practical breed, the men of the Northland, with a wholesome
disregard for theories and a firm grip on facts. And to not a few
of them Karen Sayther was a most essential fact. That she did not
regard the matter in this light, is evidenced by the neatness and
celerity with which refusal and proposal tallied off during her
four weeks’ stay. And with her vanished the fact, and only the
interrogation remained.
To the solution, Chance vouchsafed one clew. Her last victim,
Jack Coughran, having fruitlessly laid at her feet both his heart
and a five-hundred-foot creek claim on Bonanza, celebrated the
misfortune by walking all of a night with the gods. In the
midwatch of this night he happened to rub shoulders with Pierre
Fontaine, none other than head man of Karen Sayther’s voyageurs.
This rubbing of shoulders led to recognition and drinks, and
ultimately involved both men in a common muddle of inebriety.
Tales of the Klondyke
16
“Heh?” Pierre Fontaine later on gurgled thickly. “Vot for Madame
Sayther mak visitation to thees country? More better you spik wit
her. I know no t’ing ‘tall, only all de tam her ask one man’s
name. ‘Pierre,’ her spik wit me; ‘Pierre, you moos’ find thees
mans, and I gif you mooch–one thousand dollar you find thees
mans.’ Thees mans? Ah, oui. Thees man’s name–vot you call–
Daveed Payne. Oui, m’sieu, Daveed Payne. All de tam her spik das
name. And all de tam I look rount vaire mooch, work lak hell, but
no can find das dam mans, and no get one thousand dollar ‘tall.
By dam!
“Heh? Ah, oui. One tam dose mens vot come from Circle City, dose
mens know thees mans. Him Birch Creek, dey spik. And madame?
Her say ‘Bon!’ and look happy lak anyt’ing. And her spik wit me.
‘Pierre,’ her spik, ‘harness de dogs. We go queek. We find thees
mans I gif you one thousand dollar more.’ And I say, ‘Oui, queek!
Allons, madame!’
“For sure, I t’ink, das two thousand dollar mine. Bully boy! Den
more mens come from Circle City, and dey say no, das thees mans,
Daveed Payne, come Dawson leel tam back. So madame and I go not
‘tall.
“Oui, m’sieu. Thees day madame spik. ‘Pierre,’ her spik, and gif
me five hundred dollar, ‘go buy poling-boat. To-morrow we go up
de river.’ Ah, oui, to-morrow, up de river, and das dam Sitka
Charley mak me pay for de poling-boat five hundred dollar. Dam!”
Thus it was, when Jack Coughran unburdened himself next day, that
Dawson fell to wondering who was this David Payne, and in what way
his existence bore upon Karen Sayther’s. But that very day, as
Pierre Fontaine had said, Mrs. Sayther and her barbaric crew of
voyageurs towed up the east bank to Klondike City, shot across to
the west bank to escape the bluffs, and disappeared amid the maze
of islands to the south.
II
“Oui, madame, thees is de place. One, two, t’ree island below
Stuart River. Thees is t’ree island.”
As he spoke, Pierre Fontaine drove his pole against the bank and
held the stern of the boat against the current. This thrust the
bow in, till a nimble breed climbed ashore with the painter and
made fast.
“One leel tam, madame, I go look see.”
A chorus of dogs marked his disappearance over the edge of the
bank, but a minute later he was back again.
Tales of the Klondyke
17
“Oui, madame, thees is de cabin. I mak investigation. No can
find mans at home. But him no go vaire far, vaire long, or him no
leave dogs. Him come queek, you bet!”
“Help me out, Pierre. I’m tired all over from the boat. You
might have made it softer, you know.”
From a nest of furs amidships, Karen Sayther rose to her full
height of slender fairness. But if she looked lily-frail in her
elemental environment, she was belied by the grip she put upon
Pierre’s hand, by the knotting of her woman’s biceps as it took
the weight of her body, by the splendid effort of her limbs as
they held her out from the perpendicular bank while she made the
ascent. Though shapely flesh clothed delicate frame, her body was
a seat of strength.
