North

For a good half-hour following the spectacular finish of the dog race pandemonium reigned on the Koyukuk. Fresh fuel was heaped upon the red embers of the fires and in the light of the leaping flames the men and women of Nolan gave themselves over to a wild orgy of noise. Lou Gordon and her father were lifted bodily onto the shoulders of strong men and a leaping, dancing, howling procession was formed that wound in and out between the fires. Like a mad man Dalzene pranced about in a vain effort to make himself heard. The furious bellow of his hoarse voice but added to the general din, and those who noticed him at all paused in their jubilation to thumb their noses with yells of derision.

It was not until the men of Nolan, crowding the bar of the Aurora Borealis, waited for Wilcox to open his safe that the man was able to make himself heard. His red face distorted with rage, he clawed his way to the bar upon which he pounded with mittened fist. His cap pushed back so that its ear flaps, their strings a-dangle, stuck straight out from the sides of his head, showed a forehead glistening with sweat, bisected by a thick blue vein that stood out in the acetylene glare with startling distinctness. As Wilcox swung wide the door of his safe and rose to his feet, Dalzene faced him with blazing eyes: “Pay them bets, an’ pay ’em to me!” he roared, and disregarding the mighty chorus of jibes and jeers that rose on all sides, he continued, “Damn you, you can’t frame me! I win that race, an’ I drag down all bets!”

A slow irritating grin greeted the announcement. “Oh, you win it did you? Now, that’s curious. My eyesight ain’t so bad, an’ it looked to me like it was Gordon’s dogs that romped over the line first. But, mebbe I was wrong. The other two judges is here. We didn’t take no formal vote on it yet, so we might as well do it now. Hey Crim, who win that race?”

“Gordon win it!” answered Crim.

“Henshaw, who win that race?”

“Gordon did.”

“It’s a damn lie!” roared Dalzene.

“We’ll talk about that, later,” answered Wilcox in a voice of ominous quiet, “But, in the mean time, the vote of the judges is unanimous that Gordon win the race, an’ the bets will be paid accordin’.”

“He fouled me, an’ besides, he never brung in all he started with.”

“Seems to me I seen ten dogs, an’ a sled, an’ him hangin’ on to it like all hell couldn’t jerk him loose, when the outfit crossed the line ahead of yourn.”

“How about his whip that he lost when his sled tipped over?” there was an exultant gleam in the narrowed eyes.

“The whip don’t cut no figger,” informed Wilcox, “I stated it plain that sled, dogs, an’ driver had to cross the finish line, an’ they did. An’ as fer the foul, when do you claim he fouled you?”

“Right there on the smooth ice! That damn big leader of his’n made a dive fer mine an’ throwed him out of his stride!”

Wilcox laughed: “You’d ort to picked out a play that we didn’t all see to claim a foul on, Dalzene. Gordon’s leader wasn’t within fifteen foot of yourn at no time, an’ what’s more your leader never went out of his stride, neither.” Reaching into the safe Wilcox withdrew a packet.

“Pete Enright!” he called, loudly, “This belongs to you. It’s the last bet you made. Here’s yer five hundred in dust, an’ yer twenty-five hundred in bills.”

“Don’t you pay that bet!” screamed Dalzene, furiously pounding the bar, “You can’t rob me! Fifteen thousan’ dollars of good money gone to hell! You can’t rob me!”

Clem Wilcox was a small man, in physical estimate, but what he lacked in weight he more than made up in nerve and agility. Hardly were the words out of Dalzene’s mouth before Wilcox had hurdled the bar and as his two feet struck the floor his fist landed with a vicious twist on the point of Dalzene’s chin. Again Wilcox struck, and again, and clawing feebly at the bar, Dalzene sank slowly to the floor.

“You’ve called me a liar an’ a robber,” said Wilcox, quietly, to the man that lay on his back blinking foolishly into his face, “You’ve got my personal answer to that. But likewise you’ve insulted the whole Koyukuk—an’ now you’ll git yer answer to that.” He faced the men who crowded about him. “I’d say, boys, the case calls fer a meetin’.”

