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Alaskan, The

<h2>CHAPTER XIV</h2> It was thus, with a note of something inevitable in his voice, that Stampede brought Alan back solidly to earth. There was a practical and awakening inspiration in the manner of the little red-whiskered man's invitation. "I've been a damn fool," he confessed. "And I'm waiting." The word was like a key opening a door through which a flood of things began to rush in upon Alan. There were other fools, and evidently he had been one. His mind went back to the Nome. It seemed only a few hours ago--only yesterday--that the girl had so artfully deceived them all, and he had gone through hell because of that deception. The trickery had been simple, and exceedingly clever because of its simplicity; it must have taken a tremendous amount of courage, now that he clearly understood that at no time had she wanted to die. "I wonder," he said, "why she did a thing like that?" Stampede shook his head, misunderstanding what was in Alan's mind. "I couldn't keep her back, not unless I tied her to a tree." And he added, "The little witch even threatened to shoot me!" A flash of exultant humor filled his eyes. "Begin, Alan. I'm waiting. Go the limit." "For what?" "For letting her ride over me, of course. For bringing her up. For not shufflin' her in the bush. You can't take it out of her hide, can you?" He twisted his red whiskers, waiting for an answer. Alan was silent. Mary Standish was leading the way up out of a dip in the tundra a quarter of a mile away, with Nawadlook and Keok close behind her. They trotted up a low ridge and disappeared. "It's none of my business," persisted Stampede, "but you didn't seem to expect her--" "You're right," interrupted Alan, turning toward his pack. "I didn't expect her. I thought she was dead." A low whistle escaped Stampede's lips. He opened his mouth to speak and closed it again. Alan observed him as he slipped the pack over his shoulders. Evidently his companion did not know Mary Standish was the girl who had jumped overboard from the Nome, and if she had kept her secret, it was not his business just now to explain, even though he guessed that Stampede's quick wits would readily jump at the truth. A light was beginning to dispel the little man's bewilderment as they started toward the Range. He had seen Mary Standish frequently aboard the Nome; a number of times he had observed her in Alan's company, and he knew of the hours they had spent together in Skagway. Therefore, if Alan had believed her dead when they went ashore at Cordova, a few hours after the supposed tragedy, it must have been she who jumped into the sea. He shrugged his shoulders in deprecation of his failure to discover this amazing fact in his association with Mary Standish. "It beats the devil!" he exclaimed suddenly. "It does," agreed Alan. Cold, hard reason began to shoulder itself inevitably against the happiness that possessed him, and questions which he had found no interest in asking when aboard ship leaped upon him with compelling force. Why was it so tragically important to Mary Standish that the world should believe her dead? What was it that had driven her to appeal to him and afterward to jump into the sea? What was her mysterious association with Rossland, an agent of Alaska's deadliest enemy, John Graham--the one man upon whom he had sworn vengeance if opportunity ever came his way? Over him, clubbing other emotions with its insistence, rode a demand for explanations which it was impossible for him to make. Stampede saw the tense lines in his face and remained silent in the lengthening twilight, while Alan's mind struggled to bring coherence and reason out of a tidal wave of mystery and doubt. Why had she come to his cabin aboard the Nome? Why had she played him with such conspicuous intent against Rossland, and why--in the end--had she preceded him to his home in the tundras? It was this question which persisted, never for an instant swept aside by the others. She had not come because of love for him. In a brutal sort of way he had proved that, for when he had taken her in his arms, he had seen distress and fear and a flash of horror in her face. Another and more mysterious force had driven her. The joy in him was a living flame even as this realization pressed upon him. He was like a man who had found life after a period of something that was worse than death, and with his happiness he felt himself twisted upon an upheaval of conflicting sensations and half convictions out of which, in spite of his effort to hold it back, suspicion began to creep like a shadow. But it was not the sort of suspicion to cool the thrill in his blood or frighten him, for he was quite ready to concede that Mary Standish was a fugitive, and that her flight from Seattle had been in the face of a desperate necessity. What had happened aboard ship was further proof, and her presence at his range a final one. Forces had driven her which it had been impossible for her to combat, and in desperation she had come to him for refuge. She had chosen him out of all the world to help her; she believed in him; she had faith that with him no harm could come, and his muscles tightened with sudden desire to fight for her. In these moments he became conscious of the evening song of the tundras and the soft splendor of the miles reaching out ahead of them. He strained his eyes to catch another glimpse of the mounted figures when they came up out of hollows to the clough-tops, but the lacy veils of evening were drawing closer, and he looked in vain. Bird-song grew softer; sleepy cries rose from the grasses and pools; the fire of the sun itself died out, leaving its radiance in a mingling of vivid rose and mellow gold over the edge of the world. It was night and yet day, and Alan