would first unseal those tanks, and essay the negotiation
of those narrow manholes. Then----

He had started to cross over to the nearest tank when his eyes
chanced upon a portion of an old packing case lying in an obscure
corner. There was a square of white upon it. In the doubtful light
he could not be certain what the latter was. But it looked like the
thing for which he had been so long searching. It looked like an
address ticket. He stooped and picked it up.

It was the thing he hoped. But---- In his profound amazement he
found himself muttering the address upon it aloud.

“Capt. Julian Caspar, Sailing Ship, _Imperial_ of Bristol, Perth,
Western Australia.”

At the bottom of the address card was the name of a firm of
wine merchants in “Perth, W.A.,” and at the top of it, in block
lettering, was the usual “With Care.”

He stood gazing at it for a long time. His thought was travelling
rapidly. In a moment he had realised that this piece of wood
belonged to none of the open cases he had examined. It was probably
something left over from some previous voyage, and, remaining in
its corner, had so escaped the careful obliteration of address and
markings to which the remainder of the stores had been submitted.

But the name of the ship on the address startled him beyond words.
_Imperial_ of Bristol. It was the name of the ship in which
Claire’s brother Jim had set sail for home. How came it on board
the _Limpet_ of Boston?

Again came that gesture of perplexity. Then of a sudden his eyes
lit. He moved directly under the lantern and read again the address
on the card. This time he spelt the name of the ship over quite
slowly and aloud. Then he began another spelling and it was the
name of the wreck itself.

“_L-I-M-P-E-T_,” he muttered. Then after a pause: “_I-M-P-E_.
Yes. Then ther’s the _L._ sure. Boston. Bristol. Gee! Looks like
it’s----”

He broke off with a startled upward glance in the direction of the
hatch above. Just for an instant he remained listening acutely.
Then he dropped the wood from his hands and it fell with a clatter
on the deck at his feet. He reached up and snatched the lantern
from the hook and extinguished it. There was a sound. It was the
faint stealing sound as of some one cautiously approaching along
the deck above him.

Who could it be? Loby? Sasa? No. He had no expectation of their
return till afternoon. Claire? He remembered Claire’s unexpected
visit. She was not likely to repeat it. It would not be Claire.
No. Who then? He remembered the ghostly shadow that had terrified
Claire and the half-breed. And, for the first time in his life,
he experienced that thrill of the nerves which the uncanny rarely
fails to inspire even in the hardiest.

Then came the full and unpleasant realisation of his position. One
glance round him in the twilight warned him of his disadvantage.
Here, in the lazaret, he was like a rat in a trap. He had no idea
of who it could be above. But that which his senses had told him
left him with a feeling of detestation for such a position. He
turned promptly to the iron ladder.

“You’re covered, McLagan. You’re covered sure as death. The moment
you show your darn head above that hole I’ll blow it plumb to small
meat.”

McLagan drew back. There was no thrill of the nerves in him now.
It was not the uncanny that held him. He knew that voice on the
instant. It was the voice of Cy Liskard. And he understood that the
man had a score to settle with him, and had come to settle it.

His position was desperate. He was armed. His automatic was fully
loaded. But it was useless. Quite useless. For the man above had
not shown himself in the aperture of the trap.

       *       *       *       *       *

The man from the hills was standing in the cabin alleyway with his
back to the main deck. He was facing the door of the steward’s
pantry with a clear view of the open trap of the lazaret. But
he, himself, was sufficiently clear of it to stand in no risk of
gun-fire on the part of the man he had trapped there. His gun was
ready in his hand. No man could hope to ascend the ladder of the
lazaret and get the first shot in. He knew that. And, for the
moment, was quite content. Now he was talking, and a curious light
had replaced the deadness usually looking out of his eyes.

“I didn’t guess to find you here, McLagan,” he said. “I didn’t
think to find this wreck lying around. But I’ve come many miles to
find you, and pay the thing I owe you. I humped it into Beacon to
buy a ‘time.’ I was out to buy it in a fashion you oil folks don’t
guess about. I was there to pay for it in dollars an’ dollars, and
all sorts of gold you never dreamt about; I wanted that dame, and
you jumped in and smashed my face. It ain’t that smash I’m worrying
about--though I owe you for that. But you cost me that dame an’
darn near a hangin’. That’s what I’m here to pay you for. An’ pay
you good. I’m goin’ to kill you right here. Savvy? An’ I guess it’s
a good place to get away with it right. They’ll find you lying
around dead, an’ it’ll take all the United States lawyers to guess
who did it. I don’t belong this location. I ain’t within miles of
it. Ther’s no one who counts knows I’m around. I guess ther’ ain’t
a soul to disturb us. You see, your folks are up the river, an’
you--I saw you come along over to this darn wreck. Do you feel like
showing yourself, or will I seal up this hatch an’ fire the ship?”

The man spoke very deliberately. He spoke without passion. His
manner was quietly confident and satisfied.

For a moment he contemplated the raised trap as though measuring
his chances of carrying out his final threat. Not for a moment did
he imagine his victim would be unarmed. He remembered the Speedway.
McLagan had been armed then. He had reason enough to remember
something of the calibre of the weapon the man had thrust at him.

His eyes turned again to the aperture in the deck. Did he know the
construction of that narrow lazaret below? It seemed doubtful. And
yet it was impossible to tell.

After awhile his voice came again harshly taunting.

“You ain’t makin’ a lot of fuss, McLagan,” he cried. “But then you
ain’t got a crowd around. You’re on your own, and don’t feel sure
about things. You ken come right up if you fancy, an’ I’ll give
it you fair. I won’t send you glorywards till your face has had a
peek around at the good daylight you’re goin’ to lose quick. If
you ain’t game for that I’ll sure have to batten down, an’ start
that fire. This vessel’s loaded down with an elegant cargo of good
spruce an’ stuff. It’ll burn so ther’ ain’t a living soul could get
near it. Then her bulkheads are steel, I guess. Gee! What a dandy
oven that lazaret’ll make.”

Still no sound came up from below. Still the engineer gave no sign.
And yet he must surely have realised the desperateness of his case.

Cy Liskard shifted his position. He was listening acutely. For
all his taunting he was left guessing while his intended victim
remained soundless. He was thinking very hard. He was puzzled.
Suddenly he raised his gun and looked over its sight. And on the
instant a shot rang out. But it came from the lazaret and not from
his weapon. A bullet struck the alleyway wall with a spat. It
ricochetted off the steel and tore screaming past the man’s head.
Instantly Cy’s gun replied and a bullet crashed through one of the
iron tanks below with a boom like a drum beat.

He waited for a return fire sheltered from the pantry doorway. But
none was forthcoming. Then realisation came to him. There was no
means of closing that trap while the man below still retained a
single shot in his gun. At all costs he must draw his fire.

So he drew nearer. He stood in view of the trap. It was only
while he fired a second shot. Then he leapt aside under cover as
McLagan’s answering shot rang out. It grazed his passing shoulder
with a hot slither, and the blood surged to his brain. He moved a
step forward and fired again into the depths. And again McLagan
replied. The shot only missed Liskard by inches and the man uttered
a sound like a laugh. It was the engineer’s third shot, and he was
more than satisfied. A few more. Only a few more.

He stood ready. He darted in and fired again through the trap.
Again came McLagan’s retort which took him in the cloth arm of the
thick pea-jacket covering his body. He sprang clear. And suddenly
a furious oath broke chokingly from his almost stifled throat.
An arm had caught him from behind encircling his bull-like neck.
There was a brief struggle while he tried to turn his weapon on the
unexpected assailant. Then he crashed to the deck undermost, with
his gun-arm held and twisted till his hand released the weapon.

       *       *       *       *       *

Cy Liskard was standing just clear of the break in the vessel’s
poop. He was beside the main hatch, disarmed, defeated, but without
bonds to hold him prisoner. Immediately behind him stood Sasa
Mannik who had sworn never to set foot on the wreck again. And
beside him was Peter Loby, lean, grinning, with a gun in his hand
ready for immediate action. At the head of the alleyway stood Ivor
McLagan still handling his automatic.

He was gazing at the gold man speculatively. Somehow there was far
less resentment than repulsion in his feeling for this man from the
hills, who, but for the timely arrival of Peter and his servant,
would in all probability have achieved his purpose of cold-blooded
murder. He was a dour, hard-looking creature whose queer eyes
fascinated him. And for the moment he was wondering at the thing
lying back of them.

“Well, what’re you goin’ to do?”

Liskard had stood the victor’s scrutiny in silence as long as he
could.

McLagan laughed derisively at the snarling challenge.

“Do? There’s surely a lot of things I could do,” he said. “I could
have you pitched into that store room, or lazaret, as I heard you
call it, and close it up and fire the ship. Her steel bulkheads
would make it a dandy oven. Then ther’s good yards to this craft,
for all her canvas is mostly blown off them, and plenty of rope.
Then I’ve still got haf a clip of cartridges in my gun and several
more in my pockets. I could easy pass you on glorywards if I
fancied that way. But I don’t.”

A sound came from the half-breed behind the prisoner. It was a
native expression of complete disgust. Peter only grinned more
broadly.

“Ten minutes ago I was yearning to kill as badly as you,” McLagan
went on calmly. “So maybe we’re fifty-fifty on that. Now I’m not.
While I guess you’re still a hundred per cent that way. I’m going
to turn you free to carry on your pretty work. I don’t feel like
spoiling it by any premature action. You see, you’ll surely hang
one day, and I’d rather it was done in the regular fashion of the
law. You want my blood, and you haven’t left me guessing why. If
you were a man, and not a brute, I’d say act the sportsman and take
a chance with me. I’d face you just any old way at any old time.
But you prefer the advantage to be with you all the time. That’s
why I’m dead sure you’ll hang. Now you can get out the way----”

He broke off. A great spread of sunlight had flashed down on to
the deck. Cy Liskard was no longer heeding him. With the sunshine
a queer look had leapt into his usually expressionless eyes which
were gazing down the deck. Their stare was horrified. And something
like terror had replaced their deadness. He was staring at a moving
shadow. The shadow that had once sent Sasa headlong over the
vessel’s side and again had driven Claire Carver into panic.

The eyes of both Sasa and Peter Loby were held by it, too. Only
McLagan seemed undisturbed by that shadowy presence. He was
watching the prisoner, and his gun was still ready.

“You see it, Liskard?” McLagan said, with a derisive laugh.
“We’ve all seen it. And you wanted to add another haunting to the
collection. It’s a big man, eh? As big as I am. Say, we’d have
made a real dandy pair of spooks, one on the deck and one in the
lazaret--if you hadn’t burned up the whole darn shooting match. I
wonder who murdered that poor devil like you’d have murdered me.
We’ll never----”

A fierce oath broke from the prisoner. It was more a cry of real
terror than any expression of fury against the man taunting him.
The next moment he was speeding down the deck, running for the
companion-ladder, while Peter’s gun was levelled at him.

“Quit it, Peter!”

McLagan’s order came on the instant and the man lowered his weapon.

“Let him go. I want him to go.” Then he turned to the half-breed.
“Over the side with you, boy. You don’t like spooks, but you can be
trusted with men. You’ve your gun. See to it that darn murdering
swine don’t touch our boats. But don’t dare to kill him up.”

       *       *       *       *       *

McLagan and Peter were leaning over the vessel’s rail. Down at the
steadily rising water’s edge the half-breed was standing guard on
the boats lying there. In the direction of the southern headland Cy
Liskard was beating a hasty retreat over the rocks.

“That pretty feller’s got it in for me, Peter, plumb up to the hilt
of his longest and sharpest knife. I guess he’s a born murderer.
And to me his eyes look that way. He insulted a woman up at the
Speedway, and I beat him on the face and made a bit of a mess of
him. Then the Aurora boys jumped in on him, and I can guess the
thing that happened. It was hard letting him make a get-away. But
I just couldn’t do a thing else. Besides, I’ve got a notion it’s
best. Say, boy, I owe you and Sasa more than I’m likely to be able
to pay in a lifetime. How’d you manage to get around on time?”

McLagan’s thanks were the deeper for the calm fashion in which they
were expressed. Peter nodded and grinned.

“I’m glad we got around,” he said simply. “I cursed Sasa for
hauling me from my blankets last night, but I don’t now. He’s
queer, that boy. An’, gee, the pace he drove us down that creek
at! You know he had a notion things were bad. First it was the
darn spook on this ship which worried him. Then he passed a feller
in a canoe, and reckoned he was bad. It was that guy, and I’d say
he was right. He said he was the feller he’d seen crawling around
the rocks at the mouth of the Lias he told us about once. Yes.
He’s queer. He reckoned that feller was going down that creek for
mischief, and the mischief was against you. He didn’t know. He just
guessed.”

“Well, he guessed right, and”--McLagan laughed--“I’ll have to raise
his wages. He’s a good boy. Say----”

He broke off thoughtfully and Peter waited. After a moment he
turned from the rail.

“I got to get a stout turnscrew, and some tools out of the
carpenter’s shop place.”

“What for?”

They were moving along the deck.

“Why, I got a fool notion I’d like to climb over the stern of this
kettle and prise the letters of her name some. It’s a notion.”

“Why?”

McLagan shrugged.

“Just bear a hand, an’ after that I’ve got to go right into Beacon.”

“But what about our trip?”

Peter was no longer grinning. He was feeling a little impatient
with this chief who could abandon their all important work for
something he felt had no right to concern him at all.

“Don’t worry a thing, Peter,” McLagan said, recognising the change
in the other’s manner. “I won’t let you down, boy. It’s not my way.
But I’m on a trail that looks kind of hot to me, and it’s pretty
near to the things that really matter in a man’s life. Get me, boy?
No. You don’t. But it don’t matter. I don’t ever break my word to
a friend. I’m not going to let you down a thing. Our trip goes
through--but later.”




                            CHAPTER XVII

                          Links in a Chain


The full Council of the Aurora Clan was assembled. The crude
accommodation was wholly inadequate. And many of the members were
forced to stand through lack of sitting room amidst the debris of
the old steam-heat cellar of the ruins of the lakeside dwelling.
But then it was the full Council, and not the Supreme Executive.
And its members numbered full twenty.

It was sufficiently grotesque for all the significance lying
behind the gathering of these queer figures in their burlesque
robes of white. They represented a deadly force in the life of
this wide-flung northern country. It was the inevitable reply of
those who saw and appreciated the problems and needs of their own
existence and were prepared to deal with them without reference
to political visions and principles. It was reaction to pristine
instinct.

Yes, it was reaction. The fact of it being a council had no
relation to democratic method. The Aurora Clan was ruled over by
one individual who was called the “Chief Light of the Aurora.” The
Chief Light was the brain and the driving force. He was the heart,
the soul, and head of the organisation. His rule was despotic.
The councillors were his supporters, and the executors of his
absolute will. They were possibly, even, advisers, in that they
were listened to in council. But, bound under oath, they obeyed
the ruling of the Chief Light without question, and under ruthless
penalty.

The Aurora Clan was an expression of passionate exasperation. It
was an expression of men who saw no hope in the far off councils
of self-interested men, who spend their lives in talk. They wanted
their own corner of the earth made safe for decent democracy,
and were prepared to purge it without regard to the rest of the
world’s opinions. Laws might be enacted in those far off councils.
They would obey them if they proved adequate in making decent life
possible. If they proved otherwise, in view of the needs of their
community, they would be simply set aside and other provision would
be made.

To achieve its purpose the Aurora Clan viewed the situation
with wide-open eyes. It saw things as they were, and refused to
consider them through any medium that presented the picture in any
different light. It was gazing on the rawest human nature, for all
it was tricked out in the fashions of the twentieth century. It
was the same human nature that had fought the old-time battle in
the darkest ages, unchanged in the smallest degree. So the Clan
had adopted the method which has always been the ultimate control
when humanity got out of hand. It was the method of earliest man.
And it will be the method of the last. It was the appeal of Fear.
In the opinion of the controlling mind of the Aurora Clan there
was no short cut to any Utopia, or Millennium, or things of that
sort. There was even no such condition to arrive at. Life was Self.
Simply Self, even if, at times, thinly disguised. And Self could
only be sufficiently impressed to keep it within the bounds of
reasonable decency by the methods of control which had come down
throughout the ages. So the ugly banner of Terror had been raised.
Awe, Superstition, Terror.

To the humorous mind the grotesqueness of the gathering must have
been without question. Each pair of eyes gazing through rudely cut
eye-holes in those conical hoods, if their humour were sufficient,
must inevitably have smiled at the sight of the other nineteen
ghostly figures squatting or standing about the place with pipes
and cigars protruding through mouth-holes in the cloth of their
hoods. In this respect these men-ghosts were not sacrificing their
comfort for any undue regard for the impression they desired to
create. They were there for business. The cellar was without
comfort. They might be there for hours. Well, tobacco was no
outrage of their principles.

The place reeked with every grade of tobacco smoke. Rank cigars
and still ranker pipes had overridden the musty dankness of the
atmosphere. Decay in any form was sufficiently abhorrent to the
virile youth of this gathering. So each did his best to mask it
under the fog of smoke which brought comfort to their souls.

The sitting had been a long one. All sorts of reports from
individual councillors had been listened to, voted upon, and upon
which the Chief Light, leaning against the central rusted furnace,
had given his final decision. There was no secretary to take down
any minutes of the meeting. No writing of any sort was permitted.
All the business of the Council was done verbally. Sentence was
passed on any delinquent reported by the Chief Light, and the work
of its execution deputed by word of mouth. None but the Chief Light
knew upon whom such tasks devolved. Maybe there was recognition in
the voices as each councillor spoke, but that was all. Each member
of the Council was known by a numeral which was inscribed on the
white front of his gown, and, so long as he might serve on the
Council, that would be the only form of identification permitted.

Towards the end of the session a stoutish councillor, with “No. 3”
blazoned on the bosom of his cloak, bestirred himself. He made a
sign which conveyed his claim to attention. It was given without
question. The tall form of the Chief Light was instantly turned in
his direction.

“‘No. 3’ has a report for the Council,” he said, in that curious
hollow tone which his masking hood gave to his voice. “We’ll take
his report next.”

He paused for an instant while the eyes behind his mask surveyed
his supporters. Then he went on in the quiet business-like fashion
which marked his conduct of affairs at all times.

“There is need for explanation,” he said. “‘Number Three’ was
delegated to certain work at a meeting of the Supreme Executive
which met in emergency awhile back. Many of this Council were not
present at the time. You need to get it that his work was of more
than usual importance to the general community. Maybe you’ll all
likely remember there was a tough guy called Cy Liskard who blew
into the Speedway on the night of Max’s celebration, and raised
particular sort of hell there. ‘Number Three’s’ report concerns
this man. This man Cy Liskard is reputed to have made a big strike
of gold way back on the Lias River. And, anyway, he’s sold big dust
at the bank and holds a credit there. It’s reckoned he’s hugging
this strike to his bosom and we’ve made it our special business
to see, if it’s right, that the field outside his claim is made
available to the folks of our city.”

There was a slight but definite movement amongst the Chief Light’s
audience. Those who were sitting turned in the direction of ‘Number
Three.’ Those who were standing gazed round on the sturdy figure
expectantly.

“We’ll take Number Three’s report.”

The Chief Light leant back against his furnace support prepared to
listen with the rest.

“Number Three” plunged at once into his story. He began formally,
but quickly drifted into the vernacular common to them all.

“By the will of the Supreme Executive I set out to investigate
under the orders received. Six Clansmen accompanied me. It was a
darn big trip, an’ we were chasing a wily guy an’ a pretty bright
trailman. I was lucky in having ‘Number Twenty-Six’ with me, who’s
wise to the country of the Lias River. Well, I don’t guess to worry
you folks with the details of that trip. We made it all right, all
right. We tracked our man right up to his home in the hills. He was
there, an’ we doped him and his dogs quiet so we could work easy.
And a pretty fancy hiding hole he’s got. It lies well nigh back on
the Canadian Border.”

“Number Three” paused. And a shuffling of feet and the clearing of
throats indicated the deepening interest of his audience.

