Laughing Bill Hyde and Other Stories

  THE NORTH WIND'S MALICE

  It had snowed during the night, but toward morning it had grown cold;now the sled-runners complained and the load dragged heavily. Folsom,who had been heaving at the handle-bars all the way up the DexterCreek hill, halted his dogs at the crest and dropped upon the sled,only too glad of a breathing spell. His forehead was wet with sweat;when it began to freeze in his eyebrows he removed his mittens andwiped away the drops, then watched them congeal upon his fingers.Yes, it was all of thirty below, and a bad morning to hit the trail,but--Folsom's face set itself--better thirty below in the open thanthe frigid atmosphere of an unhappy home.

  Harkness, who had led the way up the hill, plodded onward for a timebefore discovering that his companion had paused; then, through thering of hoar frost around his parka hood, he called back:

  "I'll hike down to the road-house and warm up."

  Folsom made no answer, he did not even turn his head. Taciturnity wasbecoming a habit with him, and already he was beginning to dislike hisnew partner. For that matter he disliked everybody this morning.

  Below him lay the level tundra, merging indistinguishably with thewhite anchor-ice of Behring Sea; beyond that a long black streak ofopen water, underscoring the sky as if to emphasize the significanceof that empty horizon, a horizon which for many months would remainunsmudged by smoke. To Folsom it seemed that the distant stretch ofdark water was like a prison wall, barring the outside world from himand the other fools who had elected to stay "inside."

  Fools? Yes; they were all fools!

  Folsom was a "sour-dough." He had seen the pranks that Alaskan wintersplay with men and women, he had watched the alteration in minds andmorals made by the Arctic isolation, and he had considered himselfproof against the malice that rides the north wind--the mischief thatcomes with the winter nights. He had dared to put faith in his perfecthappiness, thinking himself different from other men and Lois superiorto other wives, wherefore he now called himself a fool!

  Sprawled beside the shore, five miles away, was Nome, its ugliness ofcorrugated iron, rough boards, and tar paper somewhat softened by thedistance. From the jumble of roofs he picked out one and centered hisattention upon it. It was his roof--or had been. He wondered, with asudden flare of wrathful indignation, if Lois would remember that factduring his absence. But he banished this evil thought. Lois had pride,there was nothing common about her; he could not believe that shewould affront the proprieties. It was to spare that very pride ofhers, even more than his own, that he had undertaken this adventure tothe Kobuk; and now, as he looked back upon Nome, he told himself thathe was acting handsomely in totally eliminating himself, thus allowingher time and freedom in which to learn her heart. He hoped that beforehis return she would have chosen between him and the other man.

  It was too cold to remain idle long. Folsom's damp body beganto chill, so he spoke to his team and once more heaved upon thehandle-bars.

  Leaving the crest of the ridge behind, the dogs began to run; theysoon brought up in a tangle at the road-house door. When Harknessdid not appear in answer to his name Folsom entered, to find histrail-mate at the bar, glass in hand.

  "Put that down!" Folsom ordered, sharply.

  Harkness did precisely that, then he turned, wiping his lips withthe back of his hand. He was a small, fox-faced man; with a grin heinvited the new-comer to "have one."

  "Don't you know better than to drink on a day like this?" the latterdemanded.

  "Don't worry about me. I was raised on 'hootch,'" said Harkness.

  "It's bad medicine."

  "Bah! I'll travel further drunk than--" Harkness measured his criticwith an insolent eye--"than some folks sober." He commenced to warmhimself at the stove, whereupon the other cried, impatiently:

  "Come along. We can't stop at every cabin."

  But Harkness was in no hurry, he consumed considerable time. Whenhe finally followed Folsom out into the air the latter, being in apeculiarly irritable mood, warned him in a voice which shook withanger:

  "We're going to start with an understanding. If you take another drinkduring the daytime I'll leave you flat."

  "Rats! How you aim to get to the Kobuk without me?" asked Harkness.

  "I'll manage somehow."

  The smaller man shot a startled glance at the speaker, then hisinsolence vanished. "All right, old top," he said, easily. "But don'tcut off your nose to spite your face. Remember, I promised if you'dstick to me you'd wear gold-beaded moccasins." He set off at a trot,with the dogs following.

