North

As MacShane stepped from the door of the saloon and headed toward the hotel, Lou Gordon drew swiftly back from the window of her room and sinking upon the edge of her bed, stared for a long time at the opposite wall. Quite by accident, she had happened to glance out of her window, at the moment Dalzene had accosted MacShane upon the sidewalk opposite. She had seen them converse for a few moments, and then, together, walk down the street and enter the saloon, and she had watched for an hour or more until they reappeared, separately, but within a few minutes of each other. What did it mean? Who was Huloimee Tilakum? And what on earth could he have in common with that prince of all devils, Dalzene? The girl pressed her hand to her breast. There was a strange lump—almost a pain, that seemed pressing upon her—weighting her down.

For more than a week this clear-eyed, handsome stranger had been her constant companion. Frankly she had admitted to herself that she liked him. Deep down in her heart she knew that her regard for him had swiftly ripened into a far deeper emotion. In her mind’s eye she had compared him with other men, and she knew that he stood above them all. His very presence stirred unsuspected depths within her. When they were together the whole world sang with happiness, when they were apart, there was a void. And now, with her own eyes she had seen him apparently hand in glove with Jake Dalzene! Oh, what did it mean? In vain her shocked brain groped for an answer. “He is good!” she half-sobbed. “I know he is good! I can see it in his eyes—and the dogs know! Surely Skookum would know—Skookum that distrusts all men. And I have trusted him with money I brought down from Nolan, and he has worked hard in placing it all.” Mechanically, as though to corroborate the statement, she produced the sheaf of receipts signed by the proprietor of the Malamute Saloon, which showed that the money was in his possession. Surely, if he had been anything but the soul of honor, he could have made away with the money, and pursuit would have been impossible—she didn’t even know his name. But—why didn’t she know? What possible reason could he have for concealing his identity? What possible connection could he have with Dalzene? He had told her that he had bet heavily on her dogs himself. Why, then should he have anything in common with Dalzene, who bore her only hatred?

A sharp knock upon her door brought her to her feet. She answered the knock to be confronted by a police official. “Sorry to trouble you, Miss,” he said, not unkindly, “But we’ve got a hooch-runner locked up, an’ he says he’s your father, an’ he wants you should come down to the jail right away an’ fetch bail. But, they ain’t no use botherin’ with the bail part of it. Judge Cross, he’s declared a holiday till after the race, an’ they ain’t no one else got the authority to fix the bail. You’re welcome to come down an’ talk to him, though. He ain’t takin’ his arrest none easy.”

The girl stared uncomprehendingly as the man talked: “Dad! Arrested!” she managed to gasp, when the man paused, “And, for hooch-running! You’re crazy! Why, if you knew dad!”

“We’ve got the goods on him, all right,” answered the man, “I’m sorry, Miss—if you didn’t know. But he done it. Sold a bottle of hooch to an Injun. Shall I wait, or are you comin’?”

“Yes, of course I’m coming! Just a minute. I’ll tell you, though, you’ve made an awful mistake! It’s the most ridiculous thing I ever heard of!”

Ten minutes later Lou Gordon stood in the corridor of the jail and listened to her father’s outpouring of wrath. Stamping up and down in the narrow confine of his cell, the old man bitterly condemned the police and vociferously asserted his innocence.

“Of course, you are innocent, dad!” cried the girl. “There has been a mistake—an awful mistake—somewhere.”

“’Tis no mistake!” roared the old man, “’Tis a frame-up—to make us lose the race! They locked me up because they’re afraid to let me drive that race! I ain’t be’n in here two hours for nothin’! I’ve thought it all out! A dirty trick! That’s what it is—an’ the judge, an’ the whole town is in on it! They say I can’t get bail till after the race! Don’t that prove it? But—you’ve got to get bail—lass! I’ve got to drive that race! Go out an’ show ’em up, lass! Surely there must be someone in the town that will stand for fair play. Go long now, an’ get me out! Go to the mayor! Go to someone! Go to everybody!” he cried, excitedly, “An’ tell ’em what’s comin’ off!”