“Say, it’s queer,” the sturdy figure went on reflectively. “He’s
got a claim there all right. He’s got a swell sluice on a creek,
and a big dump of stuff piled around it. He’s got a shanty on the
hillside, and corrals for his ponies. He’s got a bunch of trail
dogs to carry him anywhere on a winter trail. Then he’s got a
swell canoe, and all the gear of the goldman. But--” He broke off
and, as he gazed round on his audience, it was almost as if he were
smiling behind his mask. “--we couldn’t see he’d washed an ounce
of dust since ever he set up his sluice. I want to tell you right
here, folks, if there’s a thing I’m a’mighty wise to in this darn
country it’s washing the yellow stuff I’ve been chasing twenty
years. There’s no guy on the Lias River can put me wise to any
notion I haven’t got. Well, I tell you right now that boy hasn’t
washed out any gold on that claim ever since it was staked. He’s
set it all out. It ’ud look good to a bum tenderfoot. Maybe, even,
some of you boys ’ud fall for his show down. But he can’t bluff me
a thing. That claim, and all his fancy gear, is a mighty big bluff.
That’s all. He hain’t worked fi’ cents of gold--there.

“But he’s passed a big pouch of dust into the bank. We’re wise to
that. Where does he work that stuff?” The man paused again. Then a
sound came from behind his mask. It was a funereal sort of laugh.
“I ain’t wise. But I went through with the job as it was ordered.
This guy has been seen chasing around the coast at the mouth of his
river. We came right down the length of that river with our eyes
wide open for any blamed sign.” He shook his cowled head. “He’s
got no workings anywhere along that river. But we found something.
Oh, yes. We surely did. It’s a tough coast, and hard to chase up
right. There’s a thousand holes an’ corners for a cache an’ that
sort of truck. Anyway we located a sort of creek that was hidden
all up. It was rocks and overgrowth so we mostly had a hell of a
time making our way in. But we got through. And, cached right away
up it, cached so as only chance could locate it, we hit on a swell
motor boat fit to make a sea trip in tough weather. Yes, we located
that, and located something else. She was in elegant shape, and
we searched her clear through even to her gasoline tanks. And in
one of her lockers we found two bags, canvas bags such as I knew
as soon as I set eyes on ’em. They were empty. I turned ’em inside
out. There was the remains of dust in ’em caught up in the seams,
an’ I made a collection of it. Sir,” he went on, addressing himself
directly to the tall figure of the Chief Light, “that’s my report,
and I wait for instructions. Ther’s a few bits o’ details I ain’t
spoken on that I ken hand you when you got time to go into them.
Maybe they signify some. I don’t rightly know. Meanwhile, that’s
the report I got to hand to this Council.”

The Chief Light nodded.

“Good,” he said. “I’ll take those details later. Meanwhile, you
don’t figger this Cy Liskard is on a strike on his claim?”

Number Three shook his head promptly.

“I don’t say all that, Chief,” he said quickly. “The thing I say
is the claim he’s got staked around his home place is sheer bluff.
Maybe he’s blinding us. Maybe his claim lies elsewhere. That being
so it’ll likely take months locating it.”

At a sign from the Chief Light, full discussion on the report of
Number Three broke out. It was dealt with exhaustively. Then the
meeting passed on to such other business as claimed it.

       *       *       *       *       *

Alan Goodchurch was typical of officialdom, but possessing a
leavening of real human interest in the life of which he was in
official control. In Beacon Glory his prestige stood reasonably
high, but simply because of that leavening. In his official
capacity as Commissioner of the district and chief collector of
revenues for the government he represented, there was no particular
goodwill displayed towards him. But then Beacon Glory had no sort
of use whatsoever for an authority that had its origin so far
away that it required something in the nature of an astronomical
telescope to discover its existence. As a man it was wholly
different. He was a cheery creature outside his office, alive
with kindly sympathy for the difficulties and troubles besetting
his fellow-townsmen and really eager for the steady progress and
prosperity of the heterogeneous collection of life it was his lot
to endeavour to shepherd in its duty towards its Government.

He was a youngish man for his post. But then it was well enough
recognised that in this especial locality his was a youngish man’s
work. Beacon Glory needed a strong official hand and a strong
official mind, and Goodchurch possessed these things arrayed in a
tall muscular frame and a large, lean face with pronouncedly square
jaws.

Ivor McLagan was on reasonably intimate terms with Goodchurch. It
was his business to be so, for whatever the general attitude of
the men of Beacon Glory towards their Commissioner, the oil man’s
business demanded official goodwill.

It was a moment in Goodchurch’s official life when the human
element in him was uppermost. He sat turned away from his desk,
lounging in his swivel chair, talking to the engineer and smoking a
cigar, the latter a most unusual proceeding in his working hours.
McLagan was overflowing a smaller bare wood chair opposite him,
and he, too, was smoking one of the Commissioner’s best cigars.

The strong face of Goodchurch was smiling pleasantly, and his keen
grey eyes had lost their usual cold stare which had taken him years
to cultivate. He shook his head.

“There’s no such darn vessel registered at Boston,” he said. “And
there’s no owner yearning to claim anything with a name like the
_Limpet_. That doesn’t leave me guessing. There’s such a thing
as insurance. In a while, maybe, we’ll be getting word from some
underwriting house. Then the fur’ll fly, and some one’ll be
squealing in the Courts. Anyway, the position’s clear. Boston’s
never heard of the _Limpet_ and isn’t yearning to.”

McLagan removed his cigar and flicked the ash into an immaculate
cuspidor. His narrow eyes surveyed the neat apartment which gave
some indication of the man who presided there. It was Goodchurch’s
private room in the best commercial block in Beacon which was more
than half given up to his staff. He knew well enough the range
of this man’s work. It was from the highest to the lowest in the
realms of the city’s discipline. And for all the man’s capacity,
McLagan felt like smiling at the thought of the net result of his
labours.

However, his concern at the moment lay in other directions. This
was his last visit to Beacon before setting out on a prolonged
exploration into the hills, and he desired the Commissioner’s
valuable aid in a direction in which he knew he could rely on it.

He nodded.

“That’s pretty clear,” he said. “What next?”

Goodchurch shook his head.

“There don’t seem to be much to be done--next,” he said
thoughtfully. “After all, what is it? A windjammer blows in on
to the rocks of this abominable coast. You reckon she’s mostly
a cargo of lumber aboard. Well, lumber’s no sort of use on this
coast.” He smiled. “Gold’s the only thing, or oil, that’s going to
set our folks whooping. There don’t seem to be a soul yearning to
claim that craft. Even the folks who quit her.” He shook his head
again. “No. There’s not a thing worth doing but what I’ve done. My
report’s gone in. That’s usual. I guess I can send a couple of boys
down to view things, but if we know anything of the seas beating on
this coast line, the storms that drove her on the rocks are liable
to hammer her to matchwood in a month or so. And then there’ll be
nothing--more.”

McLagan agreed.

“It seems that way,” he said, with an assumption of indifference.
“Yet I’ve a sublimely foolish notion there’s something queer behind
that wreck. And the notion’s got hold of me good.”

“Queer, eh?” Goodchurch’s eyes narrowed, and he surveyed the cigar
in his fingers reflectively. Then he chuckled quietly. “Yes,” he
went on. “Insurance. And that’s not in my work--once my report is
sent in to my chiefs.”

McLagan bestirred himself. He realised the official horizon of this
otherwise excellent man. He stood up.

“I told you I’d got a notion,” he said simply. “Well, I got more.
And I’m wondering if you’ll help me out on it. I’ve an idea, more
than an idea--a conviction, in fact, that the name of that bunch
of wreckage has been changed. It was changed on purpose. Real,
desperate purpose. If we can locate the owners and anyone else
interested in the _Imperial_ of Bristol, we shall get back of a
darn ugly story that’s liable to get your department jumping on a
red-hot trail. That’s why I came along now. It’s to give you that
before I go right up into the country on a survey that’s going to
keep me busy till the summer’s nearly through. I daresay by the
time I get back the storming will have left nothing of that wreck
on the rocks. It don’t matter. Her story don’t lie in her now. It
lies in the owners and crew who are the folks that need finding.
You broadcasted before for the other name. Will you do it for this?
Will you send it to the newspapers? And pass it right on to any old
region that can pick it up? I’d be glad, an’--grateful.”

Goodchurch laughed. He realised the oil man’s earnestness, but it
left him quite unaffected.

“Sure, I will, Mac,” he said cordially. “How did you locate the
change of name? What’s the story you reckon to discover?”

The other shrugged his heavy shoulders as he flung his cigar stump
into the cuspidor.

“It’s clear enough--with the suspicion of it in your mind. I got
a close look at the painted names on the boats, and life belts,
and anything that had the ship’s name on it. Mostly the change has
been made good. But, like all things of that nature, it was a long
job and the folks doing it maybe got weary of it. In two cases,
at least, I recognised the old name had been painted or scraped
out--some of the letters, and others substituted. I’m sure, dead
sure.”

“And the story?”

McLagan shook his head and smiled.

“Murder, I’d guess--amongst other things,” he said simply.

“Murder?”

Goodchurch sat up.

“Sure. And I’m looking to find who did it and why.”

Goodchurch whistled.

“That sort of show gets a man.”

“Ye-es.”

“Anything else?”

“If I told you haf the things in my head you’d guess I was bug.”

Goodchurch laughed.

“I’d need more than that to reckon Ivor McLagan that way.” He stood
up. “Well, I’ll surely do as you ask, right away. And I guess I’ll
take a trip out to view that wreck myself--instead of sending any
of the boys.”

McLagan held out a hand which the official gripped with cordiality.

“Why, do,” he said. “And make use of my shanty all you please. My
boy’ll be along there if I’m away, and he’ll fix you right. I’ll
leave word. An’, say,” he added with a shrewd smile as he moved
towards the door, “if you’re not looking for a scare, don’t get
aboard of that craft when the sun’s shining.”

“What? Say----”

But McLagan shook his head. “I’m not going to hand you a thing
else,” he said laughingly. “I’m not yearning for you to get beyond
the limits of your belief in my sanity. Maybe I won’t see you again
till I get through with my trip. So long.”

       *       *       *       *       *

McLagan hurried down the sidewalk in the direction of the Speedway.
He was thinking with a concentration that left him oblivious to his
surroundings and with only his objective clear in his mind. Once he
smiled to himself as the thought of Alan Goodchurch’s remark about
his sanity flashed intrusively upon his preoccupation. He felt sure
that it was as well for his purpose that he had added nothing of
the thing absorbing him now to that which he had imparted to the
Commissioner. No. The thing he had in his mind must remain there
untold until he had completed the chain of circumstances he saw
linking themselves together. Either he was stark, staring, raving
mad, or----

He bumped into Victor Burns just outside the banker’s office,
and the collision brought him back to his surroundings and the
realisation of his friend’s laughing protest.

“Say, you great unmitigated boob, with your two yards of meat,
ain’t there room for an ounce or two like me on the same earth?”

McLagan laughed.

“Ounce or two? Say--when two folks collide on the sidewalk it
mostly seems to me occasion for discussion. Who is it has right of
way? The feller using the sidewalk for its original purpose, or the
feller standing around with a figger calculated to set an oil man
yearning? I’ve got five minutes for a yarn in your office.”

Burns smiled up into the twinkling eyes.

“Come right in,” he said. “I’ve mostly got five minutes any time of
day for the man who reckons to flood Beacon out with oil.”

They passed into the bank and to the private office. McLagan
perched his great bulk on the desk and grinned down on his still
standing friend.

“Just sit around, Victor,” he said, while the other waited for the
purpose lying behind this sudden and unexpected visit. “I want
you to talk, to yarn in your own sweet way about the darn stuff
you’re here to deal in. I want you to tell me all you know about
the stuff. Its grades. Its colours. And the localities where the
colours are found, or have been found. I want you to lay bare your
golden soul to me the same as from time to time I’ve told you the
juicy details of the stuff I spend my life chasing. Can you do it
in ten minutes?”

“Not in ten weeks.”

“That’s tough. I’ve got just a haf hour.”

“It was ten minutes last and five before,” laughed the intrigued
banker.

“Well, let’s get down to bed rock. I can set you haf-a-dozen
questions, and we’ll fix it that way.”

“Have you made a ‘strike’?”

McLagan laughed.

“No, siree! But _I’m_ going to set the questions to this
examination.”

“I may sit.”

The banker’s eyes were shining with the humour of the thing. But he
was wondering, too. He had never known McLagan to have more than
a passing interest in the trade he dealt in. And somehow, he now
seemed to be in deadly earnest for all his lightness.

“Sure you may,” the oil man said. “And smoke, too, if you feel that
way. It’s good to smoke if you need to think.”

Victor took his place at the desk on which McLagan was sitting and
pushed a box of cigars at his guest. He sat back in his chair while
the other lit up and regarded him thoughtfully.

“Well?” he demanded, with his hands clasped across his rotund body.
“Get busy with those questions.”

“There’s more than one colour to gold?”

“Yes. Quite a number of shades in raw gold.”

“Governed by the locality in which it’s found?”

“Surely. The formations. Reef gold. Alluvial. The copperous
qualities of quartz. The climated conditions of the various
latitudes in which it is found. A whole heap of influences affect
the shades of colour.”

McLagan nodded.

“Now Alaskan gold?”

“It varies the same as the rest.”

“Could you tell Alaskan gold from tropical gold?”

“It depends on circumstances. Generally, yes. I’ve got samples
here,” the banker went on quickly, pulling out a drawer beside him.

He lifted out a leather case and flung it open. It held a number of
small glass bottles each containing a sample of yellow dust. Each
bottle was carefully labelled.

“We keep these as a matter of interest. They’re small samples of
each different strike made in the neighbourhood with which we
trade. You see? Examine them. Compare them. There’s many differ
shades.”

He sat back again while the oil man picked up each bottle in turn
and compared them one with the other, and the banker found it
profoundly interesting to note the intensity of scrutiny to which
the man whose interests had nothing to do with gold examined them.

“Do you realise the varying shades?”

McLagan was holding one bottle, searching its contents closely.

“This is pale sort of stuff,” he said.

The banker looked at the label.

“Reef gold from the Ubishi Hills. It was a poor strike and petered
out. Crystal quartz. And too hard to work for the ordinary gold
man. It needed big capital.”

McLagan nodded.

“Hardly yellow at all,” he said. “Now this,” he went on, holding up
another bottle. “This has a richer colour.”

“Sure. But look where it’s from. The red copperous gravel of Eighty
Mile Creek. I’d say, next to some of the big Australian finds,
that’s one of the handsomest colours known. Here’s another,” he
went on, thrusting another bottle into his visitor’s hand. “It’s
nigh as red. It’s like as two peas with the African stuff, and
some of the old Californian colour. It might even be from West
Australia. But it isn’t. No, it’s Alaskan. And it’s creek gold.”

“Where from?”

“I can’t rightly say--yet. Maybe we’ll learn in good time. We
generally do. You see, it’s a sample of the stuff brought in by
a boy who’s working along the Lias River territory. That boy I
told you of awhile back. The feller you beat over the head at the
Speedway the night of its festival. Pretty stuff.”

McLagan was turning the bottle in his hand. He rolled its contents
over and over, intently examining its colour and the texture of its
grains.

“It’s cleaner than most,” he said presently. “Looks like it was
washed by a pretty expert hand. It’s like none of the others. Not
even the Eighty Mile stuff. Eighty Mile--that’s on the Canadian
side.”

“Yes.” Burns eased himself in his chair. “No. It’s not like any
of the other. It looks like tropical stuff, and if I didn’t know
better, I’d surely say it was.”

McLagan set the bottle down and sat gazing at it.

“What is there there? An ounce?” he asked, without raising his eyes.

“Half, I’d guess.”

“Can you sell me it?”

Burns chuckled.

“Why, I could, but----”

“Will you?”

McLagan was gazing squarely into the smiling round face before him.
The banker’s shrewd mind was thinking quickly. He shook his head.

“No,” he said. “You can have that bottle, a present at my expense.
I’m glad when a man like you gets interested in our stuff. Some
day, maybe, you’ll quit oil for the other. But, say, won’t you tell
me about it? You’ve got me guessing.”

“There just isn’t a thing to tell, Victor.”

“Sure?”

The banker’s eyes were looking squarely into the other’s.

“Not--now.”

“I see.”

McLagan had removed himself from the desk. He still held the bottle
with its sample of gold-dust in his hand.

Victor stood up and nodded comprehensively.

“That’s all right, boy,” he said. “If it’s any use, keep that
stuff. I’m shipping a mighty big dope of it away by next mail.
You’d be astonished if you knew how much. Say, how’s that wreck
down your way making out? The folks are all guessing about it. A
lumber ship, ain’t it? Any news of the owners yet?”

“Not yet,” McLagan replied. “Guess the seas’ll break her to pieces
in a while. Say, Victor, I’m mighty obliged for our talk--and
this.” He held up the bottle and then set it in an inner pocket.
Then he thrust out a hand in farewell. “Guess I won’t see you for
quite awhile. When I do I’ll have big news concerning oil for you.
Are you looking to get in?”

“Always.” The banker gripped the outstretched hand.

“Right. I’ll do the best I know for you when the time comes.
Thanks.”

McLagan passed out on to the sidewalk again. Just for a moment he
stood deeply considering, then he turned away and moved off in the
direction where the best dwelling-houses stood something apart
from the collection of hovels which made up by far the greater
proportion of the city’s home residences.




                           CHAPTER XVIII

                      McLagan Achieves an End


Claire Carver was alone in the sun-parlour, which was one of the
many small comforts she had added to the square, frame building
which, since the bettering of her fortunes, had become her home.
She was occupying a large rocker-chair, engaged upon a task hardly
to be expected in a woman whose nights were spent at the gaming
tables of the Speedway, and whose skill, and nerve, and capacity
in holding her own against the vulture-like flotsam haunting that
gambling hell, was a by-word of the countryside.

Her busy needle was plying swiftly and skilfully upon some intimate
silken garment, the contemplation of which gave her the deepest
sense of womanly satisfaction. A small table was near to her
hand littered with all the odds and ends which usually overflow
a woman’s work-basket. She was quite alone with her work and her
thoughts. She was even glad that her mother was somewhere in the
domestic quarters of the house engaged, as was her wont at all
times, upon matters relating to creature comfort. She knew that
the older woman had found solace in their new life and she was
glad. She had found something like happiness in the care of her one
remaining offspring who had become all in all to her since those
days of her earlier disaster.

The afternoon was well advanced. The sun was pouring out of the
western sky, moving on with that speed which ever seems to
increase as the day progresses. It was hot but pleasant. The
day was quite windless, and the hum of mosquitoes and flies was
incessant beyond the netting covering to the range of open windows
with which the place was almost completely surrounded.

After a while the girl looked up and her pretty blue eyes were
unsmiling. The satisfaction she had in her work found no reflection
in them. There was even a suggestion of unhappiness in the
preoccupation of the gaze she turned upon the scene beyond the
netted windows.

Perhaps she was tired. Perhaps there was weariness of mind behind
her eyes. Her beauty was no less. There were no outward and visible
signs of wear for all the high pressure of the artificial sort of
life she lived. But the buoyancy, the intensity her wonderful eyes
usually displayed under the shaded lights of the Speedway’s poker
room were utterly lacking now. It almost suggested that the fierce
fires of the gambler spirit had already begun to burn the youth out
of her.

The scene beyond the netted windows seemed to hold her. The city
lay there sprawling on the lake shore. A scattering of small
dwellings intervened between her and the main buildings. It was
squalid. It was as ugly as only a collection of primitive human
dwellings could make it. From where she sat she could see the
pretentious dome of Max’s Speedway, which was the medium of her
fortune. She could see a flash of the sunlit waters of the lake,
and then beyond, overshadowing all the puny human handiwork, rose
the dark outline of the splendid hills of her childhood.

It was the latter that held her, and in a moment the precious
silken garment upon which she had spent more dollars than a year
ago she could have spent cents, was completely forgotten.

Her thought had flung back to another life and its people; folk,
who, unlike herself, lived in the open and the daylight. She was
thinking of the rugged coast with its fiercely alluring bays,
its inlets and its upstanding headlands. She was thinking of the
rough, strong man who lived in a home like an eagle’s eyrie so that
he could gaze upon God’s good world and revel in those fierce,
bracing elements which so appealed to and matched his own nature.
She remembered that last recent meeting with him on the deck of
the wreck in the bay from which she had fled in utter and complete
panic.

It was a moment not easily to be forgotten. She still shrank from
contemplating her own display of weakness, but it robbed her of
not one moment’s delight in the memory of the quiet nerve and calm
resolution with which Ivor McLagan had reassured and comforted her.
Then she remembered the time when he had deliberately picked her up
in his arms and helped her over the vessel’s side. He had done it
without a second thought, and as though he had been dealing with
some terrified child. And then she remembered his plain face as it
had smiled back into hers over the side of the vessel as returning
courage had once more restored her confidence.