“A meetin’s right!”

“A meetin’!”

“Miner’s meetin’! I nominate Wilcox fer chairman!”

Wilcox shook his head, and held up his hand for silence: “Not me, boys. We don’t want it said they was anything personal in it. I nominate Pete Enright. All in favor signify.”

A chorus of affirmation greeted the words, and before it had subsided Dalzene scrambled groggily to his feet and leaned against the bar for support. “Hold on! Hold on, boys! Don’t call no meetin’! You got me wrong! I——”

“Meetin’s called!” announced Enright, “Shut up!” Seating himself legs a-dangle, upon the end of the bar, Enright motioned for Dalzene to be brought before him. The man’s face was livid as he was ungently jerked into a position facing Enright. He groped for words: “You got me wrong——”

“Shut up,” again commanded Enright, “You’ll git a chanct to do yer lyin’ later.” He glanced over the faces crowded about him. “Boys,” he began, “Is they anyone kin show cause why this here party name of Jake Dalzene ain’t a low down, whifflin’ skunk of a rot-gut peddler that ain’t wanted on the Koyukuk?” Enright paused and let his glance travel slowly over the silent faces.

“All them in favor of turnin’ him loose an’ allowin’ him to stay amongst us an’ come an’ go as he likes, is called on to signify.” Again he paused, and no word being ventured in Dalzene’s behalf, continued, “All right, boys, this bein’ a lawful an’ duly organized miner’s meetin’ for dispensin’ with justice, we’ll hear a few suggestions. Gents, what’s yer pleasure?”

“Git a rope!”

“Send him on the Long Traverse!”

“Hang the son of a——!”

“If we had some tar we could tar an’ feather him, if we had some feathers!”

“Send him back to Rampart where he come from——”

“——with his hands tied behind his back, like they done on the Chilcoot!”

“You tell us, Enright!”

“That’s right! What you say goes!”

“Put it to a vote!”

Enright eyed in disgust the white faced man who cringed before him. “Dalzene,” he said, “You’ve heard the suggestions, an’ you’ve got to admit that to any right minded man they’re all fit an’ proper. The sense an’ the will of this meetin’ seems to be plain that here in Nolan we’d ruther have yer room than yer company. Facts is, Dalzene, yer about as pop’lar on the Koyukuk as a litter of fleas in a bedroll. Now, they’s several ways of exterminatin’ a man from where he ain’t wanted. Some is more thorough than others. One of the most convincin’ is a rope applied vertical from the man’s neck to a rafter.” Enright paused, Dalzene’s eyes seemed about to pop from their sockets, and he continuously wet his lips with his tongue. “But, us Koyukukers ain’t no ways a bloodthirsty race. They’s some of us would ruther let a man live than kill him. We aim to do the right thing by you. We ain’t hard men, but we’re purposeful.” He turned abruptly toward the crowd: “Boys, what I suggest is that we let this bird go back down to Rampart where he come from. He ain’t no ways fittin’ to live amongst white men, nohow—nor Siwashes neither, for that matter—but that’s their hard luck. All them in favor of this, signify, an’ I’ll pass sentence.”

A chorus of “Ayes” ratified the suggestion, with here and there a word of dissent by those who favored more drastic measures. But the dissenters were in the minority, and Enright silenced them.

“All right, boys, she’s carried.”

“And now, Dalzene, you listen to me, an’ if yer judgment’s good you’ll act accordin’. Yer dogs bein’ tired, you’ll be give twelve hours to leave Nolan, an’ leave it fer good. It’s six-thirty now. By six-thirty tomorrow mornin’ you’ll be mushin’ down the river. An’ you’ll keep on mushin’ till yer plumb off the Koyukuk. An’ you ain’t never to show yer face on the river, nor no part of it, nor no river nor crick that runs into it, from now on. Yer outlawed on the Koyukuk. From six-thirty tomorrow mornin’ it’s open season fer you the year around. An’ any man ketchin’ you on the Koyukuk from then on, an’ don’t kill you on sight, is shirkin’ his public duty, an’ a traitor to the Territory of Alaska. You ain’t the kind of man that’s wanted on this river. News of the rulin’ of this here meetin’ will go down river clean to the Yukon with the mail carrier, an’ they ain’t a man on the Koyukuk but what will abide by it. If you’ve got anything to say, say it now.”

