The man looked at him curiously.
“Oh, that’s all right,” he said, waving his hand deprecatingly.
“You needn’t think as I’ll ‘arm you or your blasted dust.
“You’re a rum ‘un, you are,” he added reflectively, as he watched
the sweat pouring from off Kent’s face and the quavering of his
knees.
“W’y don’t you pipe up an’ say somethin’?” he went on, as the
other struggled for breath. “Wot’s gone wrong o’ your gaff?
Anythink the matter?”
“W–w–where’d you get it?” Kent at last managed to articulate,
raising a shaking forefinger to the ghastly scar which seamed the
other’s cheek.
“Shipmate stove me down with a marlin-spike from the main-royal.
An’ now as you ‘aye your figger’ead in trim, wot I want to know
is, wot’s it to you? That’s wot I want to know–wot’s it to you?
Gawd blime me! do it ‘urt you? Ain’t it smug enough for the likes
o’ you? That’s wot I want to know!”
“No, no,” Kent answered, sinking upon a stool with a sickly grin.
“I was just wondering.”
“Did you ever see the like?” the other went on truculently.
“No.”
“Ain’t it a beute?”
“Yes.” Kent nodded his head approvingly, intent on humoring this
strange visitor, but wholly unprepared for the outburst which was
to follow his effort to be agreeable.
“You blasted, bloomin’, burgoo-eatin’ son-of-a-sea-swab! Wot do
you mean, a sayin’ the most onsightly thing Gawd Almighty ever put
on the face o’ man is a beute? Wot do you mean, you–”
And thereat this fiery son of the sea broke off into a string of
Oriental profanity, mingling gods and devils, lineages and men,
metaphors and monsters, with so savage a virility that Jacob Kent
was paralyzed. He shrank back, his arms lifted as though to ward
off physical violence. So utterly unnerved was he that the other
paused in the mid-swing of a gorgeous peroration and burst into
thunderous laughter.
Tales of the Klondyke
48
“The sun’s knocked the bottom out o’ the trail,” said the Man with
the Gash, between departing paroxysms of mirth. “An’ I only ‘ope
as you’ll appreciate the hoppertunity of consortin’ with a man o’
my mug. Get steam up in that fire-box o’ your’n. I’m goin’ to
unrig the dogs an’ grub ’em. An’ don’t be shy o’ the wood, my
lad; there’s plenty more where that come from, and it’s you’ve got
the time to sling an axe. An’ tote up a bucket o’ water while
you’re about it. Lively! or I’ll run you down, so ‘elp me!”
Such a thing was unheard of. Jacob Kent was making the fire,
chopping wood, packing water–doing menial tasks for a guest!
When Jim Cardegee left Dawson, it was with his head filled with
the iniquities of this roadside Shylock; and all along the trail
his numerous victims had added to the sum of his crimes. Now, Jim
Cardegee, with the sailor’s love for a sailor’s joke, had
determined, when he pulled into the cabin, to bring its inmate
down a peg or so. That he had succeeded beyond expectation he
could not help but remark, though he was in the dark as to the
part the gash on his cheek had played in it. But while he could
not understand, he saw the terror it created, and resolved to
exploit it as remorselessly as would any modern trader a choice
bit of merchandise.
“Strike me blind, but you’re a ‘ustler,” he said admiringly, his
head cocked to one side, as his host bustled about. “You never
‘ort to ‘ave gone Klondiking. It’s the keeper of a pub’ you was
laid out for. An’ it’s often as I ‘ave ‘eard the lads up an’ down
the river speak o’ you, but I ‘adn’t no idea you was so jolly
nice.”
Jacob Kent experienced a tremendous yearning to try his shotgun on
him, but the fascination of the gash was too potent. This was the
real Man with the Gash, the man who had so often robbed him in the
spirit. This, then, was the embodied entity of the being whose
astral form had been projected into his dreams, the man who had so
frequently harbored designs against his hoard; hence–there could
be no other conclusion–this Man with the Gash had now come in the
flesh to dispossess him. And that gash! He could no more keep
his eyes from it than stop the beating of his heart. Try as he
would, they wandered back to that one point as inevitably as the
needle to the pole.