He was quite plain and generally unsmiling for all a certain humour
she sometimes saw lying behind his eyes. Then he was so harshly
rough--at times. It was not always so. And it was mostly manner.
Oh, she knew that, and she smiled softly to herself as she thought
of the fashion in which he had sought to drive her from the deck
of that vessel. She sighed. She liked him. She liked and trusted
him. Nobody could help liking him, she told herself. He was so
transparently honest and--and simple. Then she smiled again, almost
tenderly, as she reviewed those scenes in which he and she had been
the only actors. How many were they? How many times had he asked
her to----?

Her eyes sobered and her thought passed swiftly to another man.
It was the dark Italian face of Max Lepende that shut out her
vision of the other. The thing she feared, the thing she had even
discussed with Ivor, was impending. Her woman’s instinct was deeply
perturbed as she thought of a little scene that had occurred
just as she was leaving the Speedway the night before. Max had
approached her as her game broke up. She had had an especial run
of good luck. He came to her smiling, elaborate, and impressive in
his manner. He had asked her permission to ride with her in her
automobile to her home. There was a bunch of “toughs” around, he
told her. He had had word of a possible hold-up. She must bank with
him for the night and he begged her to accept his escort. Then had
come the demonstration of the man’s purpose. In the automobile he
had produced a jewelled pendant of great value. He had craved her
acceptance of it with all the display which his extravagant manner
made so sickening to her. He had almost forced it upon her. But she
had refused, definitely, even coldly, and she had witnessed the
instant effect of her refusal upon him.

The girl was more of a psychologist than perhaps she knew. She had
certainly learned to know something of the man who ruled over the
destinies of the Speedway. She had watched Max as he returned the
pendant to its case. Driving the automobile, with her eyes on the
disreputable road, she had still been aware of the sudden cold,
hard light that had replaced the smile in the man’s dark eyes, and
noted the almost vicious snap with which he closed the case over
the glittering jewels he had offered her. And in that moment she
had remembered her talk with Ivor on the subject of this man, and
was glad of it. It was good to think of Ivor McLagan, with his
plain strong face, at such a moment. And the more so when the car
had stopped at her home, and Max had alighted and was taking his
leave of her. What were his parting words? Oh, she remembered them.
They were not easily forgotten, and as much for their tone as their
text. He had spoken with the same old smile she knew by heart,
and which she knew to be as meaningless as all the rest of his
artificialities.

“I guess the hold-up didn’t mature,” he had said. “I sort of felt
it wouldn’t, Claire, with me around. You see, the folks of this
city mostly have more sense than to get across me. The toughest of
them wouldn’t take a chance that way. And they’re surely wise. I’m
feeling sore, my dear, you couldn’t feel like handling that toy I
was hoping to pass you. Think it over. Don’t leave it the way it
is. Get a sleep on it and maybe, like that hold-up, you’ll think
better of it.”

It was a threat and the girl knew it. It was that moment which
she had long since contemplated when she must choose between this
smooth, unscrupulous creature who had built his fortune upon the
human weakness of those about him, and abandoning the precincts of
the place which had represented salvation to her in her darkest
moments. Ivor was right. “You’re going to get it if you keep
on----” She remembered his words. They were right. She had known it
at the time he had uttered them. And, somehow she was glad and it
comforted her, that it was he who had uttered them, and begged her
to quit the game at the Speedway. Well----

She turned her head sharply. She heard voices talking beyond the
parlour doorway. They were her mother’s and another which she
recognised instantly. It was the voice of the man of whom she was
thinking. In a moment she had bundled the silken garment in her lap
out of sight.

       *       *       *       *       *

There was no sign to indicate Claire’s mood of the moment before.
She was smiling up into McLagan’s face, and the man was telling her
without subterfuge the object of his visit.

“You see, Claire,” he said, “I had to come along for two reasons.
One is, I’m going right up into the hills for a month or so and
won’t be along back in Beacon till summer’s nigh through and so I
won’t see you in quite awhile. And the other is----” He laughed in
his short, unmirthful fashion, “why--something else.”

The mother had left him to make his way to the sun-parlour while
she returned to her interrupted labours. She was glad enough to
do so. There was never a moment in her simple life that she was
completely without hope of this man as a son-in-law.

McLagan had sprawled his great body into a protesting cane-rocker.
The table, with its feminine litter intervened between him and the
woman who was the most precious thing in all the world to him.

“Seeing there’s two reasons, I guess that’s so,” Claire said slily.
Then her smile lit anew. “But I’m real glad you came along now,
Ivor. I’d just have hated you going along up to the hills and being
away all that time without seeing me first.” Then she laughed
outright. “Say, what’ll your tame spook be doing with you away?”

The man shook his head.

“I don’t rightly know,” he said seriously. “Maybe the sea’ll
swallow him up. And I’d say it would be good that way.” Then a deep
light grew in his eyes. “But it’s real kind of you saying that,
Claire. I just had to come along, anyway.”

The girl wanted to ask him why. There was an impulse, a quick,
hot impulse to challenge him, and somehow it was an impulse which
only a brief while ago would never have been stirring. But she
refrained. Instead she turned her eyes to the wide-open windows,
and gazed away at the hills of her childhood.

“You see, I’ve got things to tell you--before I go. And they’re
important,” McLagan went on quietly.

The girl’s gaze remained upon the hills so full of memory for her.
But suddenly her pulses had started to hammer in a fashion so
unruly that she was horrified lest the man might be aware of it.

“You mean about that--wreck?”

“Yes. About that--wreck.”

Claire sighed. Her pulses had suddenly sobered. But the calm that
replaced her moment of emotion had no satisfaction in it. Now her
gaze came back to the man’s face. And the wide blue eyes were
striving for a smile of interest she did not feel.

“Yes, tell me,” she said, with a pretence of eagerness. “It was
all very mystifying and horrible. I haven’t forgotten. I’d say it
isn’t easy to forget that sort of thing. My, I was scared.”

McLagan began to grope in his pockets.

“May I smoke?” He was holding up his cigar-case.

“Surely,” the girl laughed. “Isn’t it queer? You haven’t always
asked that.”

“No,” the man smiled back. He glanced about the handsome loggia
with its pretty comforts. “It’s queer the way we change with
circumstances.”

“Yes. Smoke up. I like the rougher things best. Maybe I didn’t
always feel that way. I’ve seen so much of the smooth and shining
since I came to Max’s Speedway that I kind of like to think of the
rough granite I used to know back there in the hills.”

McLagan glanced out of the window as he lit his long, lean cigar.

“Yes,” he said. “It’s stood up to things since the world began.
Say, kid, I want you to hand me anything you can about--Jim. I
mean, I know the story you and your Mum handed me at the time.
I know all that, but---- Say, he’d made a real big strike in
Australia and was on his way back to home. Was he bringing his
stuff along? Or was it banked? What were the plans he’d made? I
sort of remember a long letter he’d sent. Did he hand your Mum
details?”

Claire was startled. She sat up in her rocker and one beautifully
shaped hand was raised and passed across her smooth brow. Then it
rested for a moment upon her wealth of ruddy hair.

“We--we don’t know a thing, Ivor,” she said in a low voice, as she
gazed earnestly into his face. “Not a thing but what you’ve heard
from us. He’d made a strike. I--I believe it was a wonderful
strike. His letter conveyed that. And he was on his way home on
the _Imperial_ with the result of it. But whether in dust or a
bank credit I can’t even guess. Then the ship sank, and he was
drowned----”

McLagan shook his head.

“Not drowned,” he said.

For some moments there followed complete silence.

“But the ship sank. They picked up the S O S. She’s never been
heard of since. It was in mid-ocean. And Jim--Jim has never been
heard of again.”

The girl’s protest came with swift passionate intensity.

“The ship didn’t sink. And Jim wasn’t--drowned.”

McLagan spoke in that queer rough fashion he never failed to use in
moments of deep conviction.

Claire stared at him with questioning eyes. A surge of emotion
was driving through her. There was such conviction in the man’s
tone and manner. Jim was not drowned. The _Imperial_ did not sink.
Suddenly she leant forward.

“What do you mean, Ivor?” she urged in a tone almost as rough
as his. “Tell me. Tell me quick. I must know. Jim’s alive. The
_Imperial_----”

McLagan shook his head.

“I don’t think he’s alive. And the ship----”

“You mean he’s dead--killed--maybe----”

“Murdered for his stuff.”

Again there fell a silence and the man watched the face of the girl
through the smoke of his cigar. Her breath was coming quickly, and
she was struggling for composure. At last she steadied herself.

“Ivor, tell me. Oh, tell me all you know. Don’t keep me in
suspense. I know. I see. It’s--it’s something to do with that
wreck and--and the shadow----” She flung out one delicate finger,
pointing, “That figure. It--it--was--Jim’s--shadow. Oh!”

The girl’s intuition had leapt. There was excitement, passion,
horror in that final ejaculation and the man saw that it was no
moment for delay. There was a dreadful look in the beautiful eyes
that were gazing wildly into his. He removed his cigar.

“Get a grip on yourself, little girl,” he said quickly, and in
that tone of gentleness he only rarely used. “I’ll tell you what
I know. It’s not a deal. But it’s enough to say--to my mind--that
Jim was murdered. The wreck down on my coast is your Jim’s ship.
That I know beyond doubt. And that shadow--I don’t know how it
comes there, I don’t know the meaning of ghostly shadows, but I
guess I’ve convinced myself I’ve recognised in that shadow a crazy
sort of outline of your Jim. Jim was a mighty big man and he had
a walk I’d recognise dead easy. Do you remember, kid, that ghost,
or whatever it was, was moving. It was a queer figure of a man
walking--towards us. Do you remember? But of course you do. Do you
know I sort of recognised Jim’s walk in that thing’s movements?”
He shook his head with a puzzled, far-off look in his eyes.
“Guess, maybe, it’s fancy. Maybe I’m all wrong. But, anyway, the
notion’s back of my head. Jim died right there on that deck. He was
killed--murdered--_while he was walking aft_.”

He went on at once as the girl remained silent.

“Who killed him? And why?” He shrugged his great shoulders. “That’s
the thing I’m going to find out. Where’s the skipper and crew of
that ship? They quit her in fair weather. Why? Who changed her
name? Why? Why kill your brother? For his wad? Sure. Not for any
bank credit. Where’s his partner, that boy, Len Stern? He’s not
showed up.”

Claire was listening to his every word with close attention. Such
was her intensity that her lips moved as though she were repeating
to herself the things he said. The instant he ceased speaking,
sharp and passionately came her challenge.

“You’ve more than that to tell, Ivor!” she cried. “Tell it me. You
must. Oh, you don’t know all this means to me. You don’t know the
ugly thing you’ve raised up in me. Ivor--Ivor--! I think I could
kill the man who murdered our Jim with my own two hands. He was my
brother. He hadn’t a thought but for us. There’s not a thing in all
the world I wouldn’t do to--to hand those folks who murdered him
the justice they need. It just frightens me the way I feel. Tell
me.”

“There isn’t a thing more to tell now, Claire. There surely isn’t.
I don’t know a thing yet but what I’ve told you. But I mean to
know.”

“And then you’ll come to me--and tell me?”

McLagan shook his head.

“Ther’ll be no need.” The man sat forward in his chair, and
reaching out one hand it closed over the slim hand of the girl,
which, in her urgent emotion, had been laid upon her work-table.
His whole manner had softened from his threat against those he
was seeking. And, listening to him, the girl grew calm under the
influence of his gentle tone of supreme confidence. “Say, Claire,
I’ve asked for the right to fix things for you. I’ve asked, and
you’ve always refused. Well, I’m asking nothing now. I’m just
telling you. Jim was your brother. Well, I’m just taking to myself
the right to get after the folks who’ve killed him. You can’t stop
me. No one can. And when I’ve located ’em, when I’ve got ’em where
I need ’em, they’ll be dealt with, sure as God, in the fashion they
deserve. It’s my right which you can’t deny me. Jim was a friend
of mine and I love his sister better than life. No,” he went on,
in the same gentle tone, as the girl released her hand from his.
“I’m making no break. I’m not asking a thing. I’m just telling you
the straight fact, and assuring you of the thing my mind’s fixed
on. Maybe I’ve made you angry. I can’t help it. I don’t want to.
There’s not a thing farther from my mind. I want you to get the
fact I’m claiming a right the world, and you, can’t deny me. Now I
want you to try and forget all about it.”

“How can I forget it all?”

The girl shook her head. The trouble in her eyes was almost
painful. But through it all there was something gazing out upon
this big plain creature which anybody but he must have interpreted
without a second thought.

“To you Jim has been dead nearly a year,” McLagan said. “It’s just
as it was. Only the circumstances are different--now.”

“I didn’t mean that.”

“What did you mean?”

The man was startled. In an instant a flush dyed his
weather-stained cheek. Then it paled abruptly. He turned and flung
his cigar at an open window. It hit the netting and fell on the
floor. He sprang up and collected it again and turned to the girl
sitting with her face turned away so that he only beheld the charm
of its profile.

“Claire?”

“Yes, Ivor?”

“Would it worry you if I made another bad break?”

The girl shook her head.

“I don’t think so, Ivor.”

The man smoothed back his unruly hair.

“Here, I want to get it clear. There’s just one sort of break I
feel like making.”

His tone was rough and contained nothing of his real feelings.

The girl inclined her head and her eyes came frankly to his face.
She read the doubt there. She read a whole lot more.

“I only seem to remember one sort of break,” she said, with the
dawn of a smile that was irresistible.

“Thank God!”

In a moment all doubt had passed out of the man’s eyes. He was
smiling with all the transparent happiness of a schoolboy. He came
over to the girl’s chair, and, reaching down, took possession
of both her yielding hands. She stood up, tall and slight, and
infinitely beautiful in her pretty afternoon frock.

“Now the right is doubly mine, little girl,” he said. “And, by God!
there’s no one on this darn old earth going to rob me of it. Mine,
eh? Mine at last!” And caught her up in his arms.




                            CHAPTER XIX

                   McLagan Returns from the Hills


McLagan surveyed the litter strewn about the beach. It was a queer
collection. There were two upturned boats with their white seams
smeared and daubed heavily with tar. They were hardly recognisable
as the well-painted lifeboats that had once stood on the boat deck
of the wreck lying on the far shore of the bay. A wealth of ship’s
ropes sprawled upon the shingle. Ropes collected as a result of
sheer covetousness rather than from a point of view of utility.
Many of them were great hawsers and of no use whatsoever in the
sort of sailing that Sasa Minnik undertook. Then there were heavy
cable chains, and ship’s buckets. There was a great store of
tumbled ship’s canvas. There were pots and pans and tools of every
description. There were an array of lumber, too, and blankets,
and plates, and knives and forks and dishes. It was an amazing
collection of sheer loot which only the undisciplined mind of the
half-breed could have prompted. And it had been amassed in the two
months and more that McLagan had been away on his trip up into the
hills.

For some moments the white man regarded the collection with
frowning eyes. Then his gaze came back to the sturdy figure of his
servant whose dark features were screwed up into that which the
other interpreted as a grin of sublime predatory satisfaction. His
own eyes were deadly serious for all the smile lurking behind them.

“Sasa,” he said quietly, “you always were a rogue and a thief and
a liar, but I never guessed you were a bigger rogue than coward.
The temptation of all this loot was too much even for your scare,
eh? You’ve been aboard that wreck, and you’ve looted it from end to
end. I guess I ought to beat you. I surely ought. But I’m not going
to. No. It kind of seems to me your low-down thieving nature’s
knocked something that’s even worse out of you--your rotten
scare of that ship. And that’s surely to the good. For me you
can keep your junk. But I don’t know what’ll happen when the big
Commissioner knows the thief you are. Maybe he’ll have you hanged
by your neck. You helped save my life when that guy wanted it bad.
But I don’t see how I’m going to butt in when the big Commissioner
gets busy on you.”

The half-breed was undisturbed by the threat. The creases on his
ugly face only deepened and he shook his head.

“The big man, Commissioner, not say nothing, boss,” he said. “He
come by ship. I tak him by ’em. Oh, yes. An’ I say him: ‘Dis junk.
It not nothing bimeby. The sea all have ’em. Why not Sasa have
’em?’ An’ him big man say: ‘Sasa have him all much plenty what he
darn please.’ So I tak ’em all dis thing much. An’ bimeby plenty
much more. Maybe bimeby I mak ’em good trade. Oh, yes.”

“I see. Boss Goodchurch has been around?”

“Sure, boss. He come with him mans two. Him look an’ look. Him see
all thing plenty, but not the devil spirit. Oh, no.” The man’s eyes
widened at the mere memory of the terrible shadow he still feared
so dreadfully. “Him no sun when big man come. Him not see. No. Then
Sasa think big much. Sasa say: ‘No sun, no devil spirit.’ It good.
Sasa go by ship when no sun. He wait. The sun him go down in sea.
It good. Bimeby Sasa get all thing that way. Yes.”

McLagan laughed, and the half-breed grinned back at him.

“You’re all sorts of a scoundrel, anyway, Sasa.”

“Sasa much wise man.”

The man’s final retort was quite unanswerable, and the white man
left it at that.

He glanced out over the grey, cold-looking waters. The whole bay
was more than usually desolate and bleak now that the height of
summer had spent itself. The fall lay ahead. It was already in
the atmosphere. That swiftly passing fall, when days shorten
mercilessly and the nights grow in length with the coming of the
fierce season when the interminable northern light makes life a
burden hard to bear. His absence of ten weeks was a slice out of
the northern summer that left little enough of a season in which
the heart of man can rejoice.

He had completed his work--that urgent work which meant so much
to his Corporation, and to himself, and those who shared in his
labours. But he knew that the importance of it by no means ended
there. In the end it would mean the complete establishment of the
whole region, and the well-being of those adventurers who had made
it their hunting ground. It had been ten weeks of enthralling
labour crowned by a success of which even he had hardly dared to
dream. All he had suspected, hoped for, all the astute Peter Loby
had assured him of, had been proved beyond any element of doubt.
The greatest coal and oil belt the world had ever known had been
definitely discovered.

It ran right back from within sixty miles of the coast sheer
through the hill country across into Canadian territory. And beyond
that it was almost impossible to say how much it occupied of that
chaotic region. The work had been hard. There had been times when
breaking trail by river and portage through well-nigh unexplored
regions was almost fierce. But nothing had deterred, nothing had
deflected his purpose. His investigation had been as complete as
the time permitted. And now he had returned to his home on the bay
with a rough draft map sufficiently detailed for the purposes of
obtaining at Washington and Ottawa the coveted concessions.

But his return had been an even greater triumph than that. After
all, the work of survey had been something prospective. It was a
wide searching forward for the future. It was something appealing
to his engineering mind, and would doubtless appeal to the men of
finance supporting him. But it would mean infinitely less to those
folk in Beacon who were yearning for the immediate. The appeal of
the immediate was awaiting his return to camp.

The great news reached him on the river fully three days east
of his oil camp. It came by a special river man who had been
despatched to locate his outfit. The man had been sent with an
urgent recall. For the lesser men in the camp, in the absence
of their chiefs, found themselves incapable of dealing with the
amazing situation that had arisen. A gusher had broken out at
“Number eight” drill. It was a tremendous gusher at a drilling
that had given no sign of the oil they were about to strike. It
had come in a flood that looked like thousands of barrels a day, a
stream for which their preparations were wholly inadequate. So the
urgency of the despatch.

That was more than a week ago now. They had speeded home in a
delirium of anticipation. And even their anticipation failed to
approach the reality. The thing was infinitely greater than the
fancy of the messenger had painted it, and the difficulties of its
control were immense. But their presence was a tremendous spur, and
the genius of Loby did the rest. At length order was achieved out
of chaos, and all chance of permanent disaster was averted.

Now McLagan was on his way to Beacon with his amazing news. All
sorts of urgent work lay before him. But on one thing he was fully
determined. Whoever else must wait, Claire should be the first
person to learn of the triumph in which his work of this drab grey
coast was about to terminate.

His mood was a happy one in which to greet the henchman who served
him so faithfully. Little wonder then there was a smile behind the
eyes witnessing the half-breed’s demonstration of human cupidity.
Even he found it difficult to administer the necessary chiding. In
a few hours’ time he would be in Beacon with his sensational news
that would send the stocks of his Corporation soaring sky high.
He would be gazing into wonderful eyes which had been one long
tantalizing dream to him during the week of his labours. He would
be holding Claire’s fair slim body in a tight embrace, and telling
her of the great things Fortune had cast for them. It was all so
very, very good to contemplate.

