CHAPTER XXIX
Frona had gone at once to her father's side, but he was alreadyrecovering. Courbertin was brought forward with a scratched face,sprained wrist, and an insubordinate tongue. To prevent discussion andto save time, Bill Brown claimed the floor.
"Mr. Chairman, while we condemn the attempt on the part of Jacob Welse,Frona Welse, and Baron Courbertin to rescue the prisoner and thwartjustice, we cannot, under the circumstances, but sympathize with them.There is no need that I should go further into this matter. You allknow, and doubtless, under a like situation, would have done the same.And so, in order that we may expeditiously finish the business, I makea motion to disarm the three prisoners and let them go."
The motion was carried, and the two men searched for weapons. Fronawas saved this by giving her word that she was no longer armed. Themeeting then resolved itself into a hanging committee, and began tofile out of the cabin.
"Sorry I had to do it," the chairman said, half-apologetically,half-defiantly.
Jacob Welse smiled. "You took your chance," he answered, "and I can'tblame you. I only wish I'd got you, though."
Excited voices arose from across the cabin. "Here, you! Leggo!" "Stepon his fingers, Tim!" "Break that grip!" "Ouch! Ow!" "Pry his mouthopen!"
Frona saw a knot of struggling men about St. Vincent, and ran over. Hehad thrown himself down on the floor and, tooth and nail, was fightinglike a madman. Tim Dugan, a stalwart Celt, had come to close quarterswith him, and St. Vincent's teeth were sunk in the man's arm.
"Smash 'm, Tim! Smash 'm!"
"How can I, ye fule? Get a pry on his mouth, will ye?"
"One moment, please." The men made way for her, drawing back andleaving St. Vincent and Tim.
Frona knelt down by him. "Leave go, Gregory. Do leave go."
He looked up at her, and his eyes did not seem human. He breathedstertorously, and in his throat were the queer little gasping noises ofone overwrought.
"It is I, Gregory." She brushed her hand soothingly across his brow."Don't you understand? It is I, Frona. Do leave go."
His whole body slowly relaxed, and a peaceful expression grew upon hisface. His jaw dropped, and the man's arm was withdrawn.
"Now listen, Gregory. Though you are to die--"
"But I cannot! I cannot!" he groaned. "You said that I could trust toyou, that all would come well."
She thought of the chance which had been given, but said nothing.
"Oh, Frona! Frona!" He sobbed and buried his face in her lap.
"At least you can be a man. It is all that remains."
"Come on!" Tim Dugan commanded. "Sorry to bother ye, miss, but we'vegot to fetch 'm along. Drag 'm out, you fellys! Catch 'm by the legs,Blackey, and you, too, Johnson."
St. Vincent's body stiffened at the words, the rational gleam went outof his eyes, and his fingers closed spasmodically on Frona's. Shelooked entreaty at the men, and they hesitated.
"Give me a minute with him," she begged, "just a minute."
"He ain't worth it," Dugan sneered, after they had drawn apart. "Lookat 'm."
"It's a damned shame," corroborated Blackey, squinting sidewise atFrona whispering in St. Vincent's ear, the while her hand wanderedcaressingly through his hair.
What she said they did not hear, but she got him on his feet and ledhim forward. He walked as a dead man might walk, and when he enteredthe open air gazed forth wonderingly upon the muddy sweep of the Yukon.The crowd had formed by the bank, about a pine tree. A boy, engaged inrunning a rope over one of the branches, finished his task and sliddown the trunk to the ground. He looked quickly at the palms of hishands and blew upon them, and a laugh went up. A couple of wolf-dogs,on the outskirts, bristled up to each other and bared their fangs. Menencouraged them. They closed in and rolled over, but were kicked asideto make room for St. Vincent.
Corliss came up the bank to Frona. "What's up?" he whispered. "Is itoff?"
She tried to speak, but swallowed and nodded her head.
"This way, Gregory." She touched his arm and guided him to the boxbeneath the rope.
Corliss, keeping step with them, looked over the crowd speculativelyand felt into his jacket-pocket. "Can I do anything?" he asked,gnawing his under lip impatiently. "Whatever you say goes, Frona. Ican stand them off."
She looked at him, aware of pleasure in the sight. She knew he woulddare it, but she knew also that it would be unfair. St. Vincent hadhad his chance, and it was not right that further sacrifice should bemade. "No, Vance. It is too late. Nothing can be done."
"At least let me try," he persisted.