While the old man raved, a new train of thought coursed through the girl’s brain, and as soon as possible she quitted the place, promising to see what she could do. And, as she hurried toward the hotel, she smiled, and in the privacy of her own room the smile broadened, and became an audible chuckle: “Poor old dad!” she murmured, as she rearranged a wind-tossed strand of hair before her mirror, “It will be hard on him, but I guess he’ll have to stay right where he is until after the race—then I’ll bail him out with my own money! Whoever it was that had him arrested certainly solved my problem for me. I just know that horrible Dalzene is at the bottom of it. He thinks it will spoil our chance of winning if dad don’t drive. But, why should he care? He’s not in the race. Just spite, I suppose, because we beat him at Nolan. If he only knew!” and the words trailed into a silvery laugh.

Once more her thoughts turned to her tall Stranger, but instead of dwelling dreamily upon his spoken words, his easy, graceful movement of frame, or the deep, intense look that she had more than once surprised in his blue-grey eyes; they leaped at once to his meeting with Dalzene and the apparent comradery with which they had walked down the street and entered the saloon. As the picture recalled itself, a new thought leaped into her brain. Could it be possible that, knowing as he did, of her dilemma, he himself had contrived the arrest of her father? But if so, what had Dalzene to do with it? Surely, her interests were not Dalzene’s, and if the stranger really had her interests at heart he could have nothing in common with the hooch-runner of Rampart. With a shrug, she gave it up. She would know soon. She must go down and have her own name substituted for that of her father in the entry book. She was to dine with the Stranger at six, and afterward they were to complete the plan for preventing her father from driving the race.

It was after dark when she returned to the hotel to find her Stranger waiting, and together they entered the dining room where the man led the way to a small table in the center of which a mass of richly-hued blossoms blazed from a glittering cut glass bowl.

“Oh!” exclaimed the girl, glancing swiftly from the riot of color into the smiling eyes of the man, “Oh, how wonderful!”

“Do you like ’em?” he smiled.

“Like them! They are the most beautiful flowers I ever saw! Where in the world did you get them?”

“There’s a kind of a Dutchman that raises ’em all under glass,” he explained, “I got all he had, except the ones that they’ve got ordered for the big wreath that they hang around the neck of the winner of the Sweepstakes. You’ll be wearin’ that, too—if we can figure out how we’re goin’ to keep your dad from drivin’. But, really, Miss Gordon, I wish you wouldn’t tackle it. Let me drive the race for you. I can handle the dogs—you know that, now. You can’t depend on the weather this time of year, and if it kicks up a bad storm out there without any timber to run to, it’s goin’ to be hell—just plain hell!”

The girl smiled at the intensity of the man’s words, and as she spoke she looked searchingly into his eyes: “Don’t worry about me,” she said, “All my life I have lived in the North. I’m not afraid of the storms. I’m no chechako.”

“No, you are no chechako” the man replied, gravely, “But, even the sourdoughs don’t always pull through.”

“Do you know where my father is, this minute?” Surprised at the abruptness of the question, the man met her searching gaze: “Why, no. Fooling around with a boiler somewhere, I suppose.”

“He is in jail,” announced the girl, noting the genuinely shocked expression that leaped into the man’s face.

“In ... jail!” he uttered the words slowly, as though trying to grasp their meaning. “In jail! What do you mean?”

“I mean that they have got him locked up in jail, charged with selling liquor to an Indian.”

The man half-rose from his chair: “Who has?” he cried, “It’s an outrage! Who had him locked up? But, don’t you worry! Wait right here!” he was on his feet, now. “I’ll have him out in a jiffy! They’ve got to let him out on bail!”

The girl motioned him to be seated, and as he stared into her face he saw that the corners of her mouth twitched into just the suspicion of a smile. “You can’t get him out on bail until after the race. The judge has declared a holiday. It’s hard on dad, but—don’t you see? He can’t drive the race in jail!”

There was no question about the smile on the girl’s lips, now, and as the man slowly settled into his chair, he laughed aloud: “So that’s what you’ve been up to, is it? But, you’d better never let him find it out. He’d be furious!”

“I had nothing whatever to do with it,” answered the girl, “But, I think I know who did.”