“Do it ‘urt you?” Jim Cardegee thundered suddenly, looking up from
the spreading of his blankets and encountering the rapt gaze of
the other. “It strikes me as ‘ow it ‘ud be the proper thing for
you to draw your jib, douse the glim, an’ turn in, seein’ as ‘ow
it worrits you. Jes’ lay to that, you swab, or so ‘elp me I’ll
take a pull on your peak-purchases!”
Kent was so nervous that it took three puffs to blow out the
slush-lamp, and he crawled into his blankets without even removing
his moccasins. The sailor was soon snoring lustily from his hard
bed on the floor, but Kent lay staring up into the blackness, one
Tales of the Klondyke
49
hand on the shotgun, resolved not to close his eyes the whole
night. He had not had an opportunity to secrete his five pounds
of gold, and it lay in the ammunition box at the head of his bunk.
But, try as he would, he at last dozed off with the weight of his
dust heavy on his soul. Had he not inadvertently fallen asleep
with his mind in such condition, the somnambulic demon would not
have been invoked, nor would Jim Cardegee have gone mining next
day with a dish-pan.
The fire fought a losing battle, and at last died away, while the
frost penetrated the mossy chinks between the logs and chilled the
inner atmosphere. The dogs outside ceased their howling, and,
curled up in the snow, dreamed of salmon-stocked heavens where
dog-drivers and kindred task-masters were not. Within, the sailor
lay like a log, while his host tossed restlessly about, the victim
of strange fantasies. As midnight drew near he suddenly threw off
the blankets and got up. It was remarkable that he could do what
he then did without ever striking a light. Perhaps it was because
of the darkness that he kept his eyes shut, and perhaps it was for
fear he would see the terrible gash on the cheek of his visitor;
but, be this as it may, it is a fact that, unseeing, he opened his
ammunition box, put a heavy charge into the muzzle of the shotgun
without spilling a particle, rammed it down with double wads, and
then put everything away and got back into bed.
Just as daylight laid its steel-gray fingers on the parchment
window, Jacob Kent awoke. Turning on his elbow, he raised the lid
and peered into the ammunition box. Whatever he saw, or whatever
he did not see, exercised a very peculiar effect upon him,
considering his neurotic temperament. He glanced at the sleeping
man on the floor, let the lid down gently, and rolled over on his
back. It was an unwonted calm that rested on his face. Not a
muscle quivered. There was not the least sign of excitement or
perturbation. He lay there a long while, thinking, and when he
got up and began to move about, it was in a cool, collected
manner, without noise and without hurry.
It happened that a heavy wooden peg had been driven into the
ridge-pole just above Jim Cardegee’s head. Jacob Kent, working
softly, ran a piece of half-inch manila over it, bringing both
ends to the ground. One end he tied about his waist, and in the
other he rove a running noose. Then he cocked his shotgun and
laid it within reach, by the side of numerous moose-hide thongs.
By an effort of will he bore the sight of the scar, slipped the
noose over the sleeper’s head, and drew it taut by throwing back
on his weight, at the same time seizing the gun and bringing it to
bear.
Jim Cardegee awoke, choking, bewildered, staring down the twin
wells of steel.
“Where is it?” Kent asked, at the same time slacking on the rope.
Tales of the Klondyke
50
“You blasted–ugh–”
Kent merely threw back his weight, shutting off the other’s wind.
“Bloomin’–Bur–ugh–”
“Where is it?” Kent repeated.
“Wot?” Cardegee asked, as soon as he had caught his breath.
“The gold-dust.”
“Wot gold-dust?” the perplexed sailor demanded.
“You know well enough,–mine.”
“Ain’t seen nothink of it. Wot do ye take me for? A safe-
deposit? Wot ‘ave I got to do with it, any’ow?”
“Mebbe you know, and mebbe you don’t know, but anyway, I’m going
to stop your breath till you do know. And if you lift a hand,