Dalzene had recovered his nerve to a great extent as the course of Enright’s remarks drew away from the idea of the rope. For he knew the temper of miner’s meetings, and well he knew that had Enright seen fit to have put the suggestion of hanging to a vote it would have carried as easily as the order to stay off the river had carried. And he also knew that having passed sentence the men would abide by their decision, and that, for the present, he was in no danger of physical violence. So it was with an air of truculence that he addressed Enright: “Yer a hell of a bunch of sports, you be! Frame a man, an’ bust him, an’ then start him off on a six hundred mile trail without grub enough to git him half ways! You, Pete Enright, you’ve warned me off one of the best tradin’ grounds I had, an’ how do you expect me to make Rampart without grub nor dog feed?”

Enright grinned: “Well, Dalzene, it looks from here like you was the one to worry about that, not me. An’ as fer knockin’ you out of yer tradin’ grounds, it’s time us white men begun to give a little thought to the Siwashes. I was thinkin’ mostly of them when I was passin’ sentence.”

“What damn business is it of yourn if I make an honest livin’ off’n the Injuns?”

“Try it on the Koyukuk Injuns an’ you’ll have a long time in hell to figger that out fer yerself.”

With a snarl, Dalzene turned to Crim, the trader: “Am I good fer a couple hundred pounds of grub an’ dog feed?”

“If you got the dust to pay for it you are,” answered Crim.

“I tell you I’m broke!” whined Dalzene.

Crim shrugged, and turned away.

“I suppose you’ll stand me off fer a couple of drink’s Wilcox, seein’ we’re in the same business.”

“You kin guess agin, then, Dalzene,” answered Wilcox, “An’ don’t make that mistake—about us bein’ in the same business. I do mine legal, open an’ above board with white men. I don’t sneak through the brush tradin’ rot-gut to Injuns fer ten times what it’s worth, an’ takin’ the fur they need fer grub in pay fer it.”

“I need a couple of drinks an’ I’d buy ’em if I had more’n jest enough on me to pay Henshaw fer my tonight’s lodgin’.”

“Don’t save it fer me,” snapped Henshaw. “I ain’t got no room. I’m full up.”

“But, I got a room there, now. I’ve had it fer ten days. I paid you up this mornin’, but I didn’t give up the room!”

“It’s give up all the same. A party from Noo Orleens reserved it. I’m expectin’ him on the first train.”

With an oath Dalzene drew a silver dollar from his pocket and slammed it onto the bar: “Give me a couple of drinks!” he growled.

Wilcox looked him squarely in the eye: “Yer money ain’t no better here, Dalzene, than what yer credit is. They’s party from Panama bought up all my stock. He’d ort to be waftin’ in most any time, now.”

In the room not a man laughed. For the space of seconds Dalzene stood staring straight in front of him. Then, slowly his eyes traveled over the faces of the men that crowded the room, but not one friendly glance met his. Nor did a single unfriendly one. Yet every eye in the room was upon him—hard, level stares that bored through, and beyond him, yet took no note of him. It was unnatural. Why didn’t someone laugh at the preposterous excuses of Henshaw and Wilcox? It was suddenly as if he, Dalzene, had ceased to exist. He was alone. From the life of the camp—from the men of the camp, he was a thing apart. His credit was no good. Even his money was no good. A great wave of self-pity swept over him. His shoulders drooped, and clutching his dollar tightly in his hand he turned and slunk from the room.