"No; it is not our fault that our plan failed, and . . . and . . ." Hereyes filled. "Please do not ask it of me."
"Then let me take you away. You cannot remain here."
"I must," she answered, simply, and turned to St. Vincent, who seemeddreaming.
Blackey was tying the hangman's knot in the rope's end, preparatory toslipping the noose over St. Vincent's head.
"Kiss me, Gregory," she said, her hand on his arm.
He started at the touch, and saw all eager eyes centred upon him, andthe yellow noose, just shaped, in the hands of the hangman. He threwup his arms, as though to ward it off, and cried loudly, "No! no! Letme confess! Let me tell the truth, then you'll believe me!"
Bill Brown and the chairman shoved Blackey back, and the crowd gatheredin. Cries and protestations rose from its midst. "No, you don't," aboy's shrill voice made itself heard. "I'm not going to go. I climbedthe tree and made the rope fast, and I've got a right to stay.""You're only a kid," replied a man's voice, "and it ain't good foryou." "I don't care, and I'm not a kid. I'm--I'm used to such things.And, anyway, I climbed the tree. Look at my hands." "Of course he canstay," other voices took up the trouble. "Leave him alone, Curley.""You ain't the whole thing." A laugh greeted this, and things quieteddown.
"Silence!" the chairman called, and then to St. Vincent, "Go ahead,you, and don't take all day about it."
"Give us a chance to hear!" the crowd broke out again. "Put 'm on thebox! Put 'm on the box!"
St. Vincent was helped up, and began with eager volubility.
"I didn't do it, but I saw it done. There weren't two men--only one.He did it, and Bella helped him."
A wave of laughter drowned him out.
"Not so fast," Bill Brown cautioned him. "Kindly explain how Bellahelped this man kill herself. Begin at the beginning."
"That night, before he turned in, Borg set his burglar alarm--"
"Burglar alarm?"
"That's what I called it,--a tin bread-pan attached to the latch so thedoor couldn't open without tumbling it down. He set it every night, asthough he were afraid of what might happen,--the very thing which didhappen, for that matter. On the night of the murder I awoke with thefeeling that some one was moving around. The slush-lamp was burninglow, and I saw Bella at the door. Borg was snoring; I could hear himplainly. Bella was taking down the bread-pan, and she exercised greatcare about it. Then she opened the door, and an Indian came in softly.He had no mask, and I should know him if ever I see him again, for ascar ran along the forehead and down over one eye."
"I suppose you sprang out of bed and gave the alarm?"
"No, I didn't," St. Vincent answered, with a defiant toss of the head,as though he might as well get the worst over with. "I just lay thereand waited."
"What did you think?"
"That Bella was in collusion with the Indian, and that Borg was to bemurdered. It came to me at once."
"And you did nothing?"
"Nothing." His voice sank, and his eyes dropped to Frona, leaningagainst the box beneath him and steadying it. She did not seem to beaffected. "Bella came over to me, but I closed my eyes and breathedregularly. She held the slush-lamp to me, but I played sleep naturallyenough to fool her. Then I heard a snort of sudden awakening andalarm, and a cry, and I looked out. The Indian was hacking at Borgwith a knife, and
Borg was warding off with his arms and trying tograpple him. When they did grapple, Bella crept up from behind andthrew her arm in a strangle-hold about her husband's neck. She put herknee into the small of his back, and bent him backward and, with theIndian helping, threw him to the floor."
"And what did you do?"
"I watched."
"Had you a revolver?"
"Yes."
"The one you previously said John Borg had borrowed?"
"Yes; but I watched."
"Did John Borg call for help?"
"Yes."
"Can you give his words?"
"He called, 'St. Vincent! Oh, St. Vincent! Oh, my God! Oh, St.Vincent, help me!'" He shuddered at the recollection, and added, "Itwas terrible."
"I should say so," Brown grunted. "And you?"
"I watched," was the dogged reply, while a groan went up from thecrowd. "Borg shook clear of them, however, and got on his legs. Hehurled Bella across the cabin with a back-sweep of the arm and turnedupon the Indian. Then they fought. The Indian had dropped the knife,and the sound of Borg's blows was sickening. I thought he would surelybeat the Indian to death. That was when the furniture was smashed.They rolled and snarled and struggled like wild beasts. I wondered theIndian's chest did not cave in under some of Borg's blows. But Bellagot the knife and stabbed her husband repeatedly about the body. TheIndian had clinched with him, and his arms were not free; so he kickedout at her sideways. He must have broken her legs, for she cried outand fell down, and though she tried, she never stood up again. Then hewent down, with the Indian under him, across the stove."
