The Crimson Gardenia and Other Tales of Adventure
ain't no place in the world that's big enough for him and me, no place
in the world."
McGill stood on the river-bank and watched them vanish into the ghostly
curtain that sifted slowly down from the heavens, and when they were
finally lost to view he turned back to his empty cabin. Before entering
he paused as usual to note the weather--it was a habit. He saw that the
sky was strangely leaden and low, and in spite of the fact that the
"quick" was falling rapidly, the air was lifeless and close. If McGill
was any judge, that squall had been but a warning, and foretold more to
follow. He sighed miserably at the thought of the night his wife would
have to face.
He cooked his supper mechanically, then sat for hours staring at it. The
wind rattling at his door finally roused him to the knowledge that his
fire was out and the room chilly. Being unable longer to bear the
silence and the mute evidences of her occupation that looked at him from
every side, he slipped into his parka and went down to Hopper's place,
where there were life and human voices at least.
The night was yelling with a million voices when he stepped out. The
bitter wind snapped his fur garment as if to rend it to ribbons, the
whirling particles of snow rasped his face like the dry grains from a
sand-blast. Boreas had loosed his demons, and they were lashing the
night into chaos. McGill felt a sudden tender concern for the woman, a
concern so great as almost to destroy his bitterness, but he reflected
that he had seen to loading the sled himself, and among the other
paraphernalia had included a tent and a stove. Unless Barclay was a
fool, therefore, Alice was perfectly safe. There was wood aplenty, and
the spruce forests offered shelter from the gale. The thought awakened a
memory of those night camps he had made on that dreamlike
wedding-journey and brought forth a groan. How old and spiritless he had
become; he could scarcely stand against the wind!
Of course the story had gone broadcast, hours before, for other eyes
than his had watched the man and woman take the outbound trail that
afternoon, so when he came stumbling into Hopper's place a sudden
silence fell. He went directly to the bar and called for straight
"hootch," to drive the cold from his bones, but, although it warmed his
flesh, his soul remained numb and frozen. Inside him was a great aching
emptiness that even Hopper's kindly words could not reach.
"Looks like the worst night we've had this year," said the proprietor.
"Better have a drink with me."
McGill's teeth rattled on the glass when he put it to his lips. "She's
gone!" he whispered, staring across the bar, "and I didn't kill him. I
couldn't--on her account."
Hopper nodded. "I'm awful sorry it came out this way, Dan."
McGill shivered and drew his head down between his gaunt shoulders.
"Talk to me, will you?" he begged. "I'm hit hard."
His friend did as he was directed, but a few minutes later in the midst
of his words the big man interrupted:
"There wasn't room for all of us here," he declared, fiercely. "I told
her that, but she wanted him worse than her own life, so I had to give
in."
They were still talking at midnight, after all but a few loiterers had
gone home, when they heard a man's voice calling from outside. An
instant later the front door burst open and a figure appeared; it was
Cochrane, the trader from down-river.
"Here! Give me a hand!" he bellowed through his ice-burdened beard, then
plunged back into the hurricane to reappear with a woman in his arms.
"I thought I'd never make it," he declared. "There's a man in the sled,
too. Get some 'hootch' and send for a doctor, quick."
McGill uttered a cry, while the hand with which he gripped the bar went
white at his pressure. "Where did you get them?" he questioned.
"Ten miles below," said Cochrane. "I was camped for the night when their
dogs picked up my scent. They were half dead when they got to me, and he
was in mighty bad shape, so I came through. I've been five hours on the
road."
Two men brought in Barclay, at which McGill flung out a long arm and
cried in a loud voice, "Is that man dead?"
No one answered, so he strode forward, only to have the weakened
traveler raise his head and say:
"No, I'm not dead, McGill. But we had to come back."
The wife was calling to her husband, wretchedly: "Don't do it, Dan. We
couldn't help it. We'll go to-morrow. We'll go. Please don't! We'll go."
The onlookers, knowing something of the tragedy, drew back, watching
McGill, who still stared into the face of the man who had robbed him of
everything.
"Do you remember what I told you?" he questioned, inflexibly.
Barclay nodded, and the woman shrilled again:
"Don't let him do it, men. _Don't!_"
"There ain't room for us here," went on McGill.
"Only to-night," supplicated his wife, the frost-bitten spots in her
cheeks no more pallid than the rest of her countenance. "He _can't_ go.
Don't you see he isn't able? Wait, Dan; I'll go if you want me to"--she
struggled forward. "I'll go, but he'll die if you send him out."
"It's always him, ain't it?" said the miner, slowly. "You seem to want
him pretty bad, Alice. Well, you can have him. And you can stay, both of
you." He drew his cap down over his grizzled hair and turned toward the
door, but Hopper saw the light in his eye and intercepted him.
"I'll go home with you, Dan," said he.
"I ain't going home."
"You mean--"
"There ain't room enough in Ophir for Barclay and me and the woman."
"My God, man, listen to that blizzard! It's suicide!"