Still, for all the careless ease with which she had made the
landing, there was a warmer color than usual to her face, and a
perceptibly extra beat to her heart. But then, also, it was with
a certain reverent curiousness that she approached the cabin,
while the Hush on her cheek showed a yet riper mellowness.
“Look, see!” Pierre pointed to the scattered chips by the
woodpile. “Him fresh–two, t’ree day, no more.”
Mrs. Sayther nodded. She tried to peer through the small window,
but it was made of greased parchment which admitted light while it
blocked vision. Failing this, she went round to the door, half
lifted the rude latch to enter, but changed her mind and let it
fall back into place. Then she suddenly dropped on one knee and
kissed the rough-hewn threshold. If Pierre Fontaine saw, he gave
no sign, and the memory in the time to come was never shared. But
the next instant, one of the boatmen, placidly lighting his pipe,
was startled by an unwonted harshness in his captain’s voice.
“Hey! You! Le Goire! You mak’m soft more better,” Pierre
commanded. “Plenty bear-skin; plenty blanket. Dam!”
But the nest was soon after disrupted, and the major portion
tossed up to the crest of the shore, where Mrs. Sayther lay down
to wait in comfort.
Reclining on her side, she looked out and over the wide-stretching
Yukon. Above the mountains which lay beyond the further shore,
the sky was murky with the smoke of unseen forest fires, and
through this the afternoon sun broke feebly, throwing a vague
radiance to earth, and unreal shadows. To the sky-line of the
four quarters–spruce-shrouded islands, dark waters, and ice-
scarred rocky ridges–stretched the immaculate wilderness. No
sign of human existence broke the solitude; no sound the
stillness. The land seemed bound under the unreality of the
unknown, wrapped in the brooding mystery of great spaces.
Tales of the Klondyke
18
Perhaps it was this which made Mrs. Sayther nervous; for she
changed her position constantly, now to look up the river, now
down, or to scan the gloomy shores for the half-hidden mouths of
back channels. After an hour or so the boatmen were sent ashore
to pitch camp for the night, but Pierre remained with his mistress
to watch.
“Ah! him come thees tam,” he whispered, after a long silence, his
gaze bent up the river to the head of the island.
A canoe, with a paddle flashing on either side, was slipping down
the current. In the stern a man’s form, and in the bow a woman’s,
swung rhythmically to the work. Mrs. Sayther had no eyes for the
woman till the canoe drove in closer and her bizarre beauty
peremptorily demanded notice. A close-fitting blouse of moose-
skin, fantastically beaded, outlined faithfully the well-rounded
lines of her body, while a silken kerchief, gay of color and
picturesquely draped, partly covered great masses of blue-black
hair. But it was the face, cast belike in copper bronze, which
caught and held Mrs. Sayther’s fleeting glance. Eyes, piercing
and black and large, with a traditionary hint of obliqueness,
looked forth from under clear-stencilled, clean-arching brows.
Without suggesting cadaverousness, though high-boned and
prominent, the cheeks fell away and met in a mouth, thin-lipped
and softly strong. It was a face which advertised the dimmest
trace of ancient Mongol blood, a reversion, after long centuries
of wandering, to the parent stem. This effect was heightened by
the delicately aquiline nose with its thin trembling nostrils, and
by the general air of eagle wildness which seemed to characterize
not only the face but the creature herself. She was, in fact, the
Tartar type modified to idealization, and the tribe of Red Indian
is lucky that breeds such a unique body once in a score of
generations.
Dipping long strokes and strong, the girl, in concert with the
man, suddenly whirled the tiny craft about against the current and
brought it gently to the shore. Another instant and she stood at
the top of the bank, heaving up by rope, hand under hand, a
quarter of fresh-killed moose. Then the man followed her, and
together, with a swift rush, they drew up the canoe. The dogs
were in a whining mass about them, and as the girl stooped among
them caressingly, the man’s gaze fell upon Mrs. Sayther, who had
arisen. He looked, brushed his eyes unconsciously as though his
sight were deceiving him, and looked again.
“Karen,” he said simply, coming forward and extending his hand, “I
thought for the moment I was dreaming. I went snow-blind for a
time, this spring, and since then my eyes have been playing tricks