“Who?”

“Jake Dalzene.”

“Who’s Jake Dalzene?”

The waiter was removing the first course of the specially prepared dinner that MacShane had ordered with the help of the head waiter, and which included everything obtainable in Nome that was not to be found on the regular bill of fare. The fingers that conveyed a ripe olive to the girl’s lips trembled slightly. Had she heard aright? Was the man actually feigning ignorance of Dalzene, when, with her own eyes she had seen them together, that very afternoon? Was it possible that he was a confederate of the hooch-runner, and that she was being made the victim of some deep-laid scheme? But, no. For this man knew, if Dalzene did not, that to arrest her father to prevent him from driving the race would be playing directly into her hands. What then? As she spoke, she was conscious that there was a peculiar tightening at the muscles of her throat: “Don’t you know Jake Dalzene?” the words were uttered with an effort.

“Don’t know him. Never even heard of him, that I know of,” answered the man.

The dinner was a flat failure. Somehow Lou Gordon stuck it through, answering the man’s questions she never knew how, forcing commonplace remarks by the utmost effort of will, and longing for the moment the miserable ordeal should be over with. Once or twice as she glanced into the man’s face her imagination discerned something sinister in the searching gaze of his eyes. Why had she never noticed it before? She was conscious of a dull pain in the region of her heart. The last course remained before her untouched. She began to feel queer all over. The dull pain in her heart gave place to a very real pain in her stomach. Stabs of excruciating agony shot through her body. Her vitals were being torn asunder in a mighty grip. The color receded from her face, and thin beads of cold sweat appeared upon the marble whiteness of her brow. She was aware that the Stranger was standing over her, and instinctively she shrank away from the touch of his hand. The room was growing dark. She could hear voices—excited voices—far off.

When she opened her eyes she was in bed in her own room. A man stood beside the bed regarding her intently. He was not the Stranger. Beside him stood a woman whom the girl recognized as the chambermaid who took care of the room. The man spoke: “You’ll pull through, all right,” he said, reassuringly, “Bad case of ptomaine poisoning. If we hadn’t pumped you out just when we did, I’m afraid it would have been all over with you.”

“How long have I been—here?” asked the girl, surprised at the weak tones of her voice.

“About three hours. But you must be quiet, now. Don’t try to talk. I’ve left medicine and full instructions with Kate, here. It isn’t the first time we’ve worked together. She’s as good as any nurse. A few days of quiet is all you need.”

“A few days!” cried the girl, struggling to raise herself. “Why, I’ve got to drive the Sweepstakes tomorrow! I’ve got to!”

The doctor smiled: “There, there, that’s all right,” he soothed, “Don’t get all excited, now. Go to sleep if you can.”

“But—I tell you I’ve got to drive that race!”

“Sure, that’s all right. You can drive the race, all right. But, the race don’t start till tomorrow. Get a good night’s rest, and if you feel like driving the Sweepstakes in the morning, why go right ahead.” The girl sank back onto her pillow, and watched between half-closed lids as the man placed some queer-looking instruments into a small black bag. A few moments later he departed, and with a low moan, she turned her face toward the wall. But, she did not go to sleep.

A half-hour later the woman, Kate, answered a gentle knock on the door. Lou Gordon recognized the voice of the Stranger asking in low tones how she fared. A mighty rage surged up within her and summoning all her strength, she raised herself to her elbow and addressed him in faltering tones: “Your scheme didn’t work! It almost did—but not quite. I see it all, now! When you and Dalzene found out I wouldn’t let you drive and lose the race for me, you tried to poison me, after taking care that poor old dad was out of the way! But you failed! I’ll drive that race tomorrow—and I’ll win! All your scheming won’t stop me! You’ve made it harder—that’s all!” and with a sob, she fell exhausted onto her pillow.

Beyond the door MacShane listened to the accusations in horror. As the faltering voice stilled, he was about to answer, but with fingers to her lips, Kate motioned for silence. “She’s kind of out of her head,” she whispered, and without a word, MacShane made his way to the street, and with bowed head, hunted up the doctor, and later the dog keeper, with whom he held long discourse.