  This fellow Harkness had come with the first snow into Nome, bearingnews of a strike on the Kobuk, and despite his braggadocio he had maderather a good impression. That luck which favors fools and fakers hadguided him straight to Folsom. He had appeared at a psychologicalmoment in the latter's affairs, two disastrous seasons having almostbroken Folsom and rendered him eager to grasp at anything whichpromised quick returns; moreover, the latter had just had a seriousquarrel with his wife. Harkness had offered a half interest in hisKobuk claims for a grubstake and a working partner, and, smartingunder the unaccustomed sting of domestic infelicity, the other hadaccepted, feeling sure in his own mind that Lois would not let himleave her when the time came to go. But the time had come, and Loishad offered no objection. She had acted strangely, to be sure, but shehad made no effort to dissuade him. It seemed as if the proposal toseparate for the winter had offended rather than frightened her. Well,that was the way with women; there was no pleasing them; when youtried to do the decent thing by them they pretended to misunderstandyour motives. If you paid them the compliment of utter confidence theyabused it on the pretext that you didn't love them; if you allowedyour jealousy to show, they were offended at your lack of trust.

  So ran the husband's thoughts. He hoped that six months of widowhoodwould teach Lois her own mind, but it hurt to hit the trail withnothing more stimulating than a listless kiss and a chill request towrite when convenient. Now that he was on his way he began to think ofthe pranks played by malicious nature during the long, dark nights,and to wonder if he had acted wisely in teaming up with this footlessadventurer. He remembered the malice that rides the winter winds, themischief that comes to Arctic widows, and he grew apprehensive.

  The travelers put up that night at the Tin Road-house, a comfortlessshack sheathed with flattened kerosene cans, and Folsom's irritationat his new partner increased, for Harkness was loud, boastful, andblatantly egotistical, with the egotism that accompanies denseignorance.

  The weather held cold, the snow remained as dry as sand, so they madeslow progress, and the husband had ample time to meditate upon hiswrongs, but the more he considered them the less acutely they smartedhim and the gentler became his thoughts of Lois. The solitudes werehealing his hurt, the open air was cooling his anger.

  At Kougarok City, a miserable huddle of cottonwood cabins, Harknessescaped his partner's watchful eye and got drunk. Folsom found thefellow clinging to the bar and entertaining a crowd of loafers withhis absurd boastings. In a white fury he seized the wretch, draggedhim from the room, and flung him into his bunk, then stood guard overhim most of the night.

  It was during the quieter hours when the place rumbled to snores thatFolsom yielded to his desire to write his wife, a desire which hadbeen growing steadily. He was disgusted with Harkness, disappointedwith the whole Kobuk enterprise, and in a peculiarly softened mood,therefore, he wrote with no attempt to conceal his yearning, homesicktenderness.

  But when he read the letter in the morning it struck him as weak andsentimental, just the sort of letter he would regret having written ifit should transpire that Lois did not altogether share his feelings.So he tore it up.

  Those were the days of faint trails and poor accommodations; as yetthe road to the Arctic was little traveled and imperfectly known, soHarkness acted as guide. He had bragged that he knew every inch of thecountry, but he soon proved that his ideas of distance were vague andfaulty--a serious shortcoming in a land with no food, no shelter, andno firewo
od except green willows in the gulch-bottoms. Folsom began tofear that the fellow's sense of direction was equally bad, and taxedhim with it, but Harkness scoffed at the idea.

  Leaving the last road-house behind them, they came into a hillysection of great white domes, high hog-backs, and ramifying creeks,each one exactly like its neighbor; two days' travel through this,according to Harkness, should have brought them to the Imnachuck,where there was food and shelter again. But when they pitched camp forthe second night Folsom felt compelled to remind his partner that theywere behind their schedule, and that this was the last of their grub.

  "Are you sure you're going right?" he inquired.

  "Sure? Of course I'm sure. D'you think I'm lost?"

  Folsom fed some twisted willow-tops into the sheet-iron stove. "Iwouldn't recommend you as a pathfinder," said he. "You said we'd sleepout one night. This is two, and to-morrow we'll walk hungry."

  "Well, don't blame me!" challenged the other. "I'm going slow on youraccount."

  Now nothing could have galled Folsom more than a reflection uponhis ability to travel. His lips whitened, he was upon the point ofspeaking his mind, but managed to check himself in time. Harkness'spersonality rasped him to the raw, and he had for days struggledagainst an utterly absurd but insistent desire to seize the littlecoxcomb by the throat and squeeze the arrogance out of him as juice issqueezed out of a lemon. There is flesh for which one's fingers itch.

  "I notice you're ready to camp when I am," the larger man muttered."Understand, this is no nice place to be without grub, for it's liableto storm any hour, and storms last at this season."