"Did he call any more for help?"
"He begged me to come to him."
"And?"
"I watched. He managed to get clear of the Indian and staggered overto me. He was streaming blood, and I could see he was very weak.'Give me your gun,' he said; 'quick, give me it.' He felt aroundblindly. Then his mind seemed to clear a bit, and he reached across meto the holster hanging on the wall and took the pistol. The Indiancame at him with the knife again, but he did not try to defend himself.Instead, he went on towards Bella, with the Indian still hanging to himand hacking at him. The Indian seemed to bother and irritate him, andhe shoved him away. He knelt down and turned Bella's face up to thelight; but his own face was covered with blood and he could not see.So he stopped long enough to brush the blood from his eyes. Heappeared to look in order to make sure. Then he put the revolver toher breast and fired.
"The Indian went wild at this, and rushed at him with the knife, at thesame time knocking the pistol out of his hand. It was then the shelfwith the slush-lamp was knocked down. They continued to fight in thedarkness, and there were more shots fired, though I do not know bywhom. I crawled out of the bunk, but they struck against me in theirstruggles, and I fell over Bella. That's when the blood got on myhands. As I ran out the door, more shots were fired. Then I met LaFlitche and John, and . . . and you know the rest. This is the truth Ihave told you, I swear it!"
He looked down at Frona. She was steadying the box, and her face wascomposed. He looked out over the crowd and saw unbelief. Many werelaughing.
"Why did you not tell this story at first?" Bill Brown demanded.
"Because . . . because . . ."
"Well?"
"Because I might have helped."
There was more laughter at this, and Bill Brown turned away from him."Gentlemen, you have heard this pipe dream. It is a wilder fairy storythan his first. At the beginning of the trial we promised to show thatthe truth was not in him. That we succeeded, your verdict is ampletestimony. But that he should likewise succeed, and more brilliantly,we did not expect. That he has, you cannot doubt. What do you thinkof him? Lie upon lie he has given us; he has been proven a chronicliar; are you to believe this last and fearfully impossible lie?Gentlemen, I can only ask that you reaffirm your judgment. And tothose who may doubt his mendacity,--surely there are but few,--let mestate, that if his story is true; if he broke salt with this man, JohnBorg, and lay in his blankets while murder was done; if he did hear,unmoved, the voice of the man calling to him for help; if he did liethere and watch that carnival of butchery without his manhood promptinghim,--let me state, gentlemen, I say, let me state that he is none theless deserveful of hanging. We cannot make a mistake. What shall itbe?"
"Death!" "String him up!" "Stretch 'm!" were the cries.
But the crowd suddenly turned its attention to the river, and evenBlackey refrained from his official task. A large raft, worked by asweep at either end, was slipping past the tail of Split-up Island,close to the shore. When it was at their feet, its nose was slewedinto the bank, and while its free end swung into the stream to make theconsequent circle, a snubbing-rope was flung ashore and several turnstaken about the tree under which St. Vincent stood. A cargo ofmoose-meat, red and raw, cut into quarters, peeped from beneath a coolcovering of spruce boughs. And because of this, the two men on theraft looked up to those on the bank with pride in their eyes.
"Tryin' to make Dawson with it," one of them explained, "and the sun'sall-fired hot."
"Nope," said his comrade, in reply to a query, "don't care to stop andtrade. It's worth a dollar and a half a pound down below, and we'rehustlin' to get there. But we've got some pieces of a man we want toleave with you." He turned and pointed to a loose heap of blanketswhich slightly disclosed the form of a man beneath. "We gathered himin this mornin', 'bout thirty mile up the Stewart, I should judge."
"Stands in need of doctorin'," the other man spoke up, "and the meat'sspoilin', and we ain't got time for nothin'." "Beggar don't haveanythin' to say. Don't savve the burro." "Looks as he might have beenmixin' things with a grizzly or somethin',--all battered and gouged.Injured internally, from the looks of it. Where'll you have him?"
Frona, standing by St. Vincent, saw the injured man borne over thecrest of the bank and through the crowd. A bronzed hand drooped downand a bronzed face showed from out the blankets. The bearers haltednear them while a decision could be reached as to where he should becarried. Frona felt a sudden fierce grip on her arm.
"Look! look!" St. Vincent was leaning forward and pointing wildly atthe injured man. "Look! That scar!"