The night air revived him somewhat, but even that could not stimulate his broken spirits to even a semblance of the mighty fury to which he was addicted. He was unutterably lonely, with the bitter loneliness of a man forsaken of his kind. In a sort of dull apathy he bent his steps toward the roadhouse, whose frosted panes showed a yellow square of light. Pushing through the door he stood blinking in the lamplight. A girl sat beside the stove reading. She glanced up, and with a start Dalzene recognized the woman who had that morning sat upon the sled with Gordon, and whose starting of the dog team he had protested. The morning of this same day—not quite twelve hours ago—and it seemed years. And twelve hours from now he would be alone upon the river, mushing southward—alone—alone. The man drew a deep breath. Maybe this girl would speak to him—would talk to him if only for a few minutes. She was reading again. After that first swift impersonal glance that held in it nothing of approval or of disapproval—even of recognition, her eyes had returned to the open page. Surely, this girl could know nothing of the miner’s meeting, yet her glance had been the same impersonal glance of the men in the saloon after their vote had segregated him from his kind. Dalzene cleared his throat harshly, and endeavoring to inject an ingratiating note into his voice, spoke: “Good evenin’, Miss, didn’t I see you this mornin’ down on the river?”

“You did,” answered the girl, without raising her eyes from the book.

“Ain’t you Old Man Gordon’s darter?”

“I am.”

“My name’s Dalzene.” The announcement apparently went unheard. “Where’s yer pa? I didn’t see him in the saloon.”

“He’s in bed. He hurt his knee at the finish of the race.”

“Too bad. I hope it ain’t hurt much.”

“Not badly, I guess, just stiffened up.”

“I don’t bear yous no grudge fer winnin’ the race.” Dalzene paused, expecting a reply, but receiving none, he continued: “Do you know if he would sell that dog?”

“What dog?”

“That leader of his’n. Pretty fair lookin’ dog. I might buy him.”

“He’s not for sale.”

“I might go a hundred dollars.”

“I get that for culls.”

“You do! Be they your dogs?”

“Yes.”

“Well, two hundred.”

“He’s not for sale.”

“That’s alright, but folks’ll sell anything they got if the price is right. What do you hold him at?”

“I said he is not for sale. Do you understand? That dog is not for sale.”

“How about one of them malamutes, then, er two of ’em.”

“No dog in that team is for sale!” exclaimed the girl, for the first time raising her eyes to his. “And if I had a thousand dogs for sale and you were to offer me a thousand dollars apiece for them, I wouldn’t sell you a single dog. Not after seeing the brutal way you handled your own dogs.”

“Oh, come now, Miss. I know all about dogs. Anyone’ll tell you that. It ain’t no use gettin’ sore at me.” He stepped a little closer. “Mebbe—it might be such a thing, we could kind of work up a deal, an’ go pardners. I make plenty money. Why, I lose fifteen thousan’ on that dog race today, an’ you don’t hear me kickin’, do you? What’s fifteen thousan’, when they’s plenty more where that come from? What d’you say? What’s on Myrtle? She’s worked out an’ dead. Throw in with me an’ we’ll go where we kin have some fun—down on the Yukon, or over to Nome, that’s where the bright lights is.” As the words poured from the man’s lips he gained confidence. The ingratiating tone gave place to something of the gruff bluster that had become habitual with him. His eyes, quick to note the physical beauty of the girl, lighted as he talked, with a bestial gleam of lust. The girl’s eyes had returned to her book. Dalzene waited for her to speak. She turned a page. “Well, what d’you say?” His voice had regained its accustomed rasp. “If yer a-goin’ with me, we got to be mushin’. You think it over while I drag my pack out of my room. I’m hittin’ the trail right now.” The man disappeared abruptly through a door and a few moments later reappeared, dragging a bulging pack sack and a bed roll. Before the outer door he released his burden and straightened. “Goin’?” he rasped.

The girl’s eyes were still upon the open page. It was as though she had not heard. Only for an instant the man stood silent, and in that instant a mighty rage surged up within him. He took one swift step forward and fixed her with blazing eyes: “Yer just like the others! Won’t have nothin’ to do with Jake Dalzene! Well, the time’ll come when you will talk to him—an’ talk pretty! Yer safe enough up here where yer friends is. But you ain’t seen the last of me yet! You can’t rob me out of no fifteen thousan’ an’ git away with it. Time’ll come when you’ll learn that Jake Dalzene don’t never fergit!”