  "Now don't get cold feet." Harkness could be maddeningly patronizingwhen he chose. "Leave it to me. I'll take you a short cut, and we'lleat lunch in a cabin to-morrow noon."

  But noon of the next day found Harkness still plodding up the riverwith the dogs close at his heels. The hills to the northward weregrowing higher, and Folsom's general knowledge of direction told himthat they were in danger of going too far.

  "I think the Imnachuck is over there," said he.

  Harkness hesitated, then he nodded: "Right-o! It's just over thatlow saddle." He indicated a sweeping hillside ahead, and a half-milefurther on he left the creek and began to climb. This was heavy workfor the dogs, and mid-afternoon came before the partners had gainedthe summit only to discover that they were not upon a saddlebackafter all, but upon the edge of a vast rolling tableland from which afanlike system of creeks radiated. In all directions was a desolatewaste of barren peaks.

  Folsom saw that the sky ahead was thick and dark, as if a stormimpended, and realizing only too well the results of the slightesterror in judgment he called to Harkness. But the latter pretendednot to hear, and took advantage of the dogs' fatigue to hurry out ofearshot. It was some time before the team overhauled him.

  "Do you know where you are?" Folsom inquired.

  "Certainly." Harkness studied the panorama spread before him. "Thatblue gulch yonder is the Imnachuck." He pointed to a valley perhapsfour miles away.

  A fine snow began to sift downward. The mountain peaks to thenorthward became obscured as by thin smoke, the afternoon shortenedwith alarming swiftness. Night, up here with a blizzard brewing, wasunthinkable, so after a while the driver called another halt.

  "Something informs me that you're completely lost," he said, mildly.

  "Who, me? There she is." Harkness flung out a directing hand oncemore.

  Folsom hesitated, battling with his leaping desires, and upon thatmomentary hesitation hinged results out of all proportions to thegravity of the situation--issues destined to change the deepestchannels of his life. Folsom hesitated, then he yielded to hisimpulse, and the luxury of yielding made him drunk. He walked aroundthe sled, removing his mittens with his teeth as he went. Without aword he seized his companion by the throat and throttled him until hiseyes protruded and his face grew black and bloated. He relaxed hisstiff fingers finally, then he shook the fellow back to consciousness.

  "Just as I thought," he cried, harshly. "That's not the gulch youpointed out before. You're lost and you won't admit it."

  Harkness pawed the air and fought for his breath. There was abjectterror in his eyes. He reeled away, but saw there was no safety inflight.

  "Own up!" Folsom commanded.

  "You--said this was the way," the pathfinder whimpered. "You mademe--turn off--" Folsom uttered a growl and advanced a step, whereuponhis victim gurgled: "D-don't touch me! That's the Imnachuck, so helpme God! I'm--I'm almost sure it is."

  "_Almost_!" The speaker stooped for his mittens and shook the snow outof them; he was still struggling to control himself. "Look here, Mr.Know-It-All, I've never been here before, and you have; somewhere inyour thick skull there must be some faint remembrance of the country.You got us into this fix, and I'm going to give you one more chanceto get us out of it. Don't try to think with your head, let your feetthink for you, and maybe they'll carry you to the right gulch. If theydon't--" Folsom scanned the brooding heavens and his lips compressed."We're in for a storm and--we'll never weather it. Take one look whilethere's light to see by, then turn your feet loose and pray that theylead you right, for if they don't, by God, I'll cut you loose!"

  It soon proved that memory lay neither in Harkness's head nor in hisfeet; when he had veered aimlessly about for half an hour, evidentlyfearing to commit himself to a definite course, and when the wind camewhooping down, rolling a twilight smother ahead of it, Folsom turnedhis dogs into the nearest depression and urged them to a run. Thegrade increased, soon brittle willow-tops brushed against the speedingsled: this brush grew higher as the two men, blinded now by the gale,stumbled onward behind the team. They emerged from the gulch into awider valley, after a while, and a mile further on the dogs burstthrough a grove of cottonwoods and fetched up before a lighted cabinwindow.

  Harkness pulled back his parka hood and cried, boastfully: "What did Itell you? I knew where I was all the time." Then he went in, leavinghis partner to unhitch the team and care for it.