The Indian opened his eyes and a grin of recognition distorted his face.
"It is he! It is he!" St. Vincent, trembling with eagerness, turnedupon the crowd. "I call you all to witness! That is the man whokilled John Borg!"
No laughter greeted this, for there was a terrible earnestness in hismanner. Bill Brown and the chairman tried to make the Indian talk, butcould not. A miner from British Columbia was pressed into service, buthis Chinook made no impression. Then La Flitche was called. Thehandsome breed bent over the man and talked in gutturals which only hismother's heredity made possible. It sounded all one, yet it wasapparent that he was trying many tongues. But no response did he draw,and he paused disheartened. As though with sudden recollection, hemade another attempt. At once a gleam of intelligence shot across theIndian's face, and his larynx vibrated to similar sounds.
"It is the Stick talk of the Upper White," La Flitche stopped longenough to explain.
Then, with knit brows and stumbling moments when he soughtdim-remembered words, he plied the man with questions. To the rest itwas like a pantomime,--the meaningless grunts and waving arms andfacial expressions of puzzlement, surprise, and understanding. Attimes a passion wrote itself on the face of the Indian, and a sympathyon the face of La Flitche. Again, by look and gesture, St. Vincent wasreferred to, and once a sober, mirthless laugh shaped the mouths ofthem.
"So? It is good," La Flitche said, when the Indian's head droppedback. "This man make true talk. He come from White River, way up. Hecannot understand. He surprised very much, so many white men. Henever think so many white men in the world. He die soon. His name Gow.
"Long time ago, three year, this man John Borg go to this man Gow'scountry. He hunt, he bring plenty meat to
the camp, wherefore WhiteRiver Sticks like him. Gow have one squaw, Pisk-ku. Bime-by John Borgmake preparation to go 'way. He go to Gow, and he say, 'Give me yoursquaw. We trade. For her I give you many things.' But Gow say no.Pisk-ku good squaw. No woman sew moccasin like she. She tanmoose-skin the best, and make the softest leather. He like Pisk-ku.Then John Borg say he don't care; he want Pisk-ku. Then they have a_skookum_ big fight, and Pisk-ku go 'way with John Borg. She no wantto go 'way, but she go anyway. Borg call her 'Bella,' and give herplenty good things, but she like Gow all the time." La Flitche pointedto the scar which ran down the forehead and past the eye of the Indian."John Borg he do that."
"Long time Gow pretty near die. Then he get well, but his head sick.He don't know nobody. Don't know his father, his mother, or anything.Just like a little baby. Just like that. Then one day, quick, click!something snap, and his head get well all at once. He know his fatherand mother, he remember Pisk-ku, he remember everything. His fathersay John Borg go down river. Then Gow go down river. Spring-time, icevery bad. He very much afraid, so many white men, and when he come tothis place he travel by night. Nobody see him 'tall, but he seeeverybody. He like a cat, see in the dark. Somehow, he come straightto John Borg's cabin. He do not know how this was, except that thework he had to do was good work."
St. Vincent pressed Frona's hand, but she shook her fingers clear andwithdrew a step.
"He see Pisk-ku feed the dogs, and he have talk with her. That nighthe come and she open the door. Then you know that which was done. St.Vincent do nothing, Borg kill Bella. Gow kill Borg. Borg kill Gow,for Gow die pretty quick. Borg have strong arm. Gow sick inside, allsmashed up. Gow no care; Pisk-ku dead.
"After that he go 'cross ice to the land. I tell him all you peoplesay it cannot be; no man can cross the ice at that time. He laugh, andsay that it is, and what is, must be. Anyway, he have very hard time,but he get 'cross all right. He very sick inside. Bime-by he cannotwalk; he crawl. Long time he come to Stewart River. Can go no more,so he lay down to die. Two white men find him and bring him to thisplace. He don't care. He die anyway."
La Flitche finished abruptly, but nobody spoke. Then he added, "Ithink Gow damn good man."
Frona came up to Jacob Welse. "Take me away, father," she said. "I amso tired."
