CHAPTER IV
She cast off the lower flap-fastenings and entered. The man still blewinto the stove, unaware of his company. Frona coughed, and he raised apair of smoke-reddened eyes to hers.
"Certainly," he said, casually enough. "Fasten the flaps and makeyourself comfortable." And thereat returned to his borean task.
"Hospitable, to say the least," she commented to herself, obeying hiscommand and coming up to the stove.
A heap of dwarfed spruce, gnarled and wet and cut to properstove-length, lay to one side. Frona knew it well, creeping andcrawling and twisting itself among the rocks of the shallow alluvialdeposit, unlike its arboreal prototype, rarely lifting its head morethan a foot from the earth. She looked into the oven, found it empty,and filled it with the wet wood. The man arose to his feet, coughingfrom the smoke which had been driven into his lungs, and noddingapproval.
When he had recovered his breath, "Sit down and dry your skirts. I'llget supper."
He put a coffee-pot on the front lid of the stove, emptied the bucketinto it, and went out of the tent after more water. As his backdisappeared, Frona dived for her satchel, and when he returned a momentlater he found her with a dry skirt on and wringing the wet one out.While he fished about in the grub-box for dishes and eating utensils,she stretched a spare bit of rope between the tent-poles and hung theskirt on it to dry. The dishes were dirty, and, as he bent over andwashed them, she turned her back and deftly changed her stockings. Herchildhood had taught her the value of well-cared feet for the trail.She put her wet shoes on a pile of wood at the back of the stove,substituting for them a pair of soft and dainty house-moccasins ofIndian make. The fire had now grown strong, and she was content to lether under-garments dry on her body.
During all this time neither had spoken a word. Not only had the manremained silent, but he went about his work in so preoccupied a waythat it seemed to Frona that he turned a deaf ear to the words ofexplanation she would have liked to utter. His whole bearing conveyedthe impression that it was the most ordinary thing under the sun for ayoung woman to come in out of the storm and night and partake of hishospitality. In one way, she liked this; but in so far as she did notcomprehend it, she was troubled. She had a perception of a somethingbeing taken for granted which she did not understand. Once or twiceshe moistened her lips to speak, but he appeared so oblivious of herpresence that she withheld.
After opening a can of corned beef with the axe, he fried half a dozenthick slices of bacon, set the frying-pan back, and boiled the coffee.From the grub-box he resurrected the half of a cold heavy flapjack. Helooked at it dubiously, and shot a quick glance at her. Then he threwthe sodden thing out of doors and dumped the contents of a sea-biscuitbag upon a camp cloth. The sea-biscuit had been crumbled into chipsand fragments and generously soaked by the rain till it had become amushy, pulpy mass of dirty white.
"It's all I have in the way of bread," he muttered; "but sit down andwe will make the best of it."
"One moment--" And before he could protest, Frona had poured thesea-biscuit into the frying-pan on top of the grease and bacon. Tothis she added a couple of cups of water and stirred briskly over thefire. When it had sobbed and sighed with the heat for some fewminutes, she sliced up the corned beef and mixed it in with the rest.And by the time she had seasoned it heavily with salt and black pepper,a savory steam was rising from the concoction.
"Must say it's pretty good stuff," he said, balancing his plate on hisknee and sampling the mess avidiously. "What do you happen to call it?"
"Slumgullion," she responded curtly, and thereafter the meal went on insilence.
Frona helped him to the coffee, studying him intently the while. Andnot only was it not an unpleasant face, she decided, but it was strong.Strong, she amended, potentially rather than actually. A student, sheadded, for she had seen many students' eyes and knew the lastingimpress of the midnight oil long continued; and his eyes bore theimpress. Brown eyes, she concluded, and handsome as the male's shouldbe handsome; but she noted with surprise, when she refilled his platewith slumgullion, that they were not at all brown in the ordinarysense, but hazel-brown. In the daylight, she felt certain, and intimes of best health, they would seem gray, and almost blue-gray. Sheknew it well; her one girl chum and dearest friend had had such an eye.
His hair was chestnut-brown, glinting in the candle-light to gold, andthe hint of waviness in it explained the perceptible droop to his tawnymoustache. For the rest, his face was clean-shaven and cut on a goodmasculine pattern. At first she found fault with the more than slightcheek-hollows under the cheek-bones, but when she measured hiswell-knit, slenderly muscular figure, with its deep chest and heavyshoulders, she discovered that she preferred the hollows; at least theydid not imply lack of nutrition. The body gave the lie to that; whilethey themselves denied the vice of over-feeding. Height, five feet,nine, she summed up from out of her gymnasium experience; and ageanywhere between twenty-five and thirty, though nearer the former mostlikely.
"Haven't many blankets," he said abruptly, pausing to drain his cup andset it over on the grub-box. "I don't expect my Indians back from LakeLinderman till morning, and the beggars have packed over everythingexcept a few sacks of flour and the bare camp outfit. However, I've acouple of heavy ulsters which will serve just as well."