  Friendships ripen and enmities deepen quickly on the trail, seeds ofdiscord sprout and flourish in the cold. Folsom's burst of temper hadserved to inflame a mutual dislike, and as he and Harkness journeyednorthward that dislike deepened into something akin to hatred, for themen shared the same bed, drank from the same pot, endured the sameexasperations. Nothing except their hope of mutual profit heldthem together. In our careless search for cause and effect we areaccustomed to attribute important issues to important happenings,amazing consequences to amazing deeds; as a matter of fact it is thetrivial action, the little thing, the thing unnoticed and forgottenwhich bends our pathways and makes or breaks us.

  Harkness was a hare-brained, irresponsible person, incapable ofsteadiness in thought or action, too weak to cherish actual hatred,too changeable to nurse a lasting grudge. It is with such frailinstruments that prankish fate delights to work, and, although henever suspected it, the luxury of yielding to that sudden gust ofpassion cost Folsom dear.

  Arrived finally at the Kobuk the miner examined the properties coveredby his option, and impressed by the optimism of the men who had madethe gold discovery he paid Harkness the price agreed upon. The dealcompleted, he sent the fellow back to Candle Creek, the nearestpost, for supplies. Folsom's mood had altogether changed by now, so,strangling his last doubt of Lois, he wrote her as he had written atKougarok City, and intrusted the letter to his associate.

  Harkness, promptly upon his arrival at Candle, got drunk. He stayeddrunk for three days, and it was not until he was well started on hisway back to the Kobuk that he discovered Folsom's letter still in hispocket.

  Now, to repeat, the man was not malicious, neither was he bad, but ashe debated whether he should back-track there came to him the memoryof his humiliation on the Imnachuck divide.

  So! His brains were in his feet, eh? Folsom had strangled him until hekicked, when, all the time, they had been on the right trail. Harknessfelt a flash of rage, like the flare of loose gu
npowder, and in theheat of it he tore the letter to atoms. It was a womanish, spitefulthing to do, and he regretted it, but later when he greeted thehusband he lied circumstantially and declared he had given the missiveinto the hands of the mail-carrier on the very hour of his departure.By this time, doubtless, it was nearly to Nome. Soon thereafterHarkness forgot all about the incident.

  Folsom was a fast worker. He hired men and cross-cut the mostpromising claim. Bed-rock was shallow, and he soon proved it to bebarren, so he went on to the next property. When he had prospectedthis claim with no better results than before he wrote his wifeconfessing doubts of the district and voicing the fear that hiswinter's work would be wasted. Again he let his pen run as it would;the letter he gave to a neighbor who was leaving for Candle Creek inthe morning.

  Folsom's neighbor was a famous "musher," a seasoned, self-reliant man,thoroughly accustomed to all the hazards of winter travel, but tenmiles from his destination he crossed an inch-deep overflow whichrendered the soles of his muk-luks slippery, and ten yards further on,where the wind had laid the glare-ice bare, he lost his footing. Hefell and wrenched his ankle and came hobbling into Candle half an hourafter the monthly mail for Nome had left.

  Three weeks later Folsom wrote his wife for the third time, and againa month after that. All three letters joined company in Candle Creek;for meanwhile the mail-man's lead dog had been killed in a fight witha big malamute at Lane's Landing, causing its owner to miss a trip.Now dog-fights are common; by no logic could one attribute weightyresults to the loss of a sixty-pound leader, but in this instance itso happened that the mail-carrier's schedule suffered so that hiscontract was canceled.

  Meanwhile a lonely woman waited anxiously in Nome, and as the resultof a stranger's spite, a wet muk-luk, and a vicious malamute heranxiety turned to bitterness and distrust.

  It is never difficult to forward mail in the north, for every "musher"is a postman. When news came to Candle Creek that the Governmentservice had been discontinued the storekeeper, one end of whose barserved as post-office, sacked his accumulated letters and intrustedthem to some friends who were traveling southward on the morrow. Thetrader was a canny man, but he loved to gamble, so when his friendsoffered to bet him that they could lower the record from Candle toNome he went out into the night, sniffed the air and studied thestars, then laid them a hundred dollars that they could not.

  Excited to recklessness by this wager the volunteer mail-men cutdown their load. They left their stove and tent and grub-box behind,planning to make a road-house every night except during the long jumpfrom the Imnachuck to Crooked River. They argued that it was worth ahundred dollars to sleep once under the open sky.

  The fruits of that sporting enterprise were bitter; the trader won hisbet, but he never cashed it in. Somewhere out on the high barrens astorm swooped down upon the travelers. To one who has never faced anArctic hurricane it seems incredible that strong men have died withincall of cozy cabins or have frozen with the lashings of their sledsbut half untied. Yet it is true. The sudden awful cold, the shoutingwind, the boiling, blinding, suffocating rush of snow; the sweatyclothes that harden into jointless armor; the stiff mittens and theclumsy hands inside--these tell a tale to those who know.

