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Burning Daylight
By
Jack London
Contents
PART I<=
span
class=3DHeading1Char>
It was a quiet ni=
ght
in the Shovel. At the bar, wh=
ich
ranged along one side of the large chinked-log room, leaned half a dozen me=
n,
two of whom were discussing the relative merits of spruce-tea and lime-juic=
e as
remedies for scurvy. They arg=
ued
with an air of depression and with intervals of morose silence. The other m=
en
scarcely heeded them. In a ro=
w,
against the opposite wall, were the gambling games. The crap-table was deserted. One lone man was playing at the
faro-table. The roulette-ball was not even spinning, and the gamekeeper sto=
od
by the roaring, red-hot stove, talking with the young, dark-eyed woman, com=
ely
of face and figure, who was known from Juneau to Fort Yukon as the Virgin.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> Three men sat in at stud-poker, bu=
t they
played with small chips and without enthusiasm, while there were no
onlookers. On the floor of the
dancing-room, which opened out at the rear, three couples were waltzing
drearily to the strains of a violin and a piano.
Circle City was n=
ot
deserted, nor was money tight. The
miners were in from Moseyed Creek and the other diggings to the west, the
summer washing had been good, and the men's pouches were heavy with dust an=
d nuggets. The Klondike had not yet been
discovered, nor had the miners of the Yukon learned the possibilities of de=
ep
digging and wood-firing. No work was done in the winter, and they made a
practice of hibernating in the large camps like Circle City during the long
Arctic night. Time was heavy =
on
their hands, their pouches were well filled, and the only social diversion =
to
be found was in the saloons. =
Yet
the Shovel was practically deserted, and the Virgin, standing by the stove,
yawned with uncovered mouth and said to Charley Bates:-- "If something
don't happen soon, I'm gin' to bed.
What's the matter with the camp, anyway? Everybody dead?" Bates did not even
trouble to reply, but went on moodily rolling a cigarette. Dan MacDonald, pioneer saloonman a=
nd
gambler on the upper Yukon, owner and proprietor of the Tivoli and all its
games, wandered forlornly across the great vacant space of floor and joined=
the
two at the stove. "Anybody dea=
d?"
the Virgin asked him. "Looks like
it," was the answer. "Then it mus=
t be
the whole camp," she said with an air of finality and with another yaw=
n. MacDonald grinned=
and
nodded, and opened his mouth to speak, when the front door swung wide and a=
man
appeared in the light. A rush=
of frost,
turned to vapor by the heat of the room, swirled about him to his knees and
poured on across the floor, growing thinner and thinner, and perishing a do=
zen
feet from the stove. Taking the wisp broom from its nail inside the door, t=
he
newcomer brushed the snow from his moccasins and high German socks. He would have appeared a large man=
had
not a huge French-Canadian stepped up to him from the bar and gripped his h=
and. "Hello,
Daylight!" was his greeting.
"By Gar, you good for sore eyes!" "Hello, Loui=
s,
when did you-all blow in?" returned the newcomer. "Come up and ha=
ve a
drink and tell us all about Bone Creek.&nb=
sp;
Why, dog-gone you-all, shake again.=
Where's that pardner of yours? I'm looking for him." Another huge man
detached himself from the bar to shake hands. Olaf Henderson and French Lou=
is,
partners together on Bone Creek, were the two largest men in the country, a=
nd
though they were but half a head taller than the newcomer, between them he =
was
dwarfed completely. "Hello, Olaf,
you're my meat, savvee that," said the one called Daylight. "To-morrow's my birthday, and=
I'm
going to put you-all on your back--savvee?=
And you, too, Louis. I=
can
put you-all on your back on my birthday--savvee? Come up and drink, Olaf, and I'll =
tell you-all
about it." The arrival of the
newcomer seemed to send a flood of warmth through the place. "It's Burning Daylight,"=
the
Virgin cried, the first to recognize him as he came into the light. Charley Bates' tight features rela=
xed at
the sight, and MacDonald went over and joined the three at the bar. With the advent of Burning Dayligh=
t the
whole place became suddenly brighter and cheerier. The barkeepers were
active. Voices were raised. Somebody laughed. And when the fiddler, peering into=
the front
room, remarked to the pianist, "It's Burning Daylight," the waltz=
-time
perceptibly quickened, and the dancers, catching the contagion, began to wh=
irl
about as if they really enjoyed it.