He turned his back, as though he did not expect a reply, and untied arubber-covered roll of blankets. Then he drew the two ulsters from aclothes-bag and threw them down on the bedding.
"Vaudeville artist, I suppose?"
He asked the question seemingly without interest, as though to keep theconversation going, and, in fact, as if he knew the stereotyped answerbeforehand. But to Frona the question was like a blow in the face.She remembered Neepoosa's philippic against the white women who werecoming into the land, and realized the falseness of her position andthe way in which he looked upon her.
But he went on before she could speak. "Last night I had twovaudeville queens, and three the night before. Only there was morebedding then. It's unfortunate, isn't it, the aptitude they display ingetting lost from their outfits? Yet somehow I have failed to find anylost outfits so far. And they are all queens, it seems. Nounder-studies or minor turns about them,--no, no. And I presume youare a queen, too?"
The too-ready blood sprayed her cheek, and this made her angrier thandid he; for whereas she was sure of the steady grip she had on herself,her flushed face betokened a confusion which did not really possess her.
"No," she answered, coolly; "I am not a vaudeville artist."
He tossed several sacks of flour to one side of the stove, withoutreplying, and made of them the foundation of a bed; and with theremaining sacks he duplicated the operation on the opposite side of thestove.
"But you are some kind of an artist, then," he insisted when he hadfinished, with an open contempt on the "artist."
"Unfortunately, I am not any kind of an artist at all."
He dropped the blanket he was folding and straightened his back.Hitherto he had no more than glanced at her; but now he scrutinized hercarefully, every inch of her, from head to heel and back again, the cutof her garments and the very way she did her hair. And he took histime about it.
"Oh! I beg pardon," was his verdict, followed by another stare. "Thenyou are a very foolish woman dreaming of fortune and shutting your eyesto the dangers of the pilgrimage. It is only meet that two kinds ofwomen come into this country. Those who by virtue of wifehood anddaughterhood are respectable, and those who are not respectable.Vaudeville stars and artists, they call themselves for the sake ofdecency; and out of courtesy we countenance it. Yes, yes, I know. Butremember, the women who come over the trail must be one or the other.There is no middle course, and those who attempt it are bound to fail.So you are a very, very foolish girl, and you had better turn backwhile there is yet a chance. If you will view it in the light of aloan from a stranger, I will advance your passage back to the States,and start an Indian ov
er the trail with you to-morrow for Dyea."
Once or twice Frona had attempted to interrupt him, but he had wavedher imperatively to silence with his hand.
"I thank you," she began; but he broke in,--
"Oh, not at all, not at all."
"I thank you," she repeated; but it happens that--a--that you aremistaken. I have just come over the trail from Dyea and expect to meetmy outfit already in camp here at Happy Camp. They started hours aheadof me, and I can't understand how I passed them--yes I do, too! A boatwas blown over to the west shore of Crater Lake this afternoon, andthey must have been in it. That is where I missed them and came on.As for my turning back, I appreciate your motive for suggesting it, butmy father is in Dawson, and I have not seen him for three years. Also,I have come through from Dyea this day, and am tired, and I would liketo get some rest. So, if you still extend your hospitality, I'll go tobed."
"Impossible!" He kicked the blankets to one side, sat down on theflour sacks, and directed a blank look upon her.
"Are--are there any women in the other tents?" she asked, hesitatingly."I did not see any, but I may have overlooked."
"A man and his wife were, but they pulled stakes this morning. No;there are no other women except--except two or three in a tent,which--er--which will not do for you."
"Do you think I am afraid of their hospitality?" she demanded, hotly."As you said, they are women."
"But I said it would not do," he answered, absently, staring at thestraining canvas and listening to the roar of the storm. "A man woulddie in the open on a night like this.
"And the other tents are crowded to the walls," he mused. "I happen toknow. They have stored all their caches inside because of the water,and they haven't room to turn around. Besides, a dozen other strangersare storm-bound with them. Two or three asked to spread their beds inhere to-night if they couldn't pinch room elsewhere. Evidently theyhave; but that does not argue that there is any surplus space left.And anyway--"
He broke off helplessly. The inevitableness of the situation wasgrowing.
"Can I make Deep Lake to-night?" Frona asked, forgetting herself tosympathize with him, then becoming conscious of what she was doing andbursting into laughter.
"But you couldn't ford the river in the dark." He frowned at herlevity. "And there are no camps between."
"Are you afraid?" she asked with just the shadow of a sneer.
"Not for myself."
"Well, then, I think I'll go to bed."
"I might sit up and keep the fire going," he suggested after a pause.
"Fiddlesticks!" she cried. "As though your foolish little code weresaved in the least! We are not in civilization. This is the trail tothe Pole. Go to bed."
He elevated his shoulders in token of surrender. "Agreed. What shallI do then?"