  The two mail-carriers managed to get into their sleeping-bags, but thegale, instead of drifting them over with a protective mantle of snow,scoured the mountain-side bare to the brittle reindeer moss, and theybegan to freeze where they lay. Some twenty hours they stood it, thenthey rose and plunged ahead of the hurricane like bewildered cattle.The strongest man gave up first and lay down, babbling of thingsto eat. His companion buried him, still alive, and broke down thesurrounding willow-tops for a landmark, then he staggered on. By somemiracle of good luck, or as a result of some unsuspected power ofresistance, he finally came raving into the Crooked River Road-house.When the wind subsided they hurried him to Nome, but he wasfrightfully maimed and as a result of his amputations he lay gabblinguntil long after the spring break-up.

  Folsom did not write again. In fact, when no word came from Lois, hebitterly regretted the letters he had written. He heard indirectlyfrom her; new-comers from Nome told him that she was well, but thatwas all. It was enough. He did not wish to learn more.

  Spring found him with barely enough money to pay his way back. He wasblue, bitter, disheartened, but despite the certainty that hiswife had forsaken him he still cherished a flickering hope of areconciliation. Strangely enough he considered no scheme of vengeanceupon the other man, for he was sane and healthy, and he loved Lois toowell to spoil her attempt at happiness.

  It so happened that the Arctic ice opened up later this spring thanfor many seasons; therefore the short summer was well under way beforethe first steam-schooner anchored off the Kobuk. Folsom turned hisback upon the wreck of his high hopes, his mind solely engaged withthe problem of how to meet Lois and ascertain the truth without undueembarrassment to her and humiliation to himself. The prospect ofseeing her, of touching her, of hearing her voice, affected himpainfully. He could neither eat nor sleep on the way to Nome, butpaced the deck in restless indecision. He had come to consider himselfwholly to blame for their misunderstanding, and he wished only for achance to win back her love, with no questions asked and no favorsgranted.

  When there were less than fifty miles to go the steamer broke hershaft. There was no particular reason why that shaft should break,but break it did, and for eighteen hours--eighteen eternities toFolsom--the ship lay crippled while its engine-room crew laboredmanfully.

  Folsom had been so long in the solitudes that Nome looked like abig city when he finally saw it. There were several ships in theroadstead, and one of them was just leaving as the Kobuk boat came toanchor. She made a splendid sight as she gathered way.

  The returning miner went ashore in the first dory and as he steppedout upon the sand a friend greeted him:

  "Hello there, old settler! Where you been all winter?"

  "I've been to the Kobuk," Folsom told him.

  "Kobuk? I hear she's a bum."

  "'Bum' is right. Maybe she'll do to dredge some day."

  "Too bad you missed the _Oregon_; there she goes now." The man pointedseaward.

  "Too bad?"

  "Sure! Don't you know? Why, Miz Folsom went out on her!"

  Folsom halted; after a momentary pause he repeated, vaguely, "Wentout?"

  "Exactly. Didn't you know she was going?"

  "Oh yes--of course! The _Oregon_!" Folsom stared at the fading plumeof black smoke; there was a curious brightness in his eyes, his facewas white beneath its tan. "She sailed on the _Oregon_ and I missedher, by an hour! That broken shaft--" He began to laugh, and turninghis back upon the sea he plodded heavily through the sand toward themain street.

  Folsom found no word from his wife, his house was empty; but helearned that "the man" had also gone to the States, and he drew hisown conclusions. Since Lois had ordered her life as she saw fit therewas nothing to do but wait and endure--doubtless the divorce wouldcome in time. Nevertheless, he could not think of that broken shaftwithout raving.

  Being penniless he looked for work, and his first job came from asmall Jewish merchant, named Guth, who offered him a hundred dollarsto do the assessment work on a tundra claim. For twenty days Folsompicked holes through frozen muck, wondering why a thrifty person likeGuth would pay good money to hold such unpromising property as this.

  The claim was in sight of Nome, and as Folsom finished his last day'slabor he heard bells ringing and whistles blowing and discovered thatthe town was ablaze. He hurried in to find that an entire block inthe business center of the city had been destroyed and with it Guth'slittle store, including all its contents. He found the Jew in tears.