wondered what thoughts were in the heart of Mary Standish. What had driven her to the Range was of small importance compared with the thrilling fact that she was just ahead of him. The mystery of her would be explained tomorrow. He was sure of that. She would confide in him. Now that she had so utterly placed herself under his protection, she would tell him what she had not dared to disclose aboard the Nome. So he thought only of the silvery distance of twilight that separated them, and spoke at last to Stampede. "I'm rather glad you brought her," he said. "I didn't bring her," protested Stampede. "She came." He shrugged his shoulders with a grunt. "And furthermore I didn't manage it. She did that herself. She didn't come with me. I came with her." He stopped and struck a match to light his pipe. Over the tiny flame he glared fiercely at Alan, but in his eyes was something that betrayed him. Alan saw it and felt a desire to laugh out of sheer happiness. His keen vision and sense of humor were returning. "How did it happen?" Stampede puffed loudly at his pipe, then took it from his mouth and drew in a deep breath. "First I remember was the fourth night after we landed at Cordova. Couldn't get a train on the new line until then. Somewhere up near Chitina we came to a washout. It didn't rain. You couldn't call it that, Alan. It was the Pacific Ocean falling on us, with two or three other oceans backing it up. The stage came along, horses swimming, coach floating, driver half drowned in his seat. I was that hungry I got in for Chitina. There was one other climbed in after me, and I wondered what sort of fool he was. I said something about being starved or I'd have hung to the train. The other didn't answer. Then I began to swear. I did, Alan. I cursed terrible. Swore at the Government for building such a road, swore at the rain, an' I swore at myself for not bringin' along grub. I said my belly was as empty as a shot-off cartridge, and I said it good an' loud. I was mad. Then a big flash of lightning lit up the coach. Alan, it was her sittin' there with a box in her lap, facing me, drippin' wet, her eyes shining--and she was smiling at me! Yessir, smiling." Stampede paused to let the shock sink in. He was not disappointed. Alan stared at him in amazement. "The fourth night--after--" He caught himself. "Go on, Stampede!" "I began hunting for the latch on the door, Alan. I was goin' to sneak out, drop in the mud, disappear before the lightnin' come again. But it caught me. An' there she was, undoing the box, and I heard her saying she had plenty of good stuff to eat. An' she called me Stampede, like she'd known me all her life, and with that coach rolling an' rocking and the thunder an' lightning an' rain piling up against each other like sin, she came over and sat down beside me and began to feed me. She did that, Alan--fed me. When the lightning fired up, I could see her eyes shining and her lips smilin' as if all that hell about us made her happy, and I thought she was plumb crazy. Before I knew it she was telling me how you pointed me out to her in the smoking-room, and how happy she was that I was goin' her way. Her way, mind you, Alan, not mine. And that's just the way she's kept me goin' up to the minute you hove in sight back there in the cottonwoods!" He lighted his pipe again. "Alan, how the devil did she know I was hitting the trail for your place?" "She didn't," replied Alan. "But she did. She said that meeting with me in the coach was the happiest moment of her life, because she was on her way up to your range, and I'd be such jolly good company for her. 'Jolly good'--them were the words she used! When I asked her if you knew she was coming up, she said no, of course not, and that it was going to be a grand surprise. Said it was possible she'd buy your range, and she wanted to look it over before you arrived. An' it seems queer I can't remember anything more about the thunder and lightning between there and Chitina. When we took the train again, she began askin' a million questions about you and the Range and Alaska. Soak me if you want to, Alan--but everything I knew she got out of me between Chitina and Fairbanks, and she got it in such a sure-fire nice way that I'd have eat soap out of her hand if she'd offered it to me. Then, sort of sly and soft-like, she began asking questions about John Graham--and I woke up." "John Graham!" Alan repeated the name. "Yes, John Graham. And I had a lot to tell. After that I tried to get away from her. But she caught me just as I was sneakin' aboard a down-river boat, and cool as you please--with her hand on my arm--she said she wasn't quite ready to go yet, and would I please come and help her carry some stuff she was going to buy. Alan, it ain't a lie what I'm going to tell you! She led me up the street, telling me what a wonderful idea she had for surprisin' you. Said she knew you would return to the Range by the Fourth of July and we sure must have some fireworks. Said you was such a good American you'd be disappointed if you didn't have 'em. So she took me in a store an' bought it out. Asked the man what he'd take for everything in his joint that had powder in it. Five hundred dollars, that was what she paid. She pulled a silk something out of the front of her dress with a pad of hundred-dollar bills in it an inch think. Then she asked me to get them firecrackers 'n' wheels 'n' skyrockets 'n' balloons 'n' other stuff down to the boat, and she asked me just as if I was a sweet little boy who'd be tickled to death to do it!" In the excitement of unburdening himself of a matter which he had borne in secret for many days, Stampede did not observe the effect of his words upon his companion. Incredulity shot into Alan's eyes, and the humorous lines about his mouth vanished when he saw