It was really all too good to permit of the obtrusion of lesser
things. But McLagan refused to yield to his natural excitement.
There were other things which must not be ignored. And the sense
of their importance was the more deeply impressed upon him as he
contemplated Sasa Mannik with his collection on the beach, and the
desperate shape which had befallen the pitiful wreck lying at the
far side of the bay.

Even from the distance the inroads of the storming tides were
discernible. The battering of the vessel’s hull was pathetic.
There were added gashes in the poor thing’s sides where her lumber
cargo somehow contrived to protrude. There was no longer a stitch
of canvas upon her yards to scare the sea-fowl with its whipping
in the chill wintry breeze blowing in off the ocean. Whether or
not this was due to Sasa’s depredations it was impossible to tell.
It might be. All her gear was limply adrift, and her yards were
lying sadly. She was leaning at a perilous angle, and the tides had
driven her farther up on to the rocks. One real great storm and
anything might happen to her.

McLagan turned again to his henchman.

“Well? What you been doing besides loading down the beach with all
this junk?”

“I fish by the Lias.”

The half-breed had lowered his tone significantly. And McLagan
sought to penetrate the close mask of immobility which seemed to
have settled upon the man’s features.

The white man permitted a shadowy smile.

“Did you make a swell catch?”

“Maybe, yes. Maybe, no.” Sasa shrugged. “I mak big look for the man
who mak shoot you all up. I think big. Plenty big. I say, this man.
Maybe I find him. Yes. Boss all say plenty Sasa big coward. Him
frightened of fool jack-rabbit. I mak find this man. Then I show
him. I kill him all up dead.”

McLagan laughed.

“But you didn’t find him,” he said slily.

Sasa shook his black head.

“No,” he said simply. “So he live. But I find some thing. Yes. I
mak find cave. Oh, yes. It camp for man. I know him. It all mak
clean not so as an Eskimo camp.”

He chuckled quietly. “Him all swep clean. So. An’ so.” He took
his cap from his mane of hair and a sweeping gesture illustrated
his words. “Maybe him camp this man. Oh, yes.” He returned his
head-gear to its place. “I watch him. Long time. Yes. No. He not
come. An’ bimeby I go. Yes.”

“That was the ‘some thing’?”

“Sure. An’--another some thing.”

“Ah.” McLagan’s tone was interested but he glanced away seawards.
Then, quite abruptly, he indicated the house on the cliff. “We’ll
get right back to home,” he said. “You can hand me your yarn as we
go. You’ll have to get food right away. I’m beating into Beacon as
soon as I’ve eaten. You’ll need to stop around this bay till I’m
through an’ get back. Guess, since the Commissioner doesn’t kick,
you can go right on collecting your junk till the beach is like a
ship’s store. I don’t care a curse what you do so you don’t quit
it. See? The fish can wait.”

       *       *       *       *       *

McLagan’s journey into Beacon was made at his usual reckless speed.
But unlike his usual habit he did not drive straight to the Plaza
Hotel. It might have been expected that bearing such news as he
was conveying to the city he would have sought out the one place
whence its circulation would have been the most rapid. Then there
was Claire. A wild desire was urging him to go straight to the
square frame-built home that had now become almost the whole focus
of his life. But he resisted it. For once in his life he entered
the city almost secretly. His speed had been furious, and his
ponies were well nigh tuckered out, as, in the wintry cool of the
evening he drew up outside a remote livery barn that stood on the
farthest outskirts of the city.

The man’s plans were clearly designed. There was no hesitation.
There was no deviation from the line he had marked out for himself.
It was dark when he turned his spent team over to the proprietor
of the barn. He gave strict and minute instructions for the care
of the weary beasts. Then he set out on foot, and the darkness
swallowed him up.

       *       *       *       *       *

It would have been difficult to associate shadows with Claire’s
smiling blue eyes, raised as they were so happily to the rugged
face of Ivor McLagan. His embrace showed no signs of yielding. It
was an embrace that expressed all the pent feeling of those weeks
of absence which haunting memory had so desperately prolonged. Yet
only a moment before his coming a deep depression had reigned where
now there were only happy smiles. So it had been for much of the
time of his absence.

The girl gently withdrew herself from his arms. It was as though
the riot of her own feelings was such as to demand restraint. She
laughed happily. And she strove to hold a torrent of questions in
check.

“Why, Ivor,” she cried almost reproachfully, “I hadn’t a notion you
were within miles of the city. When I heard your dear old voice
laughing and jollying Mum in the hall-way, I could have shouted for
joy. I surely could. When did you get through? When did you get in?”

She moved to a big rocker chair and pulled it forward. She led him
towards it and McLagan dropped his big body into it with a content
that was shining in every line of his plain face. Then she drew up
her own chair near to him.

“Why, last evening.”

“Last evening?”

McLagan nodded, and his smile deepened at the girl’s tone of
reproach. He spread out his hands in a gesture that was meant to
disarm.

“It had to be that way, kid,” he said. “It just had to be. I could
have beat it right along to here. But if I had I’d never have quit
to fix all the stuff that helped to bring me along back here to
you. Say, I hadn’t a minute till now that I haven’t been on the
dead run. And when I’ve told you you’ll be glad. I wasn’t getting
around here till I could sit and bask right along in the only smile
that makes a feller’s life worth while.”

He eased himself in his chair. Then he reached out and possessed
himself of the arm of the girl’s chair. His great hand closed
over it, and, with consummate ease, he drew it up to his. They
were facing each other, and so close that the polished arms of
the chairs touched side by side. He glanced quickly round the
sun-parlour. The door into the hall-way had been discreetly closed
by the mother, whose fondest hopes had at last been realised. She
had beaten a retreat to the domestic quarters which conveniently
claimed her.

The place still contrived to trap all the sunlight of the late
summer day. The full heat of the season had long since passed. The
wide open windows were no longer netted, for the not infrequent
night frosts had done much to banish the torment of flies and
mosquitoes.

Claire’s reproach had vanished. She was content.

“Tell me,” she said eagerly. “I’m just crazy for all
that’s--happened. It’s been so long, Ivor.” She laughed a little
self-consciously. “Oh dear, you know I just hated the weeks till
they’d passed.”

“They didn’t worry you worse than me,” the man returned. “And yet,
I don’t know. Maybe they did. You see, you hadn’t the thing I had
to--say, kid.” He sat up in his chair. He leant forward. Reaching
out he took possession of the slim hands lying in her lap, those
hands he had so often marvelled over in their deft manipulation
of the cards in the Speedway’s poker room. “I’ve hit the biggest
thing this world can show a feller in the work that’s mine. Gee!”
he breathed deeply, while his eyes narrowed as they gazed into the
beautiful eager face before him. “I’m through with it all. I’m
through--almost--with Beacon. We’re going to get right out. You and
me and your Mum. We’re going where we can live in sunshine all the
year round, where there’s no skitters and blizzards, and no muck.
Do you get me, little girl? It’s right up to you to hand the word.
We’re going to get married, you and me, just as soon as you say
it. And for the sake of all that’s merciful, let it be before the
winter closes down.”

Claire laughed happily.

“I guess you’ve fallen plumb off the main trail!” she cried
delightedly. “You--you--great big, queer old thing. Now, you sit
right back in that chair. My hands are good an’ comfortable in
my lap. You’ve got to sit around the same as if I was your most
important director, and, as my official mining engineer, hand me
your report so I can pass it on to the shareholders and keep them
good--tempered. Now begin.”

McLagan laughed. It was the laugh of a man whose delight was sheer
obedience to a woman’s will. He obeyed her literally. He released
her hands reluctantly enough and sat back. Then his smile faded out
and Claire fancied she detected weariness in his serious eyes.

“It’s easy making that report to you. You won’t need the maps, and
those figures a real director needs. Here it is, kid. We’ve hit a
belt of territory with a world’s coal and oil supply in it. We’re
in first and we’ll have the concession before a news sheet can grab
a detail. That’s that. Coal? There’s hundreds of miles of mountains
of it within a hundred miles of the coast. Say, in two years’ time,
there’ll be a railroad from here to our territory, and from here to
the coast where the mail boat only stands off at present. In a few
years there’ll be a city twice Beacon’s size right down there on
the coast where now ther’s only a fool sort of landing and a bunch
of longshore guys. But that isn’t all, kid. No. That’s all to come.
The real thing, the big thing that’ll set Beacon whooping crazy is
right there at our borings. ‘No. 8’ sprang a gusher on us. They’re
capturing thousands of barrels of the stuff. It’s the biggest oil
flood I’ve seen in fifteen years of a life mussed up in oil. Do you
get it?”

The girl nodded. A light of real excitement was shining in her eyes
and her oval cheeks were flushed to something of the hue of her
beautiful hair. She breathed deeply.

“Yes, I think I understand. Surely I do,” she cried, and her hands
clasped each other tightly. “It’s the big thing of your life, Ivor.
It’s your triumph. It’s all you’ve been patiently working for. I
know. We’ve often talked of it. Work. Always work. Disappointment.
Always disappointment. And then--oh, yes, I know. And Beacon.
That city that’s always been in your mind. That ‘muck-hole,’ as
you’ve always called it. In one bound you--you will have lifted it
right up to a swell prosperity where there won’t be any need for
the conditions you’ve always hated to see lying around. It’s your
complete triumph. Your big thing.”

“It should be.” The man laughed without mirth.

“Should be? It is.”

The girl’s enthusiasm was met with a shake of the head.

“I thought that way, little girl. I guess the notion set me nigh
crazy. The sort of junk I handed up to the gods of fortune would
have set you laffing if you’d seen into my head when I knew about
the thing we’d hit. That was at first. Then I came along down to
home and stood up on that hill and took a peek below. There was
the wreck. It’s the wreck of the ship that was bringing your Jim
home. And then I guess the gods for fortune must have got worried.
I hadn’t a notion of handing ’em up any more junk. The whole darn
thing left me cold. I told myself right there ther’s bigger things
in life than simple success. Much bigger! And amongst ’em, and
maybe biggest of ’em all is the woman who reckons to move along
down the trail of life with you, and all the things that go to
make up her life. Her sufferings are yours, her joys and sorrows,
and--and--no, little kid, the sight of that wreck got me right
away. And I knew that the other didn’t matter. I wasn’t through
with my work. I’d still got it to do. And so I came along. And
that’s why I didn’t get around, for all I was crazy to, until now.”

The girl’s eyes had grown very tender as she listened to the queer
rough tones of this man as he unconsciously laid bare his soul to
her. There was no smiling response. Only a nod. But it told McLagan
all he wanted to know. She, too, was caught again in the terrible
tragedy that had robbed her of a brother.

“You’re the first to hear these things,” he went on quietly. “Not
a soul else in Beacon knows a thing. Not even Victor, at the Bank.
No, I kept it for you. And you’re going to keep it close till I
say. I’ve been on the dead run. I’ve been so busy ... but, there,
little girl, there’s things I can tell you and things I can’t.
Maybe there’s some things you’ll never know. It don’t matter. The
thing I want to hand you right away is we’ve had word from Len
Stern. Goodchurch sent out word about that ship. He asked about
it. And the authority told him she was supposed lost in mid-ocean.
That was that. We knew. We’d got that. But we were playing big. I
guessed our only chance of things was a hope of the message getting
to Len Stern, if he was alive. It did. The news sheets took up our
inquiry and it found him in Perth, Western Australia. He cabled
Goodchurch he was sailing just after I’d set out for the hills. Two
weeks back Goodchurch got word from Seattle. The boy would be along
up right away. We figure he’ll be at the coast to-morrow and I’m
going right down to meet him. I want his story bad. I want it. And
when I got that, maybe----”

He broke off, and a deep, almost savagely brooding light was
shining in his contemplative eyes as he surveyed the table that
still contained the litter of the needlework with which Claire
passed so much of her leisure.

“Won’t you tell me, Ivor? Can’t you?” The girl had reached out,
and, for a moment, one of her hands rested on his, supported on the
arm of his chair.

McLagan shook his head and the girl’s hand was withdrawn.

“Leave all this to me, Claire,” he said with something of his old
brusqueness. “I’m right or I’m wrong. If I’m right----”

Again he broke off. And Claire saw the muscles of his clean-shaven
jaws constrict. Somehow the sight left her with no desire to press
him further.

“No, my dear,” he went on, with added gentleness, “you carry right
on. This thing’ll be through in a few weeks now, one way or the
other. All my own work is fixed. When the other’s cleared up, then
ther’s only to close up my shanty at the coast and come right along
in to wait for my folks--my directors. After that, we’ll beat it
from Beacon. And my work at Washington and Ottawa ’ll help to hand
us quite a swell honeymoon. Does that fix you? Will you----”

The girl nodded, and the man leant back again with an air of great
content.

“That’s fixed sure,” he said. “You’ll just carry right on at your
beloved Speedway.”

The girl shook her head.

“The time’s come for me to quit,” she said quietly.

Claire was smiling, but somehow her smile was unconvincing. McLagan
was sitting bolt upright. His eyes had suddenly narrowed.

“Why?”

It was a throw-back to all that was roughest in him. Again the girl
shook her head.

“Why?”

The man’s tone was unchanged. It was compelling. For another
moment Claire hesitated. She remembered the fashion in which he
had hurled himself to her defence before, and the thought of the
thing he might do caused her hesitation. It was the simple truth,
or complete denial. The latter was impossible. She laughed a little
mirthlessly.

“It’s the thing we once talked of,” she said.

“You mean--Max?”

Claire nodded.

“What is it? Tell me?”

“It was the night before--before I saw you last.”

McLagan nodded. His eyes were almost savage.

“He told me there was word of a hold-up for my automobile. He
offered to accompany me. He assured me no ‘hold-up’ would happen
with him there. It didn’t. In the automobile he offered me
jewellery. I refused it. Then he said something. Do you want what
he said?”

“Every word.” There was a grim clipping to the man’s words.

Accustomed as Claire was to fend for herself; accustomed as she was
to think and act without reference to anything but her own judgment
and inclination, there was something that excited and thrilled her
in the simple act of yielding to this man’s will. It was something
so new--something which, for all her independence, appealed to the
woman in her. He was so strong. He was so ruthlessly rough. But for
all her delight in him a queer apprehension lay back in her mind.

“It was when he left me at the door here,” she said slowly. “What
was it? Yes, I remember.” She laughed. “It isn’t easy to forget.
‘I guess the hold-up didn’t mature. I sort of felt it wouldn’t,
Claire, with me around. You see, the folk of this city have more
sense than to get across me. The toughest of them wouldn’t take
a chance that way. And they’re surely wise. I’m feeling sore, my
dear, you couldn’t feel like handling that toy I was hoping to pass
you. Think it over. Don’t leave it the way it is. Get a sleep on it
and maybe, like the hold-up, you’ll think better of it.’”

“It was a threat?”

The set of the man’s face was a match for his tone. There was
anger, hot anger in the eyes which Nature had designed so admirably
for frowning. The girl nodded.

“Oh, yes. And I remembered our talk. And I knew it was quitting
time. I thought and thought. Oh, I thought so hard. I didn’t
want to quit. I wanted to--to fight it out. You know, Ivor, I’m
foolish that way. I’d got all the money I needed, but it was the
thought of quitting because of--because I’m a woman and he’s a
man. I didn’t quit. No, I went on. But I refused his jewellery. I
refused his every advance. And then I realised. Things seemed to
change somehow, I can’t tell you how. The rest of the women acted
differently. The servants in the place. Oh, the boys didn’t. And
then one day Jubilee forgot to say fool stuff. He didn’t say much,
but it was characteristic. He said, ‘The Queen is dead. Long live
the Republic.’ I turned on him at once. I said, ‘You mean she’s
deposed.’ His face was dead serious for once. He said: ‘Same thing
or worse. They’ve a way of beheading deposed monarchs.’ Then his
queer eyes followed Max as he moved about the dance-room for a
while, and then he looked round on me. He said, ‘Say, Claire, why
not quit with the boodle? It makes a revolution sick to death
when anyone gets away with the stuff they reckon to handle for
themselves.’ I guess I managed to laugh, but there wasn’t a laugh
back of my mind. I thought of you, Ivor. And--two days later I got
a queer note. Here it is. You can read it.”

She took a folded paper from the bosom of her frock and passed it
to the man whose curious silence and seeming rigidity while she
told her story set a feeling of apprehension stirring in the girl.
McLagan took the paper and unfolded it. And his unsmiling eyes
perused its contents:

 You don’t need to worry. The Light of the Aurora is shining, and
 by its light all things are seen, all things are known.

  FOR THE CHIEF LIGHT OF THE AURORA,
  A Lesser Light.

McLagan passed back the paper without a sign, without a word. And
the girl went on.

“You know that note’s given me a notion, Ivor. Oh, I haven’t
worried since I got that. And not a thing has happened. I haven’t
even seen Max. But I’ve seen the boys one way and another. Those
boys who’ve never failed to be good to me. They’re just the same.
But to my mind there’s just one feller could have worded that note
that way. It’s Jub--”

McLagan stirred.

“Leave it at that, Claire,” he broke in quickly. “It don’t matter
who wrote it. But I’m kind of glad for that note, seeing I was
away. But I’m right here now and you belong to me.” He stood up.
He moved to an open window. For some moments he stood there with
his back turned silently gazing out on the distant dome of the
Speedway.

Claire watched him. His square shoulders seemed to fill up the
whole of the window opening. He was so big and strong, and----

“Ivor!”

Her voice was low but urgent. The man turned after a moment and
Claire drew a sharp breath. His face was almost livid with a
consuming rage. He came back to her and stood before her chair.

“I’m going to settle with Max,” he said, through lips that scarcely
moved. “No,” he denied, as Claire was about to protest. “It’s up
to me,” he went on harshly. “That dirty Dago swine threatened you
and would have carried out his threat if those Aurora boys hadn’t
jumped in. Don’t you see? I do. Max would have put a bunch of
sharps on to you. He’d have got at you by every trick of his dirty
Dago mind until he’d got you skinned of your last dollar and were
ready to squeal for mercy. Then, utterly helpless, he’d---- By God!
he’s going to pay. He’s going to pay me. He’s fat and rich out of
the weaknesses of the poor folk of this city, is he? We’ll see.
We’ll----”

“No, no, Ivor!” Claire sprang from her chair. Her hands were held
out in appeal. The terrible purpose shining in the man’s eyes
frightened her. “Don’t do a thing. My dear, my dear, there’s been
no harm done. Think of it. Thanks to those folk of the Aurora Clan,
I’ve a complete laugh on him. I’ve a fortune, almost, in Victor’s
bank. What does it matter? Sure it doesn’t, and then--and then in
the fall we’ll be married and away from Beacon. No, no, Ivor,
don’t look that way! Don’t act that way. You scare me. Besides,
he’s powerful. He can buy up the toughs of this place. You might
get---- No, boy, I can’t spare you now. I can’t! I surely won’t!
Ivor, promise me.”

The girl’s appeal was not without effect. The man’s ferocity seemed
to ease. And she almost fancied a smile was somewhere back of his
eyes. He shook his head.

“Max will have to pay--me,” he said grimly. “You don’t need to
worry for me, Claire. Max can do nothing to hurt--me.”

“But he can. He will. He----”

The girl’s protest died weakly away. She caught her breath. A flash
of thought swept through her mind as she gazed into the stern,
strong face she had learned at last to love so deeply.

Then the silence was broken. And it was she who was speaking again.

“Ivor,” she said, in low, gentle tones, but in a manner which
plainly displayed her resolve. “If anything happens to Max through
what I’ve told you, I’ll--I’ll never forgive you. I know what I’m
saying--I’m saying it for you. Do you understand, dear? My love for
you is so big that I won’t have you fall for a personal animosity.
No, no! I won’t stand for it. I want you to remember, too, that but
for Max and his Speedway I’d still be doing our rags of laundry
down on Lively Creek. Remember that. I’ve beaten the game and I’m
going to quit.”

The man raised a hand and passed it over his hair.

“You mean all that, Claire?” he asked.

The girl gazed squarely up into his hot eyes.