  "What a misfortune!" wailed the merchant. "Ruined, absolutely--and bya match! It started in my store--my little girl, you understand?And now, all gone!" He tore his beard and the tears rolled down hischeeks.

  The little man's grief was affecting, and so Folsom inquired moregently than he int
ended, "I'm sorry, of course, but how about my moneyfor the Lulu assessment?"

  "Money? There's your money!" Guth pointed sadly into the smolderingruins. "Go find it--you're welcome to anything I have left. Gott! Whata country! How can a man get ahead, with no insurance?"

  Folsom laughed mirthlessly. His hard luck was becoming amusing andhe wondered how long it would last. He had counted on that hundreddollars to get away from Nome, hoping to shake misfortune from hisheels, but a match in the hands of a child, like that broken propellershaft, had worked havoc with his plans. Well, it was useless to cry.

  To the despairing Hebrew he said: "Don't lose your grip, old man. Buckup and take another start. You have your wife and your little girl, atleast, and you're the sort who makes good."

  "You think so?" Guth looked up, grateful for the first word ofencouragement he had heard.

  "It's a cinch! Only don't lose your courage."

  "I--I'll do what's right by you, Mr. Folsom," declared the other."I'll deed you a half interest in the Lulu."

  But Folsom shook his head. "I don't want it. There's nothing thereexcept moss and muck and salmon berries, and it's a mile to bed-rock.No, you're welcome to my share; maybe you can sell the claim forenough to make a new start or to buy grub for the wife and the kid.I'll look for another job."

  For a month or more the lonesome husband "stevedored," wrestlingfreight on the lighters, then he disappeared. He left secretly, in thenight, for by now he had grown fanciful and he dared to hope that hecould dodge his Nemesis. He turned up in Fairbanks, a thousand milesaway, and straightway lost himself in the hills.

  He had not covered his tracks, however, for bad luck followed him.

  Now no man starves in Alaska, for there is always work for theable-bodied; but whatever Folsom turned his hand to failed, and by andby his courage went. He had been a man of consequence in Nome; hehad made money and he had handled other men, therefore his sense offailure was the bitterer.

  Meanwhile, somewhere in him there remained the ghost of his faithin Lois, the faintly flickering hope that some day they would cometogether again. It lay dormant in him, like an irreligious man'sunacknowledged faith in God and a hereafter, but it, too, vanishedwhen he read in a Seattle newspaper, already three months old, theannouncement of his wife's divorce. He flinched when he read that ithad been won on the grounds of desertion, and thereafter he shunnednewspapers.

  Spring found him broke, as usual. He had become bad company and menavoided him. It amused him grimly to learn that a new strike had beenmade in Nome, the biggest discovery in the camp's history, and torealize that he had fled just in time to miss the opportunity ofprofiting by it. He heard talk of a prehistoric sea-beach line, astreak of golden sands which paralleled the shore and lay hidden belowthe tundra mud. News came of overnight fortunes, of friends grownprosperous and mighty. Embittered anew, Folsom turned again to thewilderness, and he did not reappear until the summer was over. He cameto town resolved to stay only long enough to buy bacon and beans, buthe had lost his pocket calendar and arrived on a Sunday, when thestores were closed.

  Even so little a thing as the loss of that calendar loomed big in thelight of later events, for in walking the streets he encountered afriend but just arrived from the Behring coast.

  The man recognized him, despite his beard and his threadbare mackinawsand they had a drink together.

  "I s'pose you heard about that Third Beach Line?" the new-comerinquired. Folsom nodded. "Well, they've opened it up for miles, andit's just a boulevard of solid gold. 'Cap' Carter's into it big, andso are the O'Brien boys and Old Man Hendricks. They're lousy withpay."

  "I did the work on a tundra claim," said Folsom; "the Lulu--"

  "The _Lulu_!" Folsom's friend stared at him. "Haven't you heard aboutthe Lulu? My God! Where you been, anyhow? Why, the Lulu's a mint! Guthis a millionaire and he made it all without turning a finger."

  Folsom's grip on the bar-rail tightened until his knuckles were white.

  "I'm telling you right, old man; he's the luckiest Jew in the country.He let a lay to McCarthy and Olson, and they took out six hundredthousand dollars, after Christmas."

  "Guth offered me a--half interest in the Lulu when his store burnedand--I turned it down. He's never paid me for that assessment work."