clearly that Stampede was not drawing upon his imagination. Yet what he had told him seemed impossible. Mary Standish had come aboard the Nome a fugitive. All her possessions she had brought with her in a small hand-bag, and these things she had left in her cabin when she leaped into the sea. How, then, could she logically have had such a sum of money at Fairbanks as Stampede described? Was it possible the Thlinkit Indian had also become her agent in transporting the money ashore on the night she played her desperate game by making the world believe she had died? And was this money--possibly the manner in which she had secured it in Seattle--the cause of her flight and the clever scheme she had put into execution a little later? He had been thinking crime, and his face grew hot at the sin of it. It was like thinking it of another woman, who was dead, and whose name was cut under his father's in the old cottonwood tree. Stampede, having gained his wind, was saying: "You don't seem interested, Alan. But I'm going on, or I'll bust. I've got to tell you what happened, and then if you want to lead me out and shoot me, I won't say a word. I say, curse a firecracker anyway!" "Go on," urged Alan. "I'm interested." "I got 'em on the boat," continued Stampede viciously. "And she with me every minute, smiling in that angel way of hers, and not letting me out of her sight a flick of her eyelash, unless there was only one hole to go in an' come out at. And then she said she wanted to do a little shopping, which meant going into every shack in town and buyin' something, an' I did the lugging. At last she bought a gun, and when I asked her what she was goin' to do with it, she said, 'Stampede, that's for you,' an' when I went to thank her, she said: 'No, I don't mean it that way. I mean that if you try to run away from me again I'm going to fill you full of holes.' She said that! Threatened me. Then she bought me a new outfit from toe to summit--boots, pants, shirt, hat and a necktie! And I didn't say a word, not a word. She just led me in an' bought what she wanted and made me put 'em on." Stampede drew in a mighty breath, and a fourth time wasted a match on his pipe. "I was getting used to it by the time we reached Tanana," he half groaned. "Then the hell of it begun. She hired six Indians to tote the luggage, and we set out over the trail for your place. 'You're goin' to have a rest, Stampede,' she says to me, smiling so cool and sweet like you wanted to eat her alive. 'All you've got to do is show us the way and carry the bums.' 'Carry the what?' I asks. 'The bums,' she says, an' then she explains that a bum is a thing filled with powder which makes a terrible racket when it goes off. So I took the bums, and the next day one of the Indians sprained a leg, and dropped out. He had the firecrackers, pretty near a hundred pounds, and we whacked up his load among us. I couldn't stand up straight when we camped. We had crooks in our backs every inch of the way to the Range. And would she let us cache some of that junk? Not on your life she wouldn't! And all the time while they was puffing an' panting them Indians was worshipin' her with their eyes. The last day, when we camped with the Range almost in sight, she drew 'em all up in a circle about her and gave 'em each a handful of money above their pay. 'That's because I love you,' she says, and then she begins asking them funny questions. Did they have wives and children? Were they ever hungry? Did they ever know about any of their people starving to death? And just why did they starve? And, Alan, so help me thunder if them Indians didn't talk! Never heard Indians tell so much. And in the end she asked them the funniest question of all, asked them if they'd heard of a man named John Graham. One of them had, and afterward I saw her talking a long time with him alone, and when she come back to me, her eyes were sort of burning up, and she didn't say good night when she went into her tent. That's all, Alan, except--" "Except what, Stampede?" said Alan, his heart throbbing like a drum inside him. Stampede took his time to answer, and Alan heard him chuckling and saw a flash of humor in the little man's eyes. "Except that she's done with everyone on the Range just what she did with me between Chitina and here," he said. "Alan, if she wants to say the word, why, you ain't boss any more, that's all. She's been there ten days, and you won't know the place. It's all done up in flags, waiting for you. She an' Nawadlook and Keok are running everything but the deer. The kids would leave their mothers for her, and the men--" He chuckled again. "Why, the men even go to the Sunday school she's started! I went. Nawadlook sings." For a moment he was silent. Then he said in a subdued voice, "Alan, you've been a big fool." "I know it, Stampede." "She's a--a flower, Alan. She's worth more than all the gold in the world. And you could have married her. I know it. But it's too late now. I'm warnin' you." "I don't quite understand, Stampede. Why is it too late?" "Because she likes me," declared Stampede a bit fiercely. "I'm after her myself, Alan. You can't butt in now." "Great Scott!" gasped Alan. "You mean that Mary Standish--" "I'm not talking about Mary Standish," said Stampede. "It's Nawadlook. If it wasn't for my whiskers--" His words were broken by a sudden detonation which came out of the pale gloom ahead of them. It was like the explosion of a cannon a long distance away. "One of them cussed bums," he explained. "That's why they hurried on ahead of us, Alan. She says this Fourth of July celebration is going to mean a lot for Alaska. Wonder what she means?" "I wonder," said Alan. <hr style="width: 35%;"> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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