“I surely do, dear. There will be no----”

“Don’t say it, little girl.” The man’s smile had broken out at
last. “I know. There’ll be no marrying me in the fall. But there
will.” He reached out and caught her in his arms. “There will be,
my dear, because Max can go clear for me. I’ll not do a thing
since you ask it, since you order it. No, little girl, don’t look
questions at me, an’ don’t ask ’em. I can see them back of your
dandy eyes. I just love you to death, and I want you to feel the
game of life as I see it needs to be a straight one. I’m quitting
now. I’ve still got things to do. To-morrow I’m going to pick up
Len at the coast. He and I’ll have big work for maybe a week. After
that I’m through, and I’ll bring him right along to tell you of
your Jim. So long, little Claire. I guess that note’ll still stand
good. You’ll be safe till I get along back.”

       *       *       *       *       *

The daylight was passing as McLagan left Claire’s home. He hurried
away down the unmade road leading back into the eastern purlieus
of the city. He came abreast of the Speedway which had so many
turbulent reminders for him. But he passed it by, and thrust from
him the leaping anger the sight of it inspired. He crossed over
to the Plaza Hotel where he ate a hurried meal. Then, later, he
passed again out into the night and his way lay westwards where the
moonlight waters of the lake shone still and cold.




                             CHAPTER XX

                   The Last of the Moving Shadow


McLagan was nursing his team. For once his driving speed was
moderated. But then he knew the call he had yet to make upon his
ponies. They had already made the journey from Beacon to the
coastal harbour, which, one day, in his dreams, he visualized as a
flourishing seaport, the rail base of a fresh route to the great
interior radiating about Beacon Glory. Miles away to the West
lay the port of Seward where the Government railroad, cutting in
to the heart of Alaska, began its hopelessly unprofitable career
towards Fairbanks. But no thought of such a failure attached to the
railroad in his mind. Oil and coal would preclude all possibility
of that. Furthermore the vast capital of his Corporation lay behind
him. And lack of capital was the thing which had so far made a
failure of the Alaskan peninsula which had at one time been known
as “Seward’s Folly.”

Now he was leaving the coast behind again, and beside him, on the
spring seat of his buckboard, was the bronzed creature he had come
in search of. The man’s baggage was enduring the violent joltings
of the trail on the rack behind them as the two men talked of the
thing which had at last brought them together again.

“It sort of seems like yesterday I was in Beacon,” Len Stern said
after awhile, gazing out over the broken hill country through
which they were driving. “Say, I mind the landmarks as if I’d never
quit. You know, for all it’s a tough proposition it’s my home
country in a way. I don’t mean I was born here. No! I’d hate to
think that. But--Gee! I was glad quitting Perth. Man, I’ve had heat
enough to make a feller need blankets in hell.”

There was a smile in the dark eyes of the man who had journeyed
thousands of miles to answer the call which the other had sent out
on the sound waves. Perhaps his answer had been the more ready for
the fact of those memories stirring now.

McLagan shook up his ponies.

“Well, we could do with some of it around this territory in winter,
Len. But it’s a queer sort of ‘come-back’ for you. Maybe it’s
tough. I don’t know how you’re fixed. We haven’t had a deal of time
to talk that sort of stuff. But I fetched you along, and I want
to say right here, if it makes things better for you, you’re my
guest all the way from Perth to here and back again, if you want
to go. I want to tell you I’ve hit a trail that’s likely going to
set your eyes wide, and make you guess you’re dreaming. But you
won’t be dreaming. No. You’ll be wide awake looking on some of the
worst dirt lying back of human nature. I’m taking you right out now
to get a look at the _Imperial_, the ship your poor dead partner
sailed for home in, and never reached. She blew in on this coast
without a soul on board, and with her name changed. And with----
But we’ll leave it that way till you’ve set your two eyes on to
her. And meanwhile you can hand me some stuff I’m yearning to hear
about. After we’re through with this trip there’ll be some more for
us to do. But that can wait. Then I’ll run you right into Beacon
where maybe you’ll be glad to hand the story of things to a lone
mother, and the sister who’s still mourning a dead brother.”

The dark face of the man from Australia was turned on his
companion. McLagan had always been a dominant personality to him
in the old days. It was the same still. His eyes were questioning,
but he remained silent. Now that he knew this old friend was at the
other end of the thing that had called him back to Alaska he was
content to await developments. And McLagan went on in that direct
fashion which was so characteristic of him.

“Before I get your yarn I fancy handing you mine. You see, the
obligation’s all on me. I’m marrying Jim’s sister this fall, and
maybe that’s partly where I come in on your play. But it isn’t
all. No. This thing had got me before I knew about that. Jim was
always a friend of mine, as you know, and when I learned his ship
had gone down, and he’d been drowned it hit me for myself as well
as for Claire and his mother. Then when this ship blew in, and I
located that it was the _Imperial_, and she hadn’t gone down in
mid-ocean, it took me guessing hard. Now the thing I want of you is
identification. It was you who chartered the vessel, I guess, and
you’ll know it again. And maybe you’ll know the skipper again--if
you were to see him. That’s what I want of you. I’m reckoning Jim
was aboard that ship with a big wad of dust. I’m reckoning the
skipper feller knew about the dust and yearned for it so that
murder looked good to him.”

Len Stern’s eyes were on the sturdy backs of the ponies. They were
hard, relentless, as they contemplated the sweating brown coats
where the trail dust lay caked upon them.

“He sailed with more that haf a million dollars of dust,” he
said quickly. “And the plan was he’d trade it where he could,
touching in at ports where best it could be done, without too many
questions. Julian Caspar was the shipmaster and owner, and he stood
on a swell commission. He surely knew of the stuff.”

McLagan nodded, and drew his team down to a walk as they mounted a
sharp incline towards a wide, windswept plateau.

“So, feeling that way, murder might well look good to him?” he said.

“Yes. Feeling that way. And Jim not guessing.”

“What like was this boy, Caspar?”

“All sorts of a hard seaman.”

Len sniffed at the fresh fall breeze which seemed so good to him,
as the buckboard cleared the incline on to the plateau. An immense
view opened out. It was a broad, treeless expanse with a wide front
of purple hills in the distance.

“Say,” he went on after a moment, “I made the deal with him. I
collected him in Perth. And I’d say he was a boy to fix himself
right on to a man’s memory. He was quite a chunk of a man, broad,
and strong and medium in height. He was clean-shaven and rough. But
the thing standing out in my mind was his eyes----”

“Ah!”

Len looked round sharply.

“Have you seen ’em?” he asked.

“Maybe.” McLagan nodded. “Blue. Pale, queer blue, like the eyes of
some sort of dead fish.”

“That’s the boy. Ther’ ain’t two pairs of eyes like his in the
world. You surely have seen ’em.”

“Yep. I guess I must have seen ’em.”

McLagan whipped up his ponies and set out across the plateau at a
steady gait.

“Now, Len,” he went on, “we got twenty good miles to make before we
reach my shanty. And we can do a heap of talk between this and that
lay out. It don’t seem to me that we can do better than hand each
other our two yarns. Maybe you’ll be glad to hand me all you can of
the things that happened after you quit here with Jim, till you got
along now. Then I’ll hand you the whole story I know. But before
you begin I want to say one thing. It’s this. That half a million
of dust, or the bulk of it, is coming right back to you as the one
partner left. It’s lying now where no harm’s likely to come to it.
Jim’s gone. There’s no guess to that. So the stuff’s yours. And
that’s just between you and me. You understand? Claire don’t need
any. Nor Jim’s mother. Those folks are my care. Now you can start
right in with your talk.”

       *       *       *       *       *

The two men climbed out of the lazaret. They had explored the wreck
from end to end. Now they passed out of the alleyway under the
break of the vessel’s poop, and came to the main hatch. McLagan
seated himself upon it and beckoned his companion to a seat beside
him. Curiously enough the seat he invited Len Stern to was the
exact spot where once Sasa Mannik had seated himself, and from
which he had ultimately fled in terror.

Len sprawled himself upon the hatch which was lying over at the
sharp angle of the vessel’s perilous list. And his attitude left
him in full view of the litter of the deck which had resulted from
the half-breed’s raids upon the vessel’s gear.

There was a tremendous change for the worse in the wreck. More
than two months of every condition of weather had made desperate
inroads. The vessel’s whole position had been detrimentally
shifted. The seas, playing on the broken hull at high tide, had
wrought havoc, and she looked to be only hanging together awaiting
the final belabourings which would ultimately complete the work
of her destruction. Every removable article of her gear that had
appealed to the predatory instincts of Sasa Mannik had been carried
away. And she looked now just what she was, a poor tattered thing
awaiting her dismal end.

McLagan was scarcely concerned for the change in her. There was
no sentiment about him in the matter of this ugly relic of a bad
story. He would be glad enough to see the last of her--now. She had
lasted sufficiently long for him to complete the work he had set
his hand to. No. The oil man was concerned for other things. And
now, as he sat beside his companion on the hatch, his searching
gaze was turned skywards.

At the moment no sun was visible. But then the sky was full of
loose cloud that came and passed under a high top wind. Just now a
heavy cloud had obscured the sun. It would pass. It was passing.
And then--

“It’s all like yesterday to me,” Len Stern said, as he gazed out
over the litter. “You see, Mac,” he went on, with a comprehensive
movement of the arm, “I lived with all this days coming up the
coast from Perth. This is Caspar’s ship all right, all right. It
was more than half crewed by Chinks. I wonder what’s become of ’em.
There were two officers, and a third that was a promoted seaman.
I doubt any of ’em having officers’ tickets. I’m surely wondering
about them. Say, in that cabin there was only a meal for one.”

His dark face frowned in concentrated thought. After a moment he
went on again.

“Those two empty chests in the lazaret are the chests our bags
of dust were stowed in. Jim and I, and Caspar stowed ’em there
ourselves. Ther’ wasn’t a soul else wise to them. No. That was our
play. We couldn’t afford to take chances with a crew of Chinks. I
wonder. But the motor launches are gone. Both of ’em. They cost me
a pile in Perth. They were sea-going craft for Jim and Caspar to
use in making their trade. You see, they could be run without any
of the crew. We meant leaving those darn toughs without a guess.”

“I see.” McLagan’s eyes were full of thought as they watched the
slowly passing cloud. “You had two launches? I’d wondered. You see
the lifeboats had been left intact. I didn’t guess there was a
second.”

“You located one?”

Len’s question came alertly.

“Yes. Where were they stowed?”

“On the poop-deck. They were kept aft for convenience and safety.”

“I see.”

Len stirred and sat up.

“Tell me, Mac. You reckon sure Caspar murdered Jim?”

“Sure.”

“What about the--crew?”

McLagan shrugged.

“We’re going to get that--later. I’d say anything might have
happened them. Maybe they were reckoned in his murder schedule.
Maybe they were glad to get away easy in the second launch. But
we’ll locate all that--later.”

There was a curious grimness in McLagan’s emphasis on his final
word. And he glanced quickly up at the sadly drooping yards as they
creaked under a puff of stirring wind. The cloud bank had nearly
passed, and the prevailing gloom was steadily lightening.

“I don’t just get how you located he’d murdered Jim,” Len went on
curiously. “Was it sort of circumstances? He knew of the gold.
You’ve seen Caspar and know the sort of tough he is. You’ve located
the gold. Maybe there’s more back of your mind than you’ve told.”

McLagan shook his head. Then he flung out a hand pointing down
the deck. The sun had broken out, and the wreck was bathed in its
generous light.

“No, boy,” he said. “Look right down the deck there. You’re asking
the way I know Jim was murdered by Caspar. It’s there for you to
see, and I was waiting on it. Am I crazy? Are we all crazy? Is that
real or imagination? What is it, anyway? There’s Jim, right there.
That queer fool shadow that’s trying its best to walk along towards
us and don’t ever get nearer. That’s Jim. I’ve seen him before,
and I wanted you to see him only I wasn’t sure the sun would shine
right. You see that poor darn thing only haunts this deck when the
sun shines. See, boy. You can see it? Eh? It’s a queer shadow.
It’s the outline of a big man as plain as the eye can see. And it
throws another shadow right on the deck. Am I wrong? No. I’m not
wrong. Could you mistake that big, tall body and gait, you, who’ve
worked alongside Jim Carver? No. Jim was done right up on that
spot. Maybe folks ’ud guess it’s a crazy notion. But it’s so. I’m
dead sure. And now you’ve seen it you’ll be dead sure, too. Say,
get a good look and we’ll get back up to my shanty and eat. And
tomorrow we’re beating it right up into the hills where--Come on,
boy.”

But Len Stern was in no hurry to quit. His dark eyes were held
fascinated by the queer shadow. Could he see it? Of course he
could; it was there plain enough for anybody to see. There was no
question in his mind. The thing was what McLagan had said it was.
There could be no mistaking it. He was without any superstitious
qualm. There was wonder, amazement in his eyes, but none of the
panic which the vision had inspired in others. So he sat there
fascinated. That was all. And McLagan was forced to urge him again.

       *       *       *       *       *

It was a little backwater hidden in a rift in the granite hills.
Its mouth opening on to the waters of the Lias River was a ten
foot split in the sheer face of bald rock. But inside it was quite
different. Within a few yards of the absurd opening it widened
abruptly, with sloping, funnel-like sides that were graciously
clad by a wealth of spruce growing up the hillsides, and staunchly
protected from the devastating winds above. It was a remote, stuffy
spot, humid and dank, and a tangle of undergrowth profusely crowded
the water’s edge.

How far the widening stream ran back would have been difficult to
determine. Maybe it was one of the many little hill streams which
went to feed the great river at the time when the Spring warmth
transformed the winter snows. Again it might easily have been one
of those tiny recesses which have no other meaning than the impulse
of Nature in the remote years of the world’s birth. Almost on the
instant of entry upon the widening water the ultimate was obscured
by the jutting of a hill slope. The course of the water swung away
round a sharp bend, lost amidst the flourishing vegetation that
looked to make its navigation impossible.

Cy Liskard was standing on the bank at the water’s edge. It was at
a place where the undergrowth had been laboriously cleared. The
ground was a-litter with fresh stumps where the cut had been made,
and young shoots of new growth were already seeking to repair the
human damage inflicted.

His boat was lying in the water at his feet. It was moored fast to
a tree stump. It was laden with his outfit for a prolonged journey.
But the man was gazing about him with a queer look in his pale
blue eyes. It was a look of puzzlement, of incredulous and angry
surprise. It was the look of a man whose mind has become well-nigh
paralysed by the realisation of a disaster of appalling nature.

He gazed out over the water searching stupidly in the depths of
the crowding vegetation. His gaze wandered to the outline of the
jutting hill which hid the beyond. It turned back to the opening on
to the river in the same hopeless fashion. Then it came again to
the narrow landing upon which he was standing.

At last he bestirred himself. He moved back to higher ground and
sat down on a boulder. And his eyes were turned upon the soft soil
in which his own feet had made such deep impressions. He followed
his own footprints to where he had first stepped ashore from his
boat, and quickly realised that there were other footprints. Many
others. A perfect maze of them.

He drew a deep breath. It was the first sign he had given beyond
the curious expression of his usually expressionless eyes. He was
staring at a deeply driven stake within a yard of the water’s
edge. A hemp rope was lashed about it. It was securely knotted in
a fashion he knew by heart. But the rope had been severed, and its
end lay close by on the ground. The thing that it had held had
gone. Vanished. And he knew now that others had found this remote
spot, others had ventured up that narrow rift in the rocks. Others
had located the hiding place which had served him for so long.
Who? Who were those others? And the mind behind his queer eyes was
searching the possibilities of the thing that had happened.

He remained seated for minutes that were rapidly prolonged. It was
more than half an hour before he again bestirred himself. And in
that half hour he had searched every avenue of explanation that
presented itself to him.

He came down to the water’s edge again. He deliberately cast off
the moorings of his canoe and took his place at the paddle. Then he
headed the sturdy vessel inland and vanished round the bend.

       *       *       *       *       *

The day was well advanced when Cy Liskard reappeared on the highway
of the Lias, and turned the nose of his vessel towards the sea.
For an hour he paddled feverishly at a speed that flung even the
ebbing tide high against the bows of his little craft.

His destination was definite in his mind. It was a picture that
now loomed full of foreboding since the thing he had discovered in
his long concealed hiding place. He came to the rockbound landing
he knew by heart. He swung his boat out. Then with all the power
of his body he struggled with the tide race. Slowly, foot by foot,
he gained way. The sturdy vessel nosed into the stream making
tremendous leeway. But finally his efforts were rewarded. He drove
up to the landing and leapt ashore.

       *       *       *       *       *

The man had vanished within the narrow entrance to the cavern that
lay back in the granite wall of the cliffs. His boat was moored
fore and aft to the familiar boulders. The tide race held the
moorings taut and wearing upon the harsh surface of the stones. But
the little vessel was secure. Soon the last of the ebb would have
spent itself, and the period of dead water would relieve the strain.

It was a silent world which the presence of the boat made no
impression upon. The air was alive with circling sea-fowl
whose mournful note only served to increase the sense of utter
loneliness. Grey and bleak the wide expanse of the river mouth
looked to be the very gate of Desolation.

An hour had passed since Cy Liskard’s landing. And in that time
the sky had changed its aspect from the brilliant light of early
fall to the grey overcast which the coming flood was bringing up
with it. A ruffle of wind stirred. It came chill and keen off the
far ocean, and a few driven raindrops splashed on the bosom of the
waters. It was a passing phase. It was that queer atmospheric
effort which so much suggests that in every changing of her mood
Nature knows the pangs of labour.

Of a sudden the man re-appeared. He came hastily. He came almost as
though he were reeling under a physical shock. His soulless eyes
were strangely alight. They were frigidly ablaze with a light that
transformed them into a furious expression of the mind behind them.
His weather-stained face was almost ghastly in its sickly hue. The
lines about his mouth were grimly drawn. He was breathing hard,
and the great hands that swung at his sides were clenched with the
force of a man about to strike.

At the cavern entrance he paused with an abruptness that was almost
a lurch. He turned and gazed into the shadowed vault behind him.
Then, of a sudden, he raised this clenched fists above his head
in a terrible gesture of impotent threat. Then they came slowly,
slowly to his sides again. And in a moment he started towards his
boat.




                            CHAPTER XXI

                        Julian Caspar at Bay


Cy Liskard was squatting on his rolled blankets. The interior
of his log shanty was disordered. For all the man’s physical
roughness, for all the conditions of the life he lived, his hut on
the hills above the Lias River had always been something scrupulous
in its neatness. Now its interior was completely dishevelled. It
was an atmosphere associated with final departure, with absolute
quittance.

But it was something more. It was as if the man had searched it
completely with a view to the destruction of everything that could
leave a clue to the identity of its occupant. There was a pile of
stuff lying upon the hard-beaten earth floor awaiting destruction,
and outside the door a large fire was doing its share in the work
of concealment. Then, too, down on the creek below there was a
great smouldering heap which represented the complete destruction
of the elaborate sluice box and the general gear of the gold
worker’s craft that could not easily be otherwise removed.

The man had done his work systematically and without apparent
haste. And now he sat on his blankets gazing out through the open
doorway on the devouring flames of his fire. There was the pile on
the floor yet to be consumed. There was the removal of his blankets
and kit. Then there was the shanty itself to be disposed of. After
that----?

The man’s dead eyes were more than usually expressionless for
all the teeming thought of his brain. He was lost in one of those
fierce trains of thought which leave the body completely relaxed,
inert.

He had returned from the river mouth at a speed that rarely drove
him. Apprehension had pursued him every mile of the way. But it was
not physical fear. No. It was something deeper, more abiding than
that. He was beset with concern for an invisible, intangible threat
that seemed to be enveloping him. A threat that was clear enough in
its work of despoliation without a sign of how or whence it came.
Fury was driving him hard. Fury, and that other thing that left him
groping for the thing he must do.

Now as he sat waiting for the fire outside to do its work, he was
contemplating the courses that were open to him. And his mind and
brutish nature, being what they were, looked first and foremost for
some method of retaliation upon an unseen, unknown, but not wholly
unguessed agency that was operating for his hurt.

No. It was not unguessed. Two agencies sprang to his mind. There
was the memory of those “fool” figures in their hooded white
cloaks who had surrounded him while a rawhide rope dangled before
his eyes. For all he derided their methods they were not easily
forgotten. Then there was that other. The man he had sought to
kill, and who, through his friends, had contrived to outwit him.
A queer desperation was driving. He knew he must act quickly, at
once. But even the feeling of desperation and the uncertainty of
the thing about him could not rob him of his lust for vengeance.
His lust to kill.