  The Nomeite was speechless with amazement. "The son-of-a-gun!" hesaid, finally. "Well, you can collect now. Say! That's what he meantwhen he told me he wanted to see you. Guth was down to the boat when Ileft, and he says: 'If you see Folsom up river tell him to come back.I got something for him.' Those were his very words. That little Jewaims to pay you a rotten hundred so you won't sue him for an interest.By Gorry, I wouldn't take it! I'd go back and make him do the rightthing. I'd sue him. I'd bust him in the nose! A half interest--in theLulu! My God!" The speaker gulped his drink hastily.

  After consideration, Folsom said: "He'll do the right thing. Guthisn't a bad sort."

  "No. But he's a Jew; trust him to get his."

  "I wouldn't ask him to do more than pay his debt. You see I refusedhis offer."

  "What of that? I'd give it a try, anyhow, and see if he wouldn'tsettle. There's lots of lawyers would take your case. But say, that'sthe toughest tough-luck story I ever heard. You've sure got a jinx onyou."

  "I'm going back, but I won't sue Guth. I'm sick of Alaska; it haslicked me. I'm going out to God's country."

  Folsom indeed acknowledged himself beaten. The narrow margin by whichhe had missed reward for his work and his hardships bred in him suchhatred for Alaska that he abruptly changed his plans. He had no heart,perversity had killed his courage. It exasperated him beyond allmeasure to recall what little things his luck had hinged upon, whatstraws had turned his feet. A moment of pique with Lois, a brokenpiece of steel, a match, a momentary whim when Guth offered himpayment. It was well that he did not know what part had been played byhis quarrel with Harkness, that wet muk-luk, that vicious lead dog,and the storekeeper's wager.

  Folsom carried cord-wood to pay for a deck passage down river. Hediscovered en route that Guth had really tried to get in touch withhim, and in fact appeared greatly concerned over his failure to do so,for at Tanana he received another message, and again at St. Michaels.He was grimly amused at the little Jew's craftiness, yet it sorelyoffended him to think that any one should consider him such a welcher.He had no intention of causing trouble, for he knew he had no legalclaim against the fellow, and he doubted if he possessed even a moralright to share in the Lulu's riches. To play upon the Hebrew's fears,therefore, savored of extortion. Nevertheless, he was in no agreeableframe of mind when he arrived at his destination and inquired forGuth.

  The new-made millionaire was in his office; Folsom walked inunannounced. He had expected his arrival to create a scene, and he wasnot disappointed. But Guth's actions were strange, they left the newarrival dazed, for the little man fell upon him with what appeared tobe exuberant manifestations of joy.

  "Mr. Folsom!" he cried. "You have come! You got my letters, eh? Well,I wrote you everywhere, but I was in despair, for I thought you mustbe dead. Nobody knew what had become of you."

  "I got your message in Fairbanks."

  "You heard about the Lulu, eh? Gott! She's a dandy."

  "Yes. I can hardly believe it. So, you're rich. Well, I congratulateyou, and now I can use that hundred."

  Guth chuckled. "Ha! You will have your joke, eh? But the Lulu is nojoke. Come, we will go to the bank; I want them to tell you how muchshe has yielded. You'll blame me for leasing her, but how was I toknow what she was?"

  "I--Why should I blame--" Folsom stared at the speaker. "It's none ofmy business what the Lulu has yielded. In fact, I'll sleep better if Idon't know."

  Little Guth paused and his mouth opened. After a moment he inquired,curiously: "Don't you understand?" There was another pause, then hesaid, quietly, "I'm a man of my word."

  Folsom suddenly saw black, the room began to spin, he passed his handacross his eyes. "Wait! Let's get this straight," he whispered
.

  "It is all very simple," Guth told him. "We are equal partners inthe Lulu--we have been, ever since the day my store burned. It was alittle thing you said to me then, but the way you said it, the factthat you didn't blame me, gave me new heart. Did you think I'd renig?"When Folsom found no answer the other nodded slowly. "I see. Youprobably said, 'That Guth is a Jew and he'll do me up if he can.'Well, I am a Jew, yes, and I am proud of it; but I am an honest man,too, like you."

  Folsom turned to the wall and hid his face in the crook of his arm,but with his other hand he groped for that of the Hebrew.

  The story of the Lulu is history now; in all the north that mine isfamous, for it made half a dozen fortunes. In a daze, half doubtingthe reality of things, Folsom watched a golden stream pour into hislap. All that winter and the next summer the Lulu yielded wondrously,but one of the partners was not happy, his thoughts being ever of thewoman who had left him. Prosperity gave him courage, however, and whenhe discovered that Lois had not remarried he determined to press hisluck as a gambler should.