"Help me make my bed, of course. Sacks laid crosswise! Thank you,sir, but I have bones and muscles that rebel. Here-- Pull themaround this way."
Under her direction he laid the sacks lengthwise in a double row. Thisleft an uncomfortable hollow with lumpy sack-corners down the middle;but she smote them flat with the side of the axe, and in the samemanner lessened the slope to the walls of the hollow. Then she made atriple longitudinal fold in a blanket and spread it along the bottom ofthe long depression.
"Hum!" he soliloquized. "Now I see why I sleep so badly. Here goes!"And he speedily flung his own sacks into shape.
"It is plain you are unused to the trail," she informed him, spreadingthe topmost blanket and sitting down.
"Perhaps so," he made answer. "But what do you know about this traillife?" he growled a little later.
"Enough to conform," she rejoined equivocally, pulling out the driedwood from the oven and replacing it with wet.
"Listen to it! How it storms!" he exclaimed. "It's growing worse, ifworse be possible."
The tent reeled under the blows of the wind, the canvas boominghollowly at every shock, while the sleet and rain rattled overhead likeskirmish-fire grown into a battle. In the lulls they could hear thewater streaming off at the side-walls with the noise of smallcataracts. He reached up curiously and touched the wet roof. A burstof water followed instantly at the point of contact and coursed downupon the grub-box.
"You mustn't do that!" Frona cried, springing to her feet. She put herfinger on the spot, and, pressing tightly against the canvas, ran itdown to the side-wall. The leak at once stopped. "You mustn't do it,you know," she reproved.
"Jove!" was his reply. "And you came through from Dyea to-day! Aren'tyou stiff?"
"Quite a bit," she confessed, candidly, "and sleepy."
"Good-night," she called to him several minutes later, stretching herbody luxuriously in the warm blankets. And a quarter of an hour afterthat, "Oh, I say! Are you awake?"
"Yes," his voice came muffled across the stove. "What is it?"
"Have you the shavings cut?"
"Shavings?" he queried, sleepily. "What shavings?"
"For the fire in the morning, of course. So get up and cut them."
He obeyed without a word; but ere he was done she had ceased to hearhim.
The ubiquitous bacon was abroad on the air when she opened her eyes.Day had broken, and with it the storm. The wet sun was shiningcheerily over the drenched landscape and in at the wide-spread flaps.Already work had begun, and groups of men were filing past under theirpacks. Frona turned over on her side. Breakfast was cooked. Her hosthad just put the bacon and fried potatoes in the oven, and was engagedin propping the door ajar with two sticks of firewood.
"Good-morning," she greeted.
"And good-morning to you," he responded, rising to his feet and pickingup the water-bucket. "I don't hope that you slept well, for I know youdid."
Frona laughed.
"I'm going out after some water," he vouchsafed. "And when I return Ishall expect you ready for breakfast."
After breakfast, basking herself in the sun, Frona descried a familiarbunch of men rounding the tail of the glacier in the direction ofCrater Lake. She clapped her hands.
"There comes my outfit, and Del Bishop as shame-faced as can be, I'msure, at his failure to connect." Turning to the man, and at the sametime slinging camera and satchel over her shoulder, "So I must saygood-by, not forgetting to thank you for your kindness."
"Oh, not at all, not at all. Pray don't mention it. I'd do the samefor any--"
"Vaudeville artist!"
He looked his reproach, but went on. "I don't know your name, nor do Iwish to know it."
"Well, I shall not be so harsh, for I do know your name, MISTER VANCECORLISS! I saw it on the shipping tags, of course," she explained."And I want you to come and see me when you get to Dawson. My name isFrona Welse. Good-by."
"Your father is not Jacob Welse?" he called after her as she ranlightly down towards the trail.
She turned her head and nodded.
But Del Bishop was not shamefaced, nor even worried. "Trust a Welse toland on their feet on a soft spot," he had consoled himself as hedropped off to sleep the night before. But he was angry--"madder 'nhops," in his own vernacular.
"Good-mornin'," he saluted. "And it's plain by your face you had acomfortable night of it, and no thanks to me."
"You weren't worried, were you?" she asked.
"Worried? About a Welse? Who? Me? Not on your life. I was too busytellin' Crater Lake what I thought of it. I don't like the water. Itold you so. And it's always playin' me scurvy--not that I'm afraid ofit, though."
"Hey, you Pete!" turning to the Indians. "Hit 'er up! Got to makeLinderman by noon!"
"Frona Welse?" Vance Corliss was repeating to himself.
The whole thing seemed a dream, and he reassured himself by turning andlooking after her retreating form. Del Bishop and the Indians werealready out of sight behind a wall of rock. Frona was just roundingthe base. The sun was full upon her, and she stood out radiantlyagainst the black shadow of the wall beyond. Sh
e waved her alpenstock,and as he doffed his cap, rounded the brink and disappeared.