His plans had been urgently completed. He knew he must quit his
mountain retreat. He must defy everything and reach Beacon with
all speed. His credit was lying at Victor Burns’ bank. That was
his, which he believed no power could rob him of. He must collect
it at once. It was all that had been left to him. And with that in
his possession he would be free to devote himself to the vengeance
which looked a thousand times more desirable to him now.

He rose from his seat and replenished the fire outside with the
collected heap in the shack. It was the last. He had destroyed the
last of his makeshift furnishings, and only his camp outfit and his
treasured weapons were left to encumber his journey. And now he sat
again, having closed the door to defend himself against the fierce
heat and the smoke of his fire.

Yes. Beacon must be his first objective. It would be easy enough.
At the bank he was just an ordinary customer. There was, there
could be no doubt about his credit there. He was wholly unknown
except as a gold man from the hills. There was nothing against him
except for the sentence of that absurd bunch who called themselves
the Aurora Clan. They were powerless to interfere---- He stirred
uneasily.

No. He would give them no chance. He would give no one any chance.
He would descend upon the bank at the busiest time of the day, and
be gone with his cash before a soul was wise to his presence in the
city. Then----

He dismissed Beacon from his mind and his thought was caught and
held where a wrecked ship that was lying on the rocks at the mouth
of the Alsek River. And curiously enough the mental vision of it
robbed him of something of the even train of his urgent thought. A
queer feeling took hold of him in the pit of the stomach. It came
of a sudden, and he stirred uneasily, and strove to moisten his
lips with a tongue that had somehow become almost dry.

The stare of his dead eyes displayed nothing of his emotion. They
looked and looked squarely at the lateral logs of the wall in front
of him. Even the flutter of the torn cotton which covered the
window directly above where he was gazing drew not a vestige of
his attention. And it was not until the loose cotton ripped with a
screaming tear that his gaze came back to the things about him. He
looked up with a start to find himself gazing into the ominous ring
of the muzzle of a heavy gun. It was thrust through the aperture of
the windows where the cotton had been torn away.

“Sit right there, Julian Caspar. Don’t move a little bit. Not a
finger, boy, or you’re as dead as Jim Carver you murdered for his
gold.”

It was spoken quietly, almost gently, in a voice whose tones
startled the man on his blankets and left him utterly unmoving. His
queer eyes were fixed on the dark face peering in at him through
the aperture of the window from behind the threatening gun.

But the whole position underwent a change on the instant. The door
was flung open and Ivor McLagan thrust his way in.

“Up with those hands, Caspar!” he cried roughly. And his own
levelled gun enforced the sharp order. “Right up--this time. That’s
better. You didn’t do it right at the Speedway. You’re learning
manners. No. Keep ’em up. Len Stern’s here and is yearning to sift
his hands through your pockets. Get busy, Len. I’ll watch his
monkey tricks.”

The man on the blankets gave no sign, and his eyes helped the
illusion of submission. His hands were thrust above his head while
he watched the man he hated most in the world. But Ivor bulked
large and fiercely threatening behind the deadly automatic he was
gripping. And the other had reason enough to know there was no
play-game where McLagan was concerned.

In less than a minute the work was completed. Len Stern, relieved
of his hold-up through the window, came to his task on the run. The
man was deprived of his gun and a pocket full of cartridge clips.
The rifle leaning against the wall was unloaded and put out of
harm’s way. And furthermore, a long, razor-like sheath knife was
transferred to the keeping of the man from Australia.

“That all, Len?” McLagan spoke in the harsh tone of a man without
mercy. “We’re taking no chances with the feller who’s done up a
ship’s company. Is he harmless?”

“As a babe.”

Len Stern left the man and moved clear. Then he waited, leaning
with his elbow propped on the window framing while McLagan lowered
his threatening weapon.

The engineer’s quick eyes took in the details of the dishevelled
interior.

“Making a quick getaway, Caspar, eh?” he snapped sharply. “Making
a break for the open where the thing lying back of you’s not going
to come again.” He shook his head. “You can’t escape that, boy,
not as long as you live. And when you’re dead, I guess you’ll get
its consequences. Say, a feller can’t commit cold-blooded murder
without it leaving a hell of a stain, if it’s only on the brutal
mind that designed it. Can you guess why we’re here? Can you guess
why Len Stern’s come all along from Perth in Australia? Sure you
can. But I tell you, in case you don’t guess right. Len Stern’s got
along to make sure you swing by your darn neck for murdering his
partner, and goodness knows how many more. You can drop your hands.”

The man lowered his arms and it was noticeable that his fists
were tightly clenched. His eyes displayed nothing but cold
contemplation as they looked back into McLagan’s face. Those
looking on, observing his every movement with the closest scrutiny,
were not without a feeling of appreciation for the sheer nerve he
was displaying. But they were neither of them deceived. A storm
lay behind those cold eyes. It was raging, consuming. And it was
expressed in the two fiercely clenched fists.

The man shook his head.

“You’re wrong,” he said calmly, with a shrug. “You’re dead wrong.
I’m not worried a thing with any memory of murder. I don’t have to
be. I don’t know this feller you call Len Stern. And as for his
partner I can’t guess the thing you’re talking. I’m a gold man
scratching over the dirt of this creek. And my name’s Liskard--Cy
Liskard. You’ve a hold-up on me for, I suppose, the stuff you
reckon to get out of me. You’ll get not an ounce. I’m quitting for
the reason the show don’t pay. Well?”

It was consummately done. It was too well done. McLagan laughed
coldly.

“We’ll cut all that right out,” he said. He dropped back to the
door framing and leant his big body against it, but his gun was
in his hand ready for instant use. “This isn’t any old game of
bluff. It’s just cold business that’s going through as we fixed
it. You can keep that junk for the law courts where you’ll stand
up to answer for your play. For the moment the things concerning
us are toting you right in to Beacon, and handing you over to Alan
Goodchurch. Then you’ll be passed on to Fairbanks. I’m not wise
if they use an electric chair there or hang a boy like you right
out of hand. It don’t signify, anyway. They don’t treat murder
easy in Fairbanks, which makes me feel good passing you along in
that direction. Your ponies are fixed for your journey. You’ve
set things that way, and I’m obliged. We’ll be able to travel the
quicker. You can get up off those blankets. You’re going to start
right away. I can’t give you even blanket room on the journey. You
see, we’re going to make Beacon quick.”

But the man who had been called Julian Caspar made no attempt
to obey. He stirred where he sat, but that was all. McLagan was
watching. He was watching with every faculty alert. He was looking
to read behind that baffling mask which was his victim’s greatest
asset.

It was that slight shift of position that betrayed. It was an
unconscious movement impelled by some inner qualm, a qualm similar
to that which had assailed him when he had thought of the wreck at
the mouth of the Alsek River. And a feeling of satisfaction warmed
McLagan as he waited for the reply he saw coming.

The man spoke harshly, but without any sign of the fury that was
driving him. He had himself under a control that rarely enough gave
way, and was strongest in emergency.

“You’re talking a whole lot, McLagan,” he said, “but you’re not
talking the way of a feller who’s dead sure of the thing he’s
putting on the other feller.” He shook his head. “Try again. Maybe
that way you’ll make me feel like the boy you’re reckoning to make
me believe I am. A hold-up’s generally got more behind it than
seems. You see you’re not a sheriff, or a law officer. You’re just
an oil man. I haven’t seen a sign of any warrant for my arrest. Do
you get me?”

McLagan smiled at the shrewd retort. He was more than prepared
for it. He signed to Len Stern, while his gun was raised ever so
slightly covering his man.

“That’s all right, Caspar,” he said. “I’m not worrying for details.
You can think the thing you please. We won’t waste time in
discussion. Just fix those bracelets right on his wrists, Len, and
then go fix his ponies ready for the start. No, Caspar. Don’t move.
Not a move. As sure as God I’ll fix you right here. And I’ll fix
you better than the mess you made of things down at my home place.
I told you then you’ll hang, and that’s sure why I’m here now.
That’s it, Len,” he went on, as the irons were clipped on the man’s
wrists. “Now go and see to his plugs while I look to him.”

The two men remained watching each other in silence after Len Stern
had passed out of the shack. It seemed as if a tremendous silent
conflict of will was raging. The hard face of Julian Caspar was
apparently unyielding under the hate that no power of his seemed
able to abate. The eyes of the other were harshly compelling, and
kept the queer dead eyes of his victim unblinkingly observing him.
McLagan’s decision was clear in his mind. It was impossible to
judge of the thing passing in the mind of the other as he sat with
his shackled hands resting on his drawn-up knees.

At last the prisoner shook his head.

“You’re needing something, McLagan,” he said, his face slightly
relaxing. “Maybe I can guess the thing it is. Well, if you’re ready
to hand out the price I’ll sell what you need.”

McLagan drew a deep breath. Quite suddenly a curious feeling of
admiration stirred within him. The man’s words and manner inspired
him with a sense of his own inferiority. His shrewdness and nerve
amazed him. He felt he had been read like an open book. He failed
utterly to realise that this man was fighting for something he
treasured above all else--his life. And knew full well that it was
forfeit unless his wit should adequately serve him.

He nodded.

“I surely do,” he said quietly. “And when a murderer is captured,
and the irons are fixed right, there’s only one price he can ask.
That’s freedom.”

“That’s so. Well?”

The relaxing was gone from the man’s face. McLagan read the anxiety
lying behind that final interrogation.

“I let you go once before, Caspar,” he went on coldly. “I told you
then you’d hang, you were born to hang. That’s why I let you go.
I’m still sure you’ll hang. That’s why I’m ready to let you loose
on this hill country again. But if you want me to do that, why,
you’ve got to hand me the story of your ship the _Imperial_ from A
to Z. There’s no lies’ll serve you. Len Stern and I know enough to
check you up all the time. You can only get away on the truth. In
return we’ll release you now, right here. There’s the hill country
back of here, and the Canadian border beyond. It’s a dog’s chance.
You’re tough, and maybe you can get through. I don’t know and don’t
care. It’s a chance of a respite before that hanging which is
coming your way.”

McLagan ceased speaking and the sound of Len Stern passing outside
came in the silence that followed. Then Caspar cleared a throat
that was dry with fierce anxiety. And suspicion lurked behind his
expressionless eyes.

“Why d’you need that story? What’s the dirty game behind it? When
a feller like you gets his hands on a man he reckons to have done
murder, why, for a story, is he ready to hand him a getaway?” He
shook his head. “The price is right, McLagan. But ther’s a snag
somewhere. It looks like your case is bad. It looks like you’re
maybe a bad payer. It looks like ther’s things to you you ain’t
yearning to have around in the light of open court.”

Again he shook his head.

But the challenge left McLagan quite unruffled. His smile was
derisive as his answer came on the instant.

“That’s all right, Caspar,” he said. “It can look just as it
pleases you to make it look. I don’t care a cent. The only thing
is Len’s coming right back. I can hear him. And so can you. The
ponies, I guess, are fixed. Well, we’re starting for Beacon right
away, or we aren’t. You can please your darn self. The price will
be paid or not, as you choose. But you’ve only five seconds to
choose in.”

Caspar stirred.

“You swear to get out an’ leave me free?”

“On those terms, yes.”

“Then you can have the yarn.”

“The simple facts?”

“Yes--curse you!”

The malevolent fury in the man’s final curse was the epitome of all
his pent feeling. McLagan was his one object of insane hate. And he
was driven to bend before his will. He knew the desperate nature of
the thing he was doing. He knew the risk of it all. The evidence he
was about to put into his hated enemy’s hand. But he knew, being
the man he was, and with shackles on his wrists, that it was his
only chance. So he yielded. But his yielding had only come with
his recognition that the shackles holding him were the official
shackles of the United States Government, and must clearly have
been put into the hands of these men for their present purpose.

       *       *       *       *       *

Julian Caspar was still sitting on his piled blankets. McLagan was
still leaning against the doorway with his gun in evidence. Len
Stern was propped, as before, where the cotton hung loose from
the window framing. The monotonous tones of the prisoner’s voice
broke up the stillness of the atmosphere of the place. He had been
talking for some time. He was not looking at his captors. His dead
eyes were on the log wall in front of him. And his gaze suggested
a mind reviewing in sequence a series of pictures which gave him
not a moment of mental unease. He was transferring his stock at a
price. And only was it the payment of the price for which he was
concerned.

“It was too easy,” he was saying, with a sound that was perhaps a
mirthless imitation of a laugh. “It’s queer ther’s such darn fools
running around loose. That boy, Carver, and Stern, here, surely
needed wet-nurses before they set out to handle a bunch of dust the
way they thought. Why should I stand around on a lousy commission
with the stuff lying safe under my hatches, and with only a bum
crew of Chinks, an’ a few poor whites to deal with.” He shook his
head. “Not on your life. I’d have stood for equal share. I’d have
let that boy live for some other guy to do up later. But he guessed
to hand me commission. Me, who was the only thing that could help
him handle his stuff right. No. My mind was fixed the moment Stern
an’ me signed our charter. There was haf a million of stuff to
trade, and I guessed I knew who would do the trading.”

He paused and shifted his position. His audience remained unmoving
but watchful.

“I got him in the doldrums south of the line,” he went on, after
a moment. “It didn’t need argument how best I could fix him. He
was soft in his foolishness. It was in the night. There wasn’t
any darn moon, and a thin cloud hid up the stars. There wasn’t a
breath of wind, an’ it was as hot as hell. I guessed a walk along
the deck would be better than blankets on a night like that, and
he guessed that way, too. Then I’d got another thought back of my
head. You see, I knew the monkey tricks of the sailorman, whether
Chink or white. In the doldrums, without a breeze, you can never
keep a watch on deck out of their blankets at night. The midnight
watch came on deck an’ the others went to quarters. Then us two
folks started pacing the main deck for cool. You see, the moment
the watch had changed they’d oozed off for’ard and rolled into
their blankets, and we were left to the main deck where even the
man at the wheel couldn’t guess the thing happening. There was
only the officer of the watch. I waited for him. He went below to
get a drink, I guess. That was my time. That boy and me were away
up near the winch. I jerked that long knife of mine in through the
neck of his thick peacoat. It went deep and far, and he dropped
in my arms without a sound. It’s the Indian trick of skewering a
man’s heart, and comes easy with practice. I heaved him to the rail
and dropped him over, and the thing was done without a mess, and
in a few seconds. Then I waited for the officer. I treated him as
he came out from the cabin, and got rid of him, too. It was not
because he knew a thing. But I looked to make an atmosphere for
those who were to learn things later. Then I dealt with the boy at
the wheel, and left the ship with a loose helm. After that I went
below and waited. The thing I guessed happened. The ship yawed and
was set flat aback. And in awhile I was shouted for by one of the
watch. I cleared from my bunk and raised hell till he’d told me
the thing that had happened. It was a play game to me. It was an
elegant show. I mustered the watches, and looked for the absentees.
I located the first officer was missing. Then I got wise that
Carver, too, was nowhere around. Then I raised every sort of hell a
feller born to the sea knows about. And in the end had the second
officer log a scrap. A ‘hold-up’ by one of the Chink crew--identity
unguessed. And it worked smooth and easy, as I knew it would when
dealing with a bunch of sailor toughs without sense between ’em the
size of a buck louse. Maybe it was--too easy.”

There was a moment of reflective silence before the man spoke
again. McLagan made no attempt to urge him. A queer nauseation
affected him deeply as he watched the man, who, now that he had
embarked upon his story, seemed rather to enjoy dwelling on the
hideous incidents of it. Len Stern was less calm. All the youth
in him was aflame. The cold satisfaction of Caspar in telling of
the slaughter of his partner drove him almost beyond his powers of
restraint.

“The game was only at its start,” Caspar went on at last. “I’d
got it clear cut in my mind. We were coming up through the big
islands, and at first I thought of running for the China coast.
But it didn’t take long to show me it was liable to be a bad move
with twelve Chinks aboard out of a crew of eighteen. I changed plan
right away. I’d run for Alaska where gold is found. I’d deal with
the crew one way or another, and abandon ship, and run the gold
inland by motor launch where its presence wouldn’t set a flutter
stirring. From the start luck ran with me, but it was only later I
was to learn how well it was running.”

“My next move was obvious to a feller looking to lose himself
and his bunch,” he continued, with his queer eyes lighting
unwholesomely. “I was my own wireless man. It was mostly a hobby
with me, and I’d set it up myself. I got busy and sent out a
distress signal. I sent it out telling the darn fools who picked
it up I was foundering a thousand miles from where I happened to
be sailing. I kept sending it to make sure, and I guess it didn’t
let me down. As a result my craft was fathoms deep in the South
Pacific. That left me free with leisure to fix the crew when, and
the way, I wanted ’em.”

He drew a deep breath and once he raised his eyes derisively to
the frowning dark face of Len Stern. Then he went on at once.

“I wanted that crew for awhile. We’d a mighty big piece of sailing
to do before I put the rest of my plan into operation. It’s queer,
now I think of it, how my luck stood by. We steered E.N.E. after
we’d cleared the islands. And it came on to blow hard. But it was
a fair breeze, dead on our quarter, and I carried on every stitch
of canvas we could spread. There were times when those darn Chinks
groused. They came aft an’ once looked ugly. But I didn’t let go.
No. I needed ’em yet. The only feller I didn’t need was the second
officer. Well, I took council with the Chink steward I carried. He
was a boy who knew me good, and who’d worked for me since ever I’d
held a master’s ticket. He was handy. I guess he was quicker with a
knife than any yeller mongrel I’ve ever seen. Well, it was blowing
hard and a dead black night, and when morning came and the wind
eased there was a dead officer overboard and only the boy who acted
as third and me to run the ship. And so we came along up towards
the fifties, where we ran into elegant fair weather like spring,
for all it was dead winter. I guess the Pacific’s well named.

“Then the thing that made me feel real good--at first--happened.
It happened at change of watch midday. The bunch were waiting
amidships to take over, standing around smoking and chewing like
the lousy crowd they were. The sun was beating down fine on the
litter of lumber stacked on the deck. I was on the poop deck
watching those boys and guessing about things. And in the midst of
it I saw them boys take a hunch to themselves peeking down the
deck. I looked too. An’ then--Say, you’ve seen it, McLagan. Yes.
It was there. Right at the spot where I jerked my knife under his
collarbone. It was there just as crazy a thing as I ever see. But
it was there, and stayed there, just as long as the sun shone. I
wanted to laff. Then I didn’t. Then I thought hard an’ waited, and
pretended I hadn’t seen.

“It was two days later the play began,” he went on, his manner
becoming harsher. “They came aft. The whole darn bunch. An’ I kind
of knew the thing coming. I was ready for ’em. I saw my whole play
in a jump. That queer thing had been there each day, an’ all the
time the sun shone. Oh, it made me sick, their fool slobber. But I
listened. You see, we were near to the coast, and the weather was
elegant for my plans. So I listened. The darn ship was haunted.
That was their stuff. They were plumb scared, the whole bunch,
except three cold-blooded Chinks who’d the nerve of the whole
flock. I listened and I agreed. I told ’em I’d seen it too, and was
just as badly scared as they were. But I wasn’t a darn fool and
wasn’t yearning for an open boat for the sake of a crazy shadow.
Then I pretended savage and told ’em to get right back to their
sennit an’ holy-stone, or I’d dose their darn guts with lead. It
acted the way I wanted. They tried to rush me. I had Jim Shan, the
steward, with me. A sign from him, and the other three Chinks lent
a hand. They turned on the bunch. And I unloosed. There was a tough
scrap, but we beat ’em back. When they were rightly cowed I handed
’em the thing I’d do. They could have one of the launches. It was
a hundred miles to Seattle. They could have the vittles and get.
They went. And the darn third officer went with ’em. And next day
it blew a howling winter gale. I guess they’d as much chance as
cordite in hell. I was left with four Chinks which included Jim
Shan.

“We had a mighty tough time for two days. But we were quit of that
shadow. There were four of us to handle wheel and sail, and one was
a cook. But the boys had shortened down before they went and we
had to chance the rest. Anyway we got through. And after that the
weather set dead fair and we crawled up the coast. But the shadow
came again and somehow it worried me. Then I played my last trump.
I told Jim Shan the story of the gold, and promised him equal
shares with his friends if we got it through to the coast. Say,
those boys. Ever see a Chink with the yearning for gold looking out
of his queer, snake eyes? It’s not good to look at.