But McGill only repeated, dully: "There ain't room, Hopper. There ain't
room!" and with the gait of an old man shambled to the door. When he
opened it the storm shrieked in glee and rushed in, wrapping him up to
the middle in its embrace. He closed the door behind him, then went
stumbling off into the night, and as he crept blindly forth upon the
frozen bosom of the river the bellowing wind wiped out his footprints an
arm's-length at his back.
THE BRAND
I
The valley was very still. No breath of wind had stirred it for many
days. It was smothered so heavily in snow that the firs were bent; even
the bare birch limbs carried precarious burdens, and when gravity
relieved some sagging branch the mass beneath welcomed the avalanche so
softly that the only sound was a whisper as the bough returned to its
position. The brooding cold had cleared the air of sound as it had of
moisture. No birds piped, there was no murmur of running water, no
evidence of animal life except an occasional wavering line etched into
the white by the feet of some tiny rodent.
The rolling hills were sparsely timbered, against an empty north sky a
jumble of saw-toothed peaks were limned like carvings, and everywhere
was the same unending hush of winter. The desolation was complete.
Yet there was life here, for spaced at regular intervals across the
gulch were mounds of white, each forming the lips of a rectangular
cavity resembling an open grave. They were perfectly aligned and
separated from each other by precisely thirty paces; surrounding each
was a clearing out of which freshly cut stumps protruded bearing snow
caps fashioned like the chapeau of a drum-major. There were six of these
holes, and a seventh was in process of digging. Over the last one a
crude windlass straddled and the heap of debris at its feet showed raw
and dirty against the snow. Out of the aperture a thin vapor rose
lazily, coating the drum and rope with rime; from the clearing a narrow
trail wound to a cabin beside the creek-bank.
McGill came out into the morning and with him came his three giant
malamutes, wolf-gray, shaggy, and silent like their master. He eyed the
drooping, white-robed forest and the desolate ridges that shut him in,
then said, in a voice harsh from disuse:
"Hello, people! Anything happened yet?"
He made it a practice to speak aloud whenever he thought of it, for the
hush of an arctic winter plays pranks with a person's mind, and there is
a certain effect of sanity in spoken words, senseless though they be.
After a moment he repeated his greeting: "Good morning, I said. Can't
you answer?" Then his cheeks flamed above his heavy beard and he yelled,
loudly, "_Good morning_, you ----! Can't you say anything?" He glared
reproachfully at a giant spruce from the lower limbs of which depended
the quarters of several caribou. "Tom, you ain't gone back on me? Say
hello. You and me are friends. Speak up!" After a time he shook his
head, murmuring: "It's no use. I've got to make all the noise there is.
If it would only blow--or something. I'd like to hear the wind."
He strode toward the prospect hole, the dogs following sedately, their
feet making no sound in the snow. They, too, felt the weight of
isolation and never left his side. Arriving at the dump, McGill stood
motionless beside the windlass for a long time, staring into nothingness
with eyes that were strained and miserable. When the cold bit him he
roused himself and addressed the steam-filled opening dispiritedly:
"So, you didn't freeze up on me. That's good. I'll get bed-rock to-day
and show you up for a dirty cheat. Pay! Bah! there ain't none!"
He descended a ladder at one end of the shaft, gathered the charred
logs, tied them into a bundle with the end of the windlass rope, then,
mounting the ladder, hoisted them to the surface. Next, hooking on the
ungainly wooden bucket, he lowered it, after which he descended for a
second time.
There began a long and monotonous series of ascents and descents, for
every bucket of gravel meant two journeys the full depth of the pit. It
was a tedious and primitive process, involving a tremendous waste of
effort, but he was methodical, and each time the tub rose it carried a
burden sufficient to tax the strength of two men. He handled it easily,
however, and by midday had removed the thawed ground and scraped a
sample from close to frost. He laid a light fire, then took the heaping
gold-pan under his arm and set off for his cabin, accompanied by the
malamutes.
When he had prepared and eaten his lunch he seated himself before his
panning-tub, a square box half filled with water melted from the creek
ice, and began the process of testing his prospect.
Having worked down the gravel and sediment to a half-handful, he spread
it with a movement of his wrists, leaving stranded at the tail of the
black sand a few specks of yellow. These he eyed for a moment before
washing them away.
"Too light--as usual," he said, aloud. The dogs stirred and raised their
heads. "Always pretty near, but not quite. But it's here, somewhere, and
I'll get it if I can last out this damned silence. That rim-rock didn't
lie. And old Pitka didn't lie, either. Nobody lies except--women." He
scowled at some remembrance, his whole face retreated behind a bristling
mask of ferocity. He sat motionless over the tub of muddy water until
the fire died out of the stove and the chill warned him that it was time
to resume work.
For many weeks--how many McGill neither knew nor cared--he had pursued
the routine of his search. He had penetrated this valley alone, unseen,
in the late autumn, and every day since then he had labored steadily,
mechanically, almost without physical sensation, for all feeling was
centered in his memory, which never gave him time to consider his
surroundings. Spring was coming now--the sun was already peeping over
the southern hills in the middle of its daily journey--and during this
time there had been but two interruptions which had roused him from his
apathy. One had occurred when, in quest of fresh meat, he had discovered
that he had neighbors ten miles to the west. He had seen their camp from