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29
the nearest post, runners to carry the news before you, the same
over the portage to Anvik–not a chance in the world for you! Now
wait with me till it blows over. They’ll forget all about you in
a month or less, what of stampeding to York and what not, and you
can hit the trail under their noses and they won’t bother. I’ve
got my own ideas of justice. When I ran after you, out of the El
Dorado and along the beach, it wasn’t to catch you or give you up.
My ideas are my own, and that’s not one of them.”
He ceased as the murderer drew a prayer-book from his pocket.
With the aurora borealis glimmering yellow in the northeast, heads
bared to the frost and naked hands grasping the sacred book,
Fortune La Pearle swore him to the words he had spoken–an oath
which Uri Bram never intended breaking, and never broke.
At the door of the shack the gambler hesitated for an instant,
marvelling at the strangeness of this man who had befriended him,
and doubting. But by the candlelight he found the cabin
comfortable and without occupants, and he was quickly rolling a
cigarette while the other man made coffee. His muscles relaxed in
the warmth and he lay back with half-assumed indolence, intently
studying Uri’s face through the curling wisps of smoke. It was a
powerful face, but its strength was of that peculiar sort which
stands girt in and unrelated. The seams were deep-graven, more
like scars, while the stern features were in no way softened by
hints of sympathy or humor. Under prominent bushy brows the eyes
shone cold and gray. The cheekbones, high and forbidding, were
undermined by deep hollows. The chin and jaw displayed a
steadiness of purpose which the narrow forehead advertised as
single, and, if needs be, pitiless. Everything was harsh, the
nose, the lips, the voice, the lines about the mouth. It was the
face of one who communed much with himself, unused to seeking
counsel from the world; the face of one who wrestled oft of nights
with angels, and rose to face the day with shut lips that no man
might know. He was narrow but deep; and Fortune, his own humanity
broad and shallow, could make nothing of him. Did Uri sing when
merry and sigh when sad, he could have understood; but as it was,
the cryptic features were undecipherable; he could not measure the
soul they concealed.
“Lend a hand, Mister Man,” Uri ordered when the cups had been
emptied. “We’ve got to fix up for visitors.”
Fortune purred his name for the other’s benefit, and assisted
understandingly. The bunk was built against a side and end of the
cabin. It was a rude affair, the bottom being composed of drift-
wood logs overlaid with moss. At the foot the rough ends of these
timbers projected in an uneven row. From the side next the wall
Uri ripped back the moss and removed three of the logs. The
jagged ends he sawed off and replaced so that the projecting row
remained unbroken. Fortune carried in sacks of flour from the
cache and piled them on the floor beneath the aperture. On these
Uri laid a pair of long sea-bags, and over all spread several
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30
thicknesses of moss and blankets. Upon this Fortune could lie,
with the sleeping furs stretching over him from one side of the
bunk to the other, and all men could look upon it and declare it
empty.
In the weeks which followed, several domiciliary visits were paid,
not a shack or tent in Nome escaping, but Fortune lay in his
cranny undisturbed. In fact, little attention was given to Uri
Bram’s cabin; for it was the last place under the sun to expect to
find the murderer of John Randolph. Except during such
interruptions, Fortune lolled about the cabin, playing long games
of solitaire and smoking endless cigarettes. Though his volatile
nature loved geniality and play of words and laughter, he quickly
accommodated himself to Uri’s taciturnity. Beyond the actions and
plans of his pursuers, the state of the trails, and the price of
dogs, they never talked; and these things were only discussed at
rare intervals and briefly. But Fortune fell to working out a
system, and hour after hour, and day after day, he shuffled and
dealt, shuffled and dealt, noted the combinations of the cards in
long columns, and shuffled and dealt again. Toward the end even
this absorption failed him, and, head bowed upon the table, he
visioned the lively all-night houses of Nome, where the
gamekeepers and lookouts worked in shifts and the clattering
roulette ball never slept. At such times his loneliness and
bankruptcy stunned him till he sat for hours in the same
unblinking, unchanging position. At other times, his long-pent
bitterness found voice in passionate outbursts; for he had rubbed
the world the wrong way and did not like the feel of it.
“Life’s a skin-game,” he was fond of repeating, and on this one
note he rang the changes. “I never had half a chance,” he
complained. “I was faked in my birth and flim-flammed with my
mother’s milk. The dice were loaded when she tossed the box, and
I was born to prove the loss. But that was no reason she should
blame me for it, and look on me as a cold deck; but she did–ay,
she did. Why didn’t she give me a show? Why didn’t the world?
Why did I go broke in Seattle? Why did I take the steerage, and
live like a hog to Nome? Why did I go to the El Dorado? I was
heading for Big Pete’s and only went for matches. Why didn’t I
have matches? Why did I want to smoke? Don’t you see? All
worked out, every bit of it, all parts fitting snug. Before I was
born, like as not. I’ll put the sack I never hope to get on it,
before I was born. That’s why! That’s why John Randolph passed
the word and his checks in at the same time. Damn him! It served
him well right! Why didn’t he keep his tongue between his teeth
and give me a chance? He knew I was next to broke. Why didn’t I
hold my hand? Oh, why? Why? Why?”
And Fortune La Pearle would roll upon the floor, vainly
interrogating the scheme of things. At such outbreaks Uri said no
word, gave no sign, save that his grey eyes seemed to turn dull
and muddy, as though from lack of interest. There was nothing in
common between these two men, and this fact Fortune grasped
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31
sufficiently to wonder sometimes why Uri had stood by him.
But the time of waiting came to an end. Even a community’s blood
lust cannot stand before its gold lust. The murder of John
Randolph had already passed into the annals of the camp, and there
it rested. Had the murderer appeared, the men of Nome would
certainly have stopped stampeding long enough to see justice done,
whereas the whereabouts of Fortune La Pearle was no longer an
insistent problem. There was gold in the creek beds and ruby
beaches, and when the sea opened, the men with healthy sacks would
sail away to where the good things of life were sold absurdly
cheap.
So, one night, Fortune helped Uri Bram harness the dogs and lash
the sled, and the twain took the winter trail south on the ice.
But it was not all south; for they left the sea east from St.
Michael’s, crossed the divide, and struck the Yukon at Anvik, many
hundred miles from its mouth. Then on, into the northeast, past
Koyokuk, Tanana, and Minook, till they rounded the Great Curve at
Fort Yukon, crossed and recrossed the Arctic Circle, and headed
south through the Flats. It was a weary journey, and Fortune
would have wondered why the man went with him, had not Uri told
him that he owned claims and had men working at Eagle. Eagle lay
on the edge of the line; a few miles farther on, the British flag
waved over the barracks at Fort Cudahy. Then came Dawson, Pelly,
the Five Fingers, Windy Arm, Caribou Crossing, Linderman, the
Chilcoot and Dyea.
On the morning after passing Eagle, they rose early. This was
their last camp, and they were now to part. Fortune’s heart was
light. There was a promise of spring in the land, and the days
were growing longer. The way was passing into Canadian territory.
Liberty was at hand, the sun was returning, and each day saw him
nearer to the Great Outside. The world was big, and he could once
again paint his future in royal red. He whistled about the
breakfast and hummed snatches of light song while Uri put the dogs