“Do you need more?” Julian Caspar shook his head as his queer
eyes searched the implacable face of McLagan. “But of course you
do. You’re the sort to want every ounce of your pound. Well, you
can have it. I’m looking for that dog’s chance for more than one
reason.”

He passed his manacled hands up to his shock of hair, and tried to
run them back over it. Then they dropped again to his lap.

“The rest was easy--in a way. I set right in to work to change the
vessel’s name, and it took me guessing hard. I had to think like
hell not to leave a clue. Those boys helped me, and Jim Shan was
the neatest hand with paint and a brush I ever located. He did it
all right. And the vessel was sort of reborn the _Limpet_, an’ the
name amused me. But it was the waiting around and watching those
Chinks. Say, ever waited around with a bunch more used to knives
than Bibles? Gee! Then there was that cursed shadow. Say, I’ve
got nerve. But there’s things to break the best nerve if you only
locate ’em. It was that shadow. There wasn’t a day I didn’t sit at
that cabin table, with the alleyway facing me, that I couldn’t see
that shadow traipsing--traipsing--Psha! I could have shut the door.
I could have sat elsewhere. But someway I hadn’t the grit to do it.
No, I had to keep an eye on that shadow all the time--and on those
Chinks.”

“Well, it don’t signify now. I’d got it all fixed ready. We were
making our getaway that night. Then I was eating my food. I’d been
sitting watching the crazy antics of the shadow in the sun, and
sudden I got sick in the pit of the stomach. I quit. I quit right
there and hailed the Chinks. Well, those boys lasted long enough to
crowd on every stitch of canvas. They lasted long enough to launch
the motor with the gold and vittles stowed. They lasted long enough
to clear the vessel’s side and head for the coast. Then they died
quick. All four got lead poisoning, and I dropped ’em over the
side. It was them or me, and I knew it. I wasn’t yearning. So I
pumped ’em plumb up to the plimsol full of lead, and set ’em where
their knives couldn’t reach me. Then----”

“You ran for the mouth of the Lias,” McLagan broke in. “You ran in
and cached your stuff in a cave you didn’t reckon folks ’ud locate.
And stowed your launch where you didn’t see anything but sea-fowl
nosing.”

“You swine!”

McLagan nodded.

“That’s all right,” he said, straightening himself up. “Don’t
worry for compliments. That’s not in the story. Yes. I’ve got
your gold. There’ll be embargo on your credit at Victor Burns’
Bank. And the launch is away up on the Alsek River where its use
in my oil workings’ll keep it in shape. But you’ve got your dog’s
chance. I promised that, and you’re going to get it. It’s a hell
of a poor-bred dog’s chance. Loose those irons, Len. I’ll hold him
covered so there’s no monkeying. He reckons he’d like to translate
his opinion of me into something more active. But he won’t. Loose
him----”

“But--Say, you’re not going----?”

Len Stern, with his whole mind and body seething with the horror of
the thing he had listened to, stared at the engineer incredulously.

“Loose him? What----?”

McLagan nodded.

“Yes. Loose him, boy. I promised him that. I promised him a run for
it. It was the price of his yarn. Leave it that way, boy. Loose
him, and let’s get out into God’s pure air. This place is foul with
the stench of his rotten soul.”

       *       *       *       *       *

They were out in the open where the air was pure, and the full
daylight was pleasant to contemplate after the contaminated
atmosphere of Julian Caspar’s quarters. The latter was somewhere
behind them, free to undertake anything his evil mind prompted. But
McLagan felt no concern as they moved down the slope to the mouth
of the Creek debouching on the broad waters of the Lias River. It
was left to the more hot-headed Len Stern to concern himself.

“I don’t get it, McLagan,” he said urgently. “You’ve let that
rotten murderer free for the sake of his darn story. You’ve let
him free after murdering poor Jim. Claire’s brother! The brother of
the gal you’re to marry this fall! It’s wrong. It’s crazy. He----”

He broke off to gaze back up the hill at the shack that was still
in full view.

“I can’t stand for it, Mac!” he went on hotly, a moment later. “We
came here that that boy should swing for the thing he’s done. You
said that. You----”

“He will swing, Len. He’ll swing within twenty-four hours.”

McLagan’s tone was cold. His manner was inflexible. And somehow the
other remained silent.

They rounded a broad bluff of woodland that mounted the hillside,
and all view of Caspar’s hut was obscured. Now the great waters of
the Lias came into view. Its wide valley opened out in a splendid
picture of forest, and hill, and the smiling sheen of the river’s
waters.

“You beat me, Mac,” Len went on, in a tone of puzzlement. All his
protest had died out of his manner. “How? He’ll hang in twenty-four
hours? Will you tell me?”

McLagan’s pace increased. He was gazing away down at the great
river. And suddenly a hot light filled his eyes, and left them
frowning.

“Len, boy, cut it all out!” he cried irritably. “What sort of
white-livered bunch of craziness do you take me for? What have I
been working for these weeks, an’ months, but to hand that boy his
med’cine? Say, if you’d been here months back and seen that poor
mother woman’s grief, that poor girl’s grief, you’d have known
some of the thing I feel. Those two gentle souls are mine. One of
’em’s going to be my wife, to live with me through the years of our
lives. That boy’s going to die the only right way for a feller of
his sort. He’s going to hang--just as sure as God.”

He laughed mirthlessly.

“I can’t bring that poor feller Jim back alive,” he went on. “But I
can see that feller hangs. Why, I owe it him anyway for myself. If
he lived he’d get me one way or another. No. He’s going to swing,
as I say.”

The landing on the river was in full view when Len put his sharp
question. Sasa Mannik was down there with his canoe waiting
watchfully his boss’s return.

McLagan turned. His face was unsmiling.

“That’s not for you--yet. Someday you may learn things. Meanwhile
get a holt on this. You’ve my word of honour as a man the thing’s
as I say.”

Stern nodded.

“That surely goes, Mac,” he said. “But tell me. You see, you’ve
got me badly guessing. Why for did you send me out of that shack
to--fix his ponies? We’re on the river. We’re travelling by water.”

McLagan laughed.

“That’s easy, boy. The talk of ponies was bluff. I didn’t have a
notion of running that feller into Beacon. Not a notion from the
start. You see, I didn’t let you know the thing in my mind because
of the questions I didn’t feel like answering. No. I left you
thinking he was passing right into Beacon. I sent you out to fix
his ponies because I had to make a talk. And I didn’t want a chance
of you getting hot with the things I said and queering the game. _I
had to get that boy’s yarn._ You see, the thing I reckoned to fix
was justice, not revenge. Well, it would have been justice handing
him over to Goodchurch. But I didn’t fancy that. The law’s queer
and slow. It would have been a worry to Jim’s mother, to Claire.
To all of us. It would have stirred up memories for those women
folk, and would have hurt ’em. So I looked for better, quicker,
surer means. But I’ve a queer sort of conscience that wouldn’t be
satisfied with circumstantial evidence. I had to hear of the thing
he’d done out of his own mouth. So I offered him a run for freedom
to hand me his yarn. It was wiser than it looked. You see, I knew
the man. He knew the thing he’d done. And he guessed what it would
mean going on to Fairbanks. Given a run, he’s confident of making
his getaway. His life’s more precious to him than the chance he
takes handing out his story. I felt that--knowing him. My promise
to him was a run for freedom, and he guessed it was good enough.
You see, he didn’t know the thing I know. Now the thing’s sheer
justice. He’s condemned himself. And the thought of his hanging
leaves me without a qualm or--scruple. Let’s leave it that way,
boy. I’ve given my word to you. Now we’re going to make my home
place to hand over your gold to you, and to close up my shanty.
Then for Beacon.”

“Shall I learn for sure--when it’s done?”

McLagan smiled gently as they paced down the hill. He understood
the other’s feelings. He realised how hard, without further
explanation, it must be for this man, who had been absent so long
from the country, to accept his assurance. So he laid a reassuring
hand upon his arm.

“Yes, Len. And,” he added, “believe me, his hanging’s as inevitable
as that the sun’ll rise to-morrow.”




                            CHAPTER XXII

                            The Quitting


“Are you satisfied, Len? Does it make you feel good?”

McLagan was observing the dark, mobile features of the younger
man. They were alight with the look he knew so well. It was the
expression he had seen time and again in those men of Beacon whose
whole horizon was bounded by gold and all it meant in their lives.
It was a similar expression to that which had played in Len Stern’s
features at that time when his strong fingers had raked through the
heaping gold dust spread out before him at the far-off camp on the
Australian coast.

McLagan was more than interested. For the man was gazing upon the
goodly pile of smallish canvas bags lying on the earthen floor
against the log wall of the hut overlooking the mouth of the Alsek
River. At that moment humanity was uppermost in the engineer. A
goodly satisfaction was stirring in his heart. And his manner had
lost much of that roughness which was so characteristic of him.

Len nodded, his eyes remaining fascinated by the thing they were
gazing upon.

“That don’t begin to say the thing I feel,” he said awkwardly.
He raised a strong, sunburnt hand and passed it back over his
forehead. Then he laughed. It was a short, jerky laugh that was an
expression of some feeling he had no words for. “Do you know how a
shipwrecked feller ’ud feel when his feet find solid earth again?”
He shook his head. “That’s how those darn bags of dust make me
feel. That, an’ something else. Yes, I feel I want to say all sorts
of stuff how I think of you. But I can’t.”

McLagan brushed aside the man’s desire to express his gratitude.

“But you weren’t--shipwrecked?” he said quickly.

The other’s reply came with a laugh.

“It cost me all but my last thousand dollars to answer that message
you sent out, and--get around.”

“But you were on a big strike? You and poor Jim?”

“Sure. The biggest in the world--on a fever-racked coast that I
don’t guess I’ll ever get near to again. The fever got me. I only
got away by the scruff of my neck. And the stuff I took out did
little more than satisfy the dope merchants of Perth who did their
best for me. I guess I was shipwrecked both ways. Physical and
financial. Man, you’ve done an almighty glad thing.”

McLagan sat himself on the cabin trunk just behind him, and Len
Stern flung himself into the chair which usually stood against the
table where McLagan was accustomed to work. The small wood stove,
radiating a pleasant warmth in the chill of the late summer air,
stood between them. And Len Stern mechanically held out the palms
of his hands to it.

There was physical weariness in him. It was the same with the
hard-driving engineer. The voiceless waste of desolate muskeg with
its surface of shaking tundra lay far behind them now. So with
the wearisome portage to the Alsek River meandering through its
coal-laden, oil-soaked territory of hills. The gateway to the
ocean had been reached and passed only that morning. And now they
had gained the shelter of McLagan’s home overlooking the bay, ready
for the last stage of that effort which had been crowded into days
that should have been weeks.

It had all been a whirlwind rush from the moment of Stern’s landing
until this return to McLagan’s home. Stern was the least weary of
the two. But then he and Sasa Mannik had had the blessed break of
a day’s complete rest up at McLagan’s oil camp, while the engineer
endured an added gruelling in the work that was his. He had spent
the time with Peter Loby in completing preparations for the time
when the men of finance behind him should arrive to set the seal of
their approval upon his achievements. It had meant a swift change
of effort for him from that which had been an expression of a man’s
deepest emotions to the sheerly mental aspect of those affairs
which represented the material side of his life.

They had eaten the midday meal with which Sasa Mannik’s indifferent
skill had provided them. And the whole place was a-litter with
books, charts, papers, and clothing, hopelessly mixed up with the
utensils of the meal of which they had just partaken. They were in
the midst of the preparations for McLagan’s final quittance, which
was to take place that day. It was a portentous operation regarded
without optimism by the engineer. And Len Stern, while ready and
willing, found himself of little service.

McLagan lit one of his long, lean cigars, glad enough to abandon
his labours for a few minutes. Stern lit and drearily sucked his
charred old briar. The contemplation of those bags of gold dust,
that never in his most fantastic dreams had he hoped to see again,
had warmed his heart and eased the strain he had laboured under.

It was all very amazing, and McLagan himself was the most amazing
thing of it all. It was all mystifying, too. And as he sat
luxuriating in the reek of his pipe the man from Australia found
himself marvelling at the mystery in the midst of which he had
found himself so suddenly plunged.

He knew now that McLagan had been responsible for the message
Goodchurch had sent out. Even its enticing wording. At the time he
had read it in the local news sheet in Perth he had not seriously
considered it beyond the reply he must make. Then had come his
arrival at the coast on the tubby mail boat on its way to Seward.
Then his meeting with McLagan, and his instant whirling off on
a breathless rush that was only just about to terminate. He had
been asked very little and told less. McLagan had relied on visual
rather than verbal demonstration. He had seen the _Imperial_ again
after believing the vessel to be fathoms deep at the bottom of the
ocean. He had gazed upon some weird, supernatural demonstration
upon her deck. He had been hurried off to help in the capture of
the man who had murdered his partner, and robbed them of the fruits
of their labours. The capture had been achieved and a confession
extracted. Then he had been called upon to agree to the murderer’s
release. True, he had the assurance of McLagan that the murderer
would not, could not escape. But----

And now he was sitting in McLagan’s home gazing on the wealth
of gold dust that he and poor Jim Carver had washed out on the
fever-laden coast of Australia. It had come back to him. And
McLagan was the man who had recovered it. How? How? How had it all
been achieved? How had McLagan discovered in the _Limpet_ of Boston
the foul tragedy of his friend’s death, and recovered for him the
gold that had been stolen? The mystery of it all; McLagan’s refusal
to enlighten him; these things were utterly confounding. In his
own phraseology he felt the whole thing was just “one darn mystery
after another” and he wanted to fling up his hands in complete
helplessness.

But there was no outward expression of these feelings. He sat
gladly regarding that small, comforting pile of wealth which
McLagan had told him was his.

“I’m glad you’ve told me that, Len.” McLagan’s smile was almost
gentle. “We haven’t told much, have we?”

“No. And sometimes I feel it ’ud be good to tell--things.”

Len Stern’s eyes came back from the pile of gold. It almost seemed
as though McLagan had broached something of a deeper interest for
him.

“Maybe it would. Well, ther’s Claire and her mother’ll be
yearning.” McLagan laughed. “And I’ll be there, too.”

“Which is just another way of saying you haven’t a thing you’re
going to tell.”

Len grinned into the other’s face and shook some juice out of his
pipe stem on to the stove.

“It doesn’t mean just that, boy,” McLagan said.

“No?”

Len waited. Then he went on.

“See, McLagan, you’ve done a swell thing. Sure I don’t want to say
a thing to hurt. You’ve left me guessing, an’ I’m content to go
right on guessing if it suits you. You see, I’m just thankful. But
maybe you won’t mind saying ‘Why,’ if you object to ‘How.’ The only
thing that finds me worrying is leaving that swine Caspar free.”

McLagan removed the cigar from his strong mouth. He rolled it
between his fingers which seemed to crush it unnecessarily. He
shook his head.

“I’m not yearning to tell ‘why’ any more than ‘how,’” he said,
with a return to his rougher manner. “It wouldn’t hurt a thing
telling it, except for the laugh it’s liable to raise. You see,
boy, I’ve a head full of notions. Some of ’em some folks might
reckon sort of crazy. But they aren’t. They’re just a throw back
to something that’s in us all. The only thing is I’ve given way to
’em, and they’ve got so that I have to hand ’em best. One time I
felt the only thing in life was to make good. I’m older since then.
I still guess that making good needs to be done, but I get tired
beating the other feller. It kind of seems waste of effort, unless
the other feller needs beating. I’m glad for poor old Jim, who’s
Claire’s brother, to be able to hand you back his dough. Then it’ll
make things better for you. You two boys were swell triers taking
a Chink yarn for gospel. Good luck, boy, anyway. Handle that stuff
right when you get it into Beacon.”

“I’ll do the best I know, Mac. Say--That oil play of yours? It
looks like beating every other feller. It’s big. It’s big for
Beacon, an’ the folks around.”

McLagan’s smile deepened.

“Sure,” he said simply. “It means so much I can’t just see it all.
This’ll be a swell country after awhile. It’ll get oil-crazy when I
let my story go.”

“They don’t know yet?”

McLagan shook his head.

“They will when I get in this time. And I want it that way. You
know this country’s got right into my guts. I want to set the
decent citizens lying around it whooping with the things that make
life easy, and pass ’em a time that won’t leave ’em yearning to
muss themselves with the dirt lying back of human nature. What’ll
you do? Quit for the sun places?” He glanced down at the gold bags
significantly. “With that bunch a wise guy don’t need to worry
beyond this coast.”

“That’s so.”

Len was thoughtfully regarding his treasure. He looked up with a
grin.

“Maybe I’ll do what I know to get into your proposition.”

McLagan laughed.

“You’ll need to do it on the jump. In a month ther’ won’t be
money enough in the world to buy our stock. You haven’t seen a
circumstance of what’s to come later. Gee! I must get on with all
this truck.”

McLagan rose with a sigh of real weariness. He flung open the trunk
on which he had been sitting, and passed over to a pile of folded
suits. He stood for a moment contemplating them. They were clothes
he had never worn since he came to the coast. He picked some of
them up, and came back to the trunk. Len rose to aid him. He moved
over to pass him the rest of the piled clothes. He picked up some
of them, and revealed a folded white garment underneath. It caught
and held his attention. It was voluminous. And, at first glance,
appeared to be some sort of bath robe, or dressing gown. But the
top fold of it had three cut holes in it, which looked like the eye
and mouth holes of a mask.

McLagan came to his side and Len heard a deep-throated chuckle.

“Guessing, boy?” the engineer said quietly. Then he added: “I’d
forgot that, sure.”

Then he reached down and picked it up. He let it drop to its full
length, and held it out by its arms. Len deposited his garments and
gazed at it, grinning.

“Some suit,” he said.

McLagan nodded.

“Sure,” he said. And surveyed the conical, visored hood hanging
down, and the many rust stains that besmirched its otherwise
immaculate surface.

Then he, very deliberately, refolded it and looked squarely into
his companion’s eyes.

“Makes you want to laff, Len, eh?” he said. “Don’t you do it, boy.
Ther’s no feller needs to laff who sees that.”

Then his own eyes became less serious, and a twinkle of humour
looked out of them.

“It’s just one of my notions. I designed it myself. And I keep it
by me to remind me. I guess it won’t mean a thing to you, ever.
Maybe it’ll just add another guess to the things worrying you now.
Set it down a bath gown which you wear when you’re either clean or
want to be clean. But it’s another meaning, another significance.
It’s a symbol. That darn white gown tells me every time I look at
it that human nature can’t ever be run right by academic theory
or sentimental slobber. The feller that guesses to persuade human
nature by argument is only one degree better than the boy in the
bughouse. The notion that human nature is predominantly good is
plumb busted. It hands me a story of the unutterable weakness of
the modern methods by which human nature is trying to govern
itself, and warns me that the only thing to bring about better
conditions is to scare it plumb to death first, and beat it over
the head with a club after. I didn’t mean you to see that thing,
boy. But you have seen it and I don’t figure it matters any--now.
Still if you reckon you’re obliged to me, why, just forget you’ve
seen it. Let’s pack up all this darn junk. Gee! Ther’s a hell of a
lot of it.”

       *       *       *       *       *

Departure from the bay was delayed longer than McLagan had
designed. It was delayed until the following morning by reason of
one of those fierce, late-summer storms of tornado-like force,
which at times descended upon the tattered coast.

It started with a rush of wind sweeping down off the hills. It
came with the force of a hurricane, and set the hut creaking and
groaning under its spasmodic pressure. For half an hour it battled
furiously, shrieking, howling, and crashing its way through forest,
and valley, and over hill-top. And then, as suddenly as it had
leapt, it abated into an ominous calm.

The respite was illusive. It was sufficiently long for the men in
the hut to interpret the conditions. The sudden darkening of the
whole of the western sky was sufficiently indicative. Then the
real storm broke. It broke in from the ocean with the rising tide,
driving in direct opposition to the land wind. An electric storm,
it came with sub-tropical intensity, and a fury of wind. The play
of lightning was blinding; the thunderous detonations were merged
into an incessant roar; and the suddenly opened heavens poured a
deluge of rain upon a darkened world.

The storm raged for hours. It raged far into the night. And deep
under the fury of it all the voice of the sea came up from below
like an angry roar of a monster lashed and goaded to savage anger.
It boomed, it thundered, its echoes playing from cliff to cliff,
magnified and terrifying.