Without looking up, Lou Gordon turned another page, and muttering to himself, Dalzene jerked the outer door open and dragged his belongings onto the hard-packed snow.

Passing around to the rear of the roadhouse where his dogs were chained to their allotted kennels he paused suddenly. All about him the snow was lighted by the reflection of a brilliant wavering aurora, and as he looked the sacking over the door of one of the kennels was thrust aside, and Skookum stepped out onto the snow and walking to the end of his chain, eyed the motionless man in silence. Dalzene’s eyes glittered as they took in the lines of the superb brute; the rangy legs, the long powerful body, and the mighty shoulders. Fascinated he stepped closer, staring into the yellow eyes that glowed like live coals. Cautiously his mittened hand reached out as if to caress the broad head, and instantly it was jerked back as the great silent brute crouched with bared teeth.

“Oh, that’s it, is it? Damn you! You’d eat a man up if you onct got goin’. Well, I kin take that out of you!”

For a full minute the man stood eyeing the dog, while his brain worked rapidly. Then, swiftly he returned to the corner of the roadhouse and peered down the street. No one was in sight. From the direction of the saloon came the muffled tinkle of the dance hall piano. It would be late this night when the men of Nolan would seek their beds. They were celebrating his defeat—spending his money! Gordon was in bed with a stiffened knee. The girl was absorbed in her book. All Nolan was occupied in its own affairs. The dogs had long since been fed. No one would visit the kennels until morning—and by morning he could be far to the southward—even far off the Koyukuk—the Fort Hamlin short cut! He knew the trail, forgotten these several years. In the morning pursuit would be too late. The only team on the Koyukuk that would have any chance to overtake him would be demoralized for want of a leader—and, once on the Yukon—they would search for him at Rampart City—but, they wouldn’t find him! To hell with Rampart! To hell with his squaw! He was going to haul out anyway pretty soon. That missionary from Fairbanks, damn him, was stirring up the authorities down to Fort Gibbon in regard to his hooch-running activities, but more especially in regard to the parentage of certain half-breed children who had been abandoned to the care of their mothers in the miserable cabins of the native village. The hooch-running they could hardly prove—he was wise enough for that—but the half-breed children, if the squaws who had received nothing but abuse at his hands, should talk, would be more awkward. He could hole up for a while in an abandoned cabin he knew on the head of Dall River, where he had a cache of grub and dog feed to last a month, and when the pursuit from Nolan had swept by down the Koyukuk and the Chandalar, he could cross the Koyukuk and hit straight for Nome.

Swiftly he harnessed his own dogs, and armed with a heavy blanket, the half of a dried fish, and a babiche line, he again approached Skookum who eyed his approach sullenly. Halting just beyond reach of the chain, Dalzene tossed the piece of fish onto the snow at Skookum’s feet. And as the dog lowered his head to take it, Dalzene, the blanket outstretched in both hands leaped straight upon the dog, bearing him onto the snow by sheer weight. A low, muffled growl came from the folds of the tightly held blanket, as the great brute thrashed furiously to rid himself of the weight. But, Dalzene had handled bad dogs before, and using his body, his legs, and his arms, he was able to hold the struggling animal while his hands tightened the blanket about the mighty jaws. Then, deftly he released a hand and the next instant the slip knot in the end of the babiche line tightened about the dog’s throat and three or four adroitly turned half hitches secured his blanket wrapped jaws. It was but the work of a few minutes to encompass the thrashing legs in the blanket, where coil after coil of the line held the great dog trussed like a roasted turkey, and the work of a few more minutes to lash him securely upon the loaded sled.

Fifteen minutes later Dalzene reached the river, pausing on the bank to shake his mittened fist toward the double square of light behind which he knew the men of the Koyukuk were making merry in the Aurora Borealis. A string of blasphemous curses that ceased only when the man’s imagination had run the gamut of all things foul and vile, poured from his lips, and in his unreasoning fury, slashing at his dogs with his whip, he turned and headed down river alone under the aurora-shot Arctic sky.