CHAPTER XXX
Next morning, Jacob Welse, for all of the Company and his millions inmines, chopped up the day's supply of firewood, lighted a cigar, andwent down the island in search of Baron Courbertin. Frona finished thebreakfast dishes, hung out the robes to air, and fed the dogs. Thenshe took a worn Wordsworth from her clothes-bag, and, out by the bank,settled herself comfortably in a seat formed by two uprooted pines.But she did no more than open the book; for her eyes strayed out andover the Yukon to the eddy below the bluffs, and the bend above, andthe tail of the spit which lay in the midst of the river. The rescueand the race were still fresh with her, though there were strangelapses, here and there, of which she remembered little. The struggleby the fissure was immeasurable; she knew not how long it lasted; andthe race down Split-up to Roubeau Island was a thing of which herreason convinced her, but of which she recollected nothing.
The whim seized her, and she followed Corliss through the three days'events, but she tacitly avoided the figure of another man whom shewould not name. Something terrible was connected therewith, she knew,which must be faced sooner or later; but she preferred to put thatmoment away from her. She was stiff and sore of mind as well as ofbody, and will and action were for the time being distasteful. It wasmore pleasant, even, to dwell on Tommy, on Tommy of the bitter tongueand craven heart; and she made a note that the wife and children inToronto should not be forgotten when the Northland paid its dividendsto the Welse.
The crackle of a foot on a dead willow-twig roused her, and her eyesmet St. Vincent's.
"You have not congratulated me upon my escape," he began, breezily."But you must have been dead-tired last night. I know I was. And youhad that hard pull on the river besides."
He watched her furtively, trying to catch some cue as to her attitudeand mood.
"You're a heroine, that's what you are, Frona," he began again, withexuberance. "And not only did you save the mail-man, but by the delayyou wrought in the trial you saved me. If one more witness had gone onthe stand that first day, I should have been duly hanged before Gow putin an appearance. Fine chap, Gow. Too bad he's going to die."
"I am glad that I could be of help," she replied, wondering the whilewhat she could say.
"And of course I am to be congratulated--"
"Your trial is hardly a thing for congratulation," she spoke upquickly, looking him straight in the eyes for the moment. "I am gladthat it came out as it did, but surely you cannot expect me tocongratulate you."
"O-o-o," with long-drawn inflection. "So that's where it pinches." Hesmiled good-humoredly, and moved as though to sit down, but she made noroom for him, and he remained standing. "I can certainly explain. Ifthere have been women--"
Frona had been clinching her hand nervously, but at the word burst outin laughter.
"Women?" she queried. "Women?" she repeated. "Do not be ridiculous,Gregory."
"After the way you stood by me through the trial," he began,reproachfully, "I thought--"
"Oh, you do not understand," she said, hopelessly. "You do notunderstand. Look at me, Gregory, and see if I can make you understand.Your presence is painful to me. Your kisses hurt me. The memory ofthem still burns my cheek, and my lips feel unclean. And why? Becauseof women, which you may explain away? How little do you understand!But shall I tell you?"
Voices of men came to her from down the river-bank, and the splashingof water. She glanced quickly and saw Del Bishop guiding a poling-boatagainst the current, and Corliss on the bank, bending to the tow-rope.
"Shall I tell you why, Gregory St. Vincent?" she said again. "Tell youwhy your kisses have cheapened me? Because you broke the faith of foodand blanket. Because you broke salt with a man, and then watched thatman fight unequally for life without lifting your hand. Why, I hadrather you had died in defending him; the memory of you would have beengood. Yes, I had rather you had killed him yourself. At least, itwould have shown there was blood in your body."
"So this is what you would call love?" he began, scornfully, hisfretting, fuming devil beginning to rouse. "A fair-weather love,truly. But, Lord, how we men learn!"
"I had thought you were well lessoned," she retorted; "what of theother women?"
"But what do you intend to do?" he demanded, taking no notice. "I amnot an easy man to cross. You cannot throw me over with impunity. Ishall not stand for it, I warn you. You have dared do things in thiscountry which would blacken you were they known. I have ears. I havenot been asleep. You will find it no child's play to explain awaythings which you may declare most innocent."
She looked at him with a smile which carried pity in its cold mirth,and it goaded him.
"I am down, a thing to make a jest upon, a thing to pity, but I promiseyou that I can drag you with me. My kisses have cheapened you, eh?Then how must you have felt at Happy Camp on the Dyea Trail?"
As though in answer, Corliss swung down upon them with the tow-rope.
Frona beckoned a greeting to him. "Vance," she said, "the mail-carrierhas brought important news to father, so important that he must gooutside. He starts this afternoon with Baron Courbertin in La Bijou.Will you take me down to Dawson? I should like to go at once, to-day.
"He . . . he suggested you," she added shyly, indicating St. Vincent.
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