Clad in an oilskin, at the height of the storm, McLagan sought
the open. He stood out on the plateau, and instantly his great
body seemed to become the centre of elemental attack. But he gave
no heed. He forced his way in the blinding rain as near to the
precipitous edge of the cliff as he dared approach it. Then he
stood there swaying to the buffets of the storm while he strove to
penetrate the grey pall with which the rain enveloped the world
below him. It was useless. And so, at last, he returned to shelter,
and the exercise of such patience as he could command.

Dawn saw a complete reversal, a complete transformation. A keen
crisp northwest wind had set in, and the furies of the night had
been wholly swept away. The sun rose glorious in a cloud-flecked
sky, and the world of the coast was as nearly smiling as Nature
ever permitted.

But the smile of Nature meant nothing to the men who, ready to set
out on their run into Beacon, stood gazing down upon the bay. The
wreck of the _Imperial_ was gone. Completely, utterly vanished. A
few baulks of timber had been flung high up on the rocks at the
foot of the southern cliff, but of the wreck, in its familiar
form, not a sign was to be discovered. The ebb of the tide was at
its lowest. The rocks on which she had lain were bare. The vessel
had gone as she had come, on the race of the tide. But with the
difference that her shattered hull had been carried off piecemeal
by the victorious adversary she had defied so long.

McLagan was the first to turn away. Sasa Mannik was standing by the
ponies hitched to the laden buckboard. He moved over to him and in
silence climbed into the driving seat of the ramshackle vehicle.
Then he called to Len Stern, who was still gazing down upon the
cemetery of that poor restless shadow of the man who had been his
friend and partner.




                           CHAPTER XXIII

                  The Passing of the “Chief-Light”


Rebecca Carver was primly seated at one end of a well-upholstered
couch. Her slight form was very erect, very much supported in
garments that seemed somehow strange to it. Her dark eyes were
steadily fixed upon the work in her hands, and the expression of
them was carefully concealed. Her greying hair was neatly dressed
for the occasion, and she looked to be holding herself schooled for
the moment, and the unaccustomed surroundings in which she found
herself.

It was a seat she rarely enough occupied. But then the parlour
of her frame home had no appeal for her. She somehow felt she
belonged to other spheres, to another life than that to which the
adventurous genius of her daughter Claire had so suddenly elevated
her. Still, she did her best staunchly enough for all there were
times when she wondered, times when she had been almost terrified
at the thought of the crash in their fortunes which must inevitably
come. But perhaps the greatest strain of all was her thought for
Claire herself, her dread for her moral undoing. Hers was the
mother’s lot when the reins pass from her hands, and advancing
years bring the slow decay of her authority.

Her black silk gown left her feeling wholly self-conscious.
Never in her hard-lived life had she possessed anything quite so
splendid. And somehow the rustle of it was pleasant to her simple
mind, and she hoped fervently that a prolonged sitting would not
completely “muss” it. A silk workbag was beside her on the couch,
and her hard-worn hands were busily plying knitting-needles whose
homely click afforded her no small measure of encouragement.

Len Stern was talking from a highly polished chair opposite her.
He had been talking for some time, and seemed to be addressing her
particularly. The play of his dark eyes was vividly expressive of
the thrilling details of the long story he had had to tell to the
mother of his dead friend, while the two others in the room seemed,
for the time being, to have no claim upon him.

Ivor McLagan was standing at a window with his back turned,
labouring under a feeling that his presence was something of an
intrusion upon that which should have been sacred to the bereaved
mother. But he knew he must be there for clear and definite
reasons, and so he persisted. Claire was near to him. There could
be no question of her greed for the story she was listening to. Her
blue eyes were wide with almost painful interest. Her hands, those
slender hands which were the admiration of all at the Speedway,
were tightly clasped in her lap. She was leaning forward eagerly,
and hanging intently upon every word the man uttered.

Len Stern had told all the story of the gold discovery, and of the
drear life of that fever-ridden coast. He had told of his desperate
journey to secure a man and a ship to serve their purpose. He had
told of the great day when the shipment was made, and he bade
farewell to the loyal creature, who was thrilling with the thought
of all that their wealth would mean to his women-folk at home, and
had reached the point of his narrative where he was standing on the
beach watching the breaking out of the vessel’s sails as she put to
sea.

“It was a great day, ma’am,” he said, with a smile that was deeply
reminiscent. “You just can’t think the greatness of it. That boy,
he was good grit. Gold? Yes, he wanted that gold, his share. But it
was only for the folks at home. The mother and the sister he’d left
behind. His whole thought, ma’am, all the time was for you.”

The mother sniffed violently, and a work-worn hand brushed aside a
tear that blurred the stitches of her knitting. The next moment the
click of her needles came more rapidly.

“I got back to work--alone,” Len went on. Then he drew a deep sigh
which ended in an expletive. “Gee! How I worked.” He laughed. “It’s
queer how hard a boy can work when he’s alone, an’ trying to keep
from going crazy. That’s how it was with me. Why, I must have got
out an’ washed a million dollars of stuff before it happened. Gold?
Why, the whole of that river bed was gold from end to end. There’s
the gold of the world there, an’ one day some bunch’ll get around
and clear out the fever, and just snow the world’s market right
under with the stuff. But it wasn’t for me--or Jim. That fever hit
me within two weeks of Jim’s quitting. It came slow, it made me
sick, and I was wise to it. You see, the Chink had told us. Well,
it didn’t take me two jumps to reckon the thing I must do. I knew
I must get out right away. I must beat it in that shell of a smack
of ours down the coast to Perth, the same as I’d done before. I’d
just have to get there and wait around for Jim to get back. It was
a big chance, I was getting sicker every hour. But I had to take
it. So I loaded all the dust I could take, cached the rest, stowed
my kit, and--drove out to sea.”

He drew a deep breath as the memory of things stirred him.
McLagan had turned regarding him. Even Claire, who had sat almost
immovable, stirred restlessly. Then he went on to the accompaniment
of the click of the mother’s needles.

“Maybe it saved me. I don’t know. Y’see, the sea air’s clean, and
likely it helped. Anyway I was full of fever and pains, and wanted
to lie around all the while, but I didn’t. I had to make the course
I knew, and the will of it all drove me. I can’t reckon even now
how long it was, or how I ever reached Perth right. But I reached
it in the end after storm, and calm, and sickness. But I’d lost a
big bunch of my stuff. You see, I had to fight myself as well as
the weather. I was swamped out and nearly plumb wrecked a dozen
times. When I did get in I was nigher dead than alive, and they set
me right into hospital.

“It was tough. And before they were through with me it had cost
me most of my stuff. Still I wasn’t worried with that, there was
plenty more, and, when Jim came back and I was feeling good, why,
it would be easy. Quite easy for all I was scared to death of that
coast.”

He passed a hand back over his dark hair.

“But time went on an’ I never heard a word. And then--and then came
word of--Jim’s ship. It set me nigh crazy. I waited, and thought,
and worried. I never got another word. Then I thought to send you
folks word. Then I was scared to do it. Ma’am, you don’t know the
way I felt. Jim gone----”

“Drowned. Drowned right in mid-ocean.”

McLagan’s voice broke in harshly, and Len glanced round quickly.
Claire, too, turned. She looked up, a sharp question in her eyes.

McLagan nodded.

“It hit you, Len boy, to know Jim was--drowned. It hit us folks,
too.”

Len turned again to the mother who was gazing at him from behind a
mist of tears.

“Say, ma’am, it hit us all bad, to know Jim was drowned with the
sinking of that ship in mid-ocean. It hurts me now to think of it.
An’ God knows the way it must hurt you folks. But I didn’t get
along to stir up bad memories. I came to tell Jim’s mother of the
wonderful boy Jim was, and make her feel pride in his grit, an’
honesty, and--and the hell of a fine partner he was to me. He was
plumb gold all through. Bright shining gold. He’d got just one
notion in the world, ma’am. It was for his mother and his sister.
After them came his partner. You know, ma’am, someways I feel, and
I’d be glad to know you feel it, too, Jim came by his death doing
one great big act. He’d sweated and laboured, and he was carrying
home all the fruit of the love of his big heart to his--mother.
Does it make you feel good? Yes, sure it does. I can see----”

The mother had flung her knitting aside. Her work-worn hands were
thrust up covering her tear-streaming eyes. She sprang to her feet
and stood sobbing for a moment. Then Claire came to her side, and
with one warm arm flung about the older woman’s shaking shoulders,
she led her from the room.

       *       *       *       *       *

Claire and McLagan were walking down the dusty, unpaved road in
the direction of the city’s main highway. Len Stern had already
departed to transact his business at Victor Burns’ bank. The mother
had gone back to the work that always claimed her, comforted far
more than she knew by the revelation of the staunch devotion of her
dead son.

Once clear of the house Claire raised her wide questioning eyes to
the face of the man beside her.

“Why did you jump in while Len was talking?” she asked abruptly.
“Why did you remind him that Jim was--drowned?”

McLagan’s reply came on the instant.

“Because he wasn’t drowned, and--Len knows it.”

“Murdered?”

“Sure.”

“Then why not say it? Why----”

“Say, Claire,” McLagan broke in with that roughness she knew so
well, “do you think I’d brought Len along to tell your Mum that Jim
was foully murdered and robbed? No. I know it. You know it. We’re
young and strong, and it’s not going to hurt us, seeing poor Jim
is dead anyway. But she’s his mother. Think, my dear, just think.
Len and I fixed it up to say that. I jumped, scared he might blurt
out the truth. Jim’s mother is some one we both love. Right deep in
her heart now is the swell thought of all that boy was trying to
do for her. He died doing it. To her there’s no picture of a foul
murder with the murderer standing over him and robbing him. Don’t
you see? Sure you do. For all her tears I guess we’ve left Jim’s
mother a mighty happy woman. An’ she’ll never be told the thing
that really happened.”

The girl made no reply. Somehow the man’s harshly spoken rebuke
thrilled her as no word of his had ever thrilled her before. Her
love for him rose to something like worship as she regarded his
plain face and thought of the world of kindly sympathy lying behind
it. Her next words were almost humble.

“And the murderer?”

“Is dead. Hanged by the neck, and--dead.”

The intensity, the biting ruthlessness of the man’s tone, was in
flat contradiction of his recent mood.

“Then what you thought--what you hoped of Len’s coming--proved out?”

“Surely.”

“Does Len know? Did he--help?”

“Len has my assurance. That’s all.”

“Will I ever know the whole thing--you know?”

McLagan smiled upon the dingy habitations about him.

“Maybe some day,” he said. “But--not right now. It’s a bad story.”

They had turned out of the side road, and on to the sidewalk of the
main thoroughfare. It was still within the business hours of the
place, and as Claire gazed about her a certain unusual movement was
observable among the people. She drew a deep sigh.

“Sometimes I think it awful in me,” she said, a little desperately.
“He’s dead. Hanged. The man who murdered Jim. I’m--glad. Yes,” she
went on a little defiantly, “I’m glad. And Jim’s gold?”

“Recovered--most of it. And passed to the feller it rightly
belongs. Len Stern. That boy needs it. You don’t, Claire. Your
mother don’t. You’re both--my affair.”

“Yes. We don’t need it--anyway.”

McLagan smiled at the little touch of independence in the girl’s
words.

They were approaching the Plaza with its balcony and its loungers.
He could see the face of Jubilee Hurst leaning out gazing in their
direction. And he knew the thing that was coming.

Jubilee’s challenge came on the instant of their approach. It came
full of all that irresponsible lightness which masked the real
seriousness of the man.

“Ho, Mac!” he cried. “Is it true? Is it real, or have I got a bad
nightmare? I’ve turned over a couple of times but it’s still the
same. I can’t get away from the messy sight of crude oil streaming
all through the streets of Beacon. Is it true? Or are you yearning
to see us poor folk plumb bug?”

Claire and McLagan smiled up into eager face. They realised the
presence of the others on the veranda. There was Abe Cranfield.
And Burt Riddell was gloomily inquiring as he leant over the rail
beside his partner.

“It’s all true.”

It was Claire who replied. She nodded laughingly. And in her eyes
was a gladness that illuminated her whole countenance. Then she
indicated the man beside her.

“You see, Ivor’s got the close habit, and I guess it isn’t easy for
him to say ‘yes.’ Maybe now I’ve saved you getting bug he can hand
you the rest.”

McLagan nodded.

“I guessed you’d be wise in a half-hour. That’s why I chose Doc
Finch to hand out the news. He’s better than a hundred telephones.
Yes, boy, it’s all true. There’s oil enough to float a ship. Get
in, if you’ve two cents to buy with. Maybe there’s weeks of grace
while my folks play the market. So get in, or our stocks’ll jump
sky high. You’ll find it more profitable than a hand at Claire’s
table.”

Jubilee eyed the girl. He realised the wonderful light shining in
her pretty eyes. But it was the sad voice of Burt Riddell that
answered him.

“Maybe it’s more profitable. But me for the hand at Claire’s table.
Say, you ain’t going to rob us of that?”

McLagan laughed outright.

“When it comes to guessing I’d say you’ve Jubilee beat a mile.”

“What d’you mean?” Jubilee looked from one to the other and
grinned. “Burt got me beat guessing?” He shook his head. “Not on
your life, Mac. I didn’t have to guess. I--knew. Say, it beats
hell. My best to you both, Claire. The Speedway’ll be hell without
you, but--Gee, I must go count my cents. It don’t seem right,
buying oil with ’em when I’m yearning to hand you a swell bouquet.
Say, look down the sidewalk. See the folks? Doc’s sure been busy.
Well, so long. Will you be around at the Speedway to-night?
‘_Bon_,’ as we used to say in France,” he cried, as the engineer
nodded. “It’ll beat Max’s festival to the bone. Come on, Burt.
Let’s get a look at our cents and see how best we can roll Victor
to help things out.”

Claire and McLagan passed on, and the sight of the engineer caused
a commotion and excitement that had been unknown in Beacon since
the early days of the boom. It was as McLagan had said it would be.
The town was already oil-crazy. The man’s progress was something
in the nature of a triumphal procession. There were smiles, and
greeting, and handshakes, almost every step of the way, till
McLagan felt something like serious regret that he had utilised the
rotund doctor as a medium for disseminating his news.

As they came to the bank, McLagan’s patience had well-nigh
exhausted itself.

“We’ll get right inside for shelter, kid,” he said in desperation.
“This popularity makes me sick. This darn handwagging with folks I
don’t know from a bunch of fence posts couldn’t be worse if I was
President of the United States. Say----”

He laughed as he discovered that Victor Burns was standing in the
doorway of the bank obviously waiting for him to come up.

       *       *       *       *       *

They were safe for the moment in Victor’s private office. The
banker was sitting behind his desk while Claire was occupying the
most comfortable chair the place afforded. McLagan was propped on
the corner of the desk listening to the thing the banker had to
tell.

“I’m glad for you, McLagan,” he said. “I’m glad for Beacon. And
it didn’t take me two seconds to guess my own feelings the moment
Doc blew in and handed me his story of an oil flood that nearly
wrecked your camp. I’ve a private bunch of dollars that’s going to
be changed into your Corporation’s stock right away. Yes, boy, I’m
glad, but I’m worried.”

“How?”

“How?” The banker looked from one to the other. Then he raised a
clenched fist and brought it heavily down on his desk. A frown of
unusual ill-temper had suddenly depressed his pleasant face. “It’s
this boy, Cy Liskard, a customer of mine, you’ll remember him. It’s
that guy with the gold I showed you awhile back. The feller that
you spread out on the Speedway floor on the night of the festival.
They’ve hanged him, they’ve hanged him clean out of hand. It’s
these boys, the Aurora bunch. And they ticketed him with their
fancy label with the signature of the Chief Light.”

He snorted as he sat gazing into McLagan’s face. Claire sat up in
her chair, a startled look in her eyes as she watched the unsmiling
face of the man she loved.

“That don’t seem a thing to worry for,” McLagan said coldly. “Where
did they hang him? What for?”

“Where? What for?” The banker shook his head. “They hanged him
right here just beyond the town limits on the lakeside. What for? I
haven’t a notion, unless it was a hold-up for his stuff. Here, you
don’t get me----”

“It hasn’t been their way to hold a boy up for his stuff,” McLagan
broke in quickly. “Was he coming in with a bunch of dust?”

The banker shook his head. He spread out a pair of helpless hands.

“I can’t say a thing,” he declared peevishly. “Here, I’ll tell
you. Goodchurch came along this morning; he jumped in on me and I
asked him things; he said he was guessing as badly as I was. One
of his men come in and brought him word a feller was hanging under
the spread of a Western Cedar, and was labelled by this precious
bunch. Looked like he’d been hanging there days. He sent out to
investigate and found it was this boy from the Lias, who’s been
toting dust in since last fall. He asked me what I knew, and I told
him of his credit here. He’s set a government ‘hold-up’ on it, and
went off cursing these Aurora folk in a way I’d hate to repeat
before a lady. I’m sick, I’m good an’ sick. I’m not worried for the
boy. He was a sure tough, and I’d say he’s the sort to be a deal
safer off the earth. But it’s the trade. It’s the stuff. He was
reckoning to bring more along. Say, Mac, does it look good to you?
I’ve heard you say you’d a hunch for these boys, setting out to
clean things up. Well? Is this cleaning up? Or is it the thing I’ve
been scared of right along--a hold-up?”

McLagan shook his head. His face was mask-like in its seriousness.
Claire, watching him, felt at that moment she would have given much
to read the thing passing behind it.

“You can’t rightly tell, Victor,” he said. “But I wouldn’t reckon
that way without knowing more. There was sure something queer about
that boy. And he was a tough, anyway.” Then he smiled, “It’s queer,
here I bring you word of such wealth coming to Beacon as no gold
can ever hand it. I’m showing you how to get in and help yourself,
yet you’re worried for a bunch of dust that won’t be a circumstance
in Beacon when we open out.”

He turned to the girl, who was regarding him so earnestly.

“You know, kid,” he said, “these men who handle gold can’t see a
thing but gold. They just love it to death.”

He turned again to the banker.

“I wouldn’t worry with the Aurora bunch, Victor,” he said. “The
oil boom coming is going to clean up most things. Maybe they’ll
go along with the rest. You see, when the government realises the
thing Beacon can hand them there’ll be no room for white shirts and
hanging bees.”

       *       *       *       *       *

Outside the bank the girl made no further effort to restrain the
questions that were flooding her mind.

“Tell me, Ivor,” she cried, the moment they reached the sidewalk
again. “This man? This Cy Liskard? Oh, I remember him. I’m never
likely to forget him, and the way you smashed him that night for
his insult to me. Who is he? Why did they hang him? I’ve got to
know things now. Is he----?”

“The man who killed your brother Jim. The man who murdered and
robbed him. Julian Caspar, the man who was trading Jim’s gold into
that bank.”

Claire drew a deep breath. They had turned into one of the almost
undefined side roads, which was little better than a track, in
order to avoid the crowd on the main street. They were making their
way in the direction of the girl’s home again. McLagan observed her
closely. Then a half smile lit his eyes.

“It’s time you knew things,” he said. Then he asked gently, almost
anxiously: “What does that just mean, kid? Are you worried?”

Claire looked up. Her gaze was full of trust, full of confidence,
full of pride in the big creature who had laboured so hard to
capture her heart. She shook her head.

“No, dear, I’m not worried--now,” she said. Then a smile full of
radiant love replaced the seriousness in her eyes. “Like you, I’ve
a hunch for those white-robed folk. I sort of feel there’s no harm
in them for those running straight. There’s no ‘hold-up’ in them.
But I’m wondering. When your folk have got along, and you go down
country----”

“We go down country,” the man corrected.

“When we go down country, how’ll they get on without their--Chief
Light?”

McLagan threw back his head in a great, unrestrained laugh. He
suddenly took possession of the girl’s arm, and patted the hand
that, for the moment, rested in his.

“Guess they’ll need to elect a--new one,” he said.

“Jubilee?”

The girl’s eyes were shining with the delight it gave her to show
this great creature how deeply she had penetrated his secret.

“Maybe,” he said. “I don’t know, and--Psha! So long as I’ve got
you, kid, I don’t care a darn.”


                              THE END

       *       *       *       *       *

                       Transcriber’s Notes

  Inconsistencies in hyphenation have been maintained, i.e.:
  up-standing/upstanding, get-away/get away, etc.

  Page 28, Period added after “ordinary sort of engineer”.
  Page 142, Period added after “faithful servant, too”.
  Page 298, “Casper” changed to “Caspar”.





End of Project Gutenberg's The Saint of the Speedway, by Ridgwell Cullum