  When the second season's sluicing was over and the ground had frozenhe went outside.

  The day after he sailed Lois arrived in Nome, on the last boat. Shewas older, graver; she had heard of the Lulu, but it was not thatwhich had brought her back. She had returned in spite of the Lulu tosolve an aching mystery and to learn the why of things. Her husband'sriches--she still considered him her husband--merely made the taskmore trying.

  Advised that Folsom had passed almost within hailing distance of her,she pressed her lips together and took up her problem of living. Theprospect of another lonely Alaskan winter frightened her, and yetbecause of the Lulu she could not return by the ship she had come on.Now that Folsom was a Croesus she could not follow him too closely--hemight misunderstand. After all, she reflected, it mattered little toher where she lived.

  Guth called at her cabin, but she managed to avoid seeing him, andsomehow continued to avoid a meeting.

  Late in December some travelers from Candle Creek, while breaking ashort cut to the head of Crooked River, came upon an abandoned sledand its impedimenta. Snow and rain and summer sun had bleached itswood, its runners were red streaks of rust, its rawhide lashings hadbeen eaten off, but snugly rolled inside the tarpaulin was a sackof mail. This mail the travelers brought in with them, and the Nomenewspapers, in commenting upon the find, reprinted the story of thattragic fight for life in the Arctic hurricane, now almost forgotten.

  Folsom's three letters reached their destination on Christmas Day.They were stained and yellow and blurred in places, for they werethree years old, but the woman read them with eyes wide and wondering,and with heart-beats pounding, for it seemed that dead lips spoke toher. Ten minutes later she was standing at Guth's door, and when helet her in she behaved like one demented. She had the letters hiddenin her bosom, and she would not let him see them, but she managed tomake known the meaning of her coming.

  "You know him," she cried, hysterically. "You made him rich. You'velived alongside of him. Tell me then, has he--has he--changed? Theseletters are old. Does he still care, or--does he hate me, as heshould?"

  Guth smiled; he took her shaking hands in his, his voice was gentle."No, no! He doesn't hate you. He has never mentioned your name to me,or to any one else, so far as I know, but his money hasn't satisfiedhim. He is sad, and he wants you. That is what took him to the States,I'm sure."

  Lois sank into a chair, her face was white, her twisting fingersstrained at each other. "I can't understand. I can't make head or tailof it," she moaned. "It seems that I wronged him, but see what ruin hehas made for me! Why? Why--?"

  "Who can understand the 'why' of anything?" inquired the littleHebrew. "I've heard him curse the perversity of little things, andrave at what he called the 'malice of the north wind.' I didn't dareto ask him what he meant, but I knew he was thinking of the evil whichhad come between you two. Who was to blame, or what separated you, henever told me. Well, his bad luck has changed, and yours, too; and I'mhappy. Now then, the wireless. You can talk to him. Let us go."

  An hour later a crackling message was hurled into the empty Christmassky, a message that pulsed through the voids, was relayed over ice andbrine and drifted forests to a lonely, brooding man three thousandmiles away.

  The answer came rushing back:

  "Thank God! Am starting north tomorrow. Love and a million kisses.Wait for me."

  Folsom came. Neither ice nor snow, neither winter seas nor tracklesswastes, could daunt him, for youth was in his heart and fire ranthrough his veins. North and west he came by a rimy little steamer, asfast as coal could drive her, then overland more than fifteen hundredmiles. His record stands unbroken, and in villages from Katmai to theKuskokwim the Indians tell of the tall white man with the team offifteen huskies who raced through as if a demon were at his heels; howhe bored headlong into the blizzards and braved January's fiercestrage; how his guides dropped and his dogs died in their collars. Thatwas how Folsom came.

  He was thin and brown, the marks of the frost were bitten deep intohis flesh when, one evening in early March, he drove into Nome. Hehad covered sixty miles on the last day's run, and his team wasstaggering. He left the dogs in their harnesses, where they fell, andbounded through the high-banked streets to Lois's cabin.

  It was growing dark, a light gleamed from her window; Folsom glimpsedher moving about inside. He paused to rip the ice from his beardedlips, then he knocked softly, three times.

  As he stood there a gentle north wind fanned him. It was deadly cold,but it was fresh and clean and vastly invigorating. There was nomalice in it.

  At his familiar signal he heard the clatter of a dish, dropped fromnerveless fingers, he heard a startled voice cry out his name, then hepressed the latch and entered, smiling.