It was known to them of old time that nothing languished when Burning
Daylight was around.
He turned from the
bar and saw the woman by the stove and the eager look of welcome she extend=
ed
him.
"Hello, Virg=
in,
old girl," he called.
"Hello, Charley. =
What's
the matter with you-all? Why =
wear
faces like that when coffins cost only three ounces? Come up, you-all, and drink. Come up, you unburied dead, and na=
me
your poison. Come up, everybo=
dy.
This is my night, and I'm going to ride it. To-morrow I'm thirty, and then I'l=
l be
an old man. It's the last fli=
ng of
youth. Are you-all with me? Surge along, then. Surge along.
"Hold on the=
re,
Davis," he called to the
faro-dealer, who had shoved his chair back from the table. "I'm going you one flutter to=
see whether
you-all drink with me or we-all drink with you."
Pulling a heavy s=
ack
of gold-dust from his coat pocket, he dropped it on the HIGH CARD.
"Fifty,"=
; he
said.
The faro-dealer
slipped two cards. The high c=
ard
won. He scribbled the amount =
on a
pad, and the weigher at the bar balanced fifty dollars' worth of dust in the
gold-scales and poured it into Burning Daylight's sack. The waltz in the back room being
finished, the three couples, followed by the fiddler and the pianist and
heading for the bar, caught Daylight's eye.
"Surge along,
you-all" he cried. "=
;Surge
along and name it. This is my=
night,
and it ain't a night that comes frequent.&=
nbsp;
Surge up, you Siwashes and Salmon-eaters. It's my night, I tell you-all--&qu=
ot;
"A blame man=
gy
night," Charley Bates interpolated.
"You're righ=
t,
my son," Burning Daylight went on gaily.
"A mangy nig=
ht,
but it's MY night, you see. I=
'm the
mangy old he-wolf. Listen to me howl."
And howl he did, =
like
a lone gray timber wolf, till the Virgin thrust her pretty fingers in her e=
ars
and shivered. A minute later =
she was
whirled away in his arms to the dancing-floor, where, along with the other
three women and their partners, a rollicking Virginia reel was soon in
progress. Men and women dance=
d in
moccasins, and the place was soon a-roar, Burning Daylight the centre of it=
and
the animating spark, with quip and jest and rough merriment rousing them ou=
t of
the slough of despond in which he had found them.
The atmosphere of=
the
place changed with his coming. He
seemed to fill it with his tremendous vitality. Men who entered from the street fe=
lt it
immediately, and in response to their queries the barkeepers nodded at the =
back
room, and said comprehensively, "Burning Daylight's on the tear."=
And the men who entered remained, =
and
kept the barkeepers busy. The
gamblers took heart of life, and soon the tables were filled, the click of
chips and whir of the roulette-ball rising monotonously and imperiously abo=
ve
the hoarse rumble of men's voices and their oaths and heavy laughs.
Few men knew Elam
Harnish by any other name than Burning Daylight, the name which had been gi=
ven
him in the early days in the land because of his habit of routing his comra=
des
out of their blankets with the complaint that daylight was burning. Of the pioneers in that far Arctic
wilderness, where all men were pioneers, he was reckoned among the oldest.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> Men like Al Mayo and Jack McQuesti=
on
antedated him; but they had entered the land by crossing the Rockies from t=
he
Hudson Bay country to the east. He, however, had been the pioneer over the =
Chilcoot
and Chilcat passes. In the sp=
ring
of 1883, twelve years before, a stripling of eighteen, he had crossed over =
the
Chilcoot with five comrades.
In the fall he had
crossed back with one. Four h=
ad
perished by mischance in the bleak, uncharted vastness. And for twelve years Elam Harnish =
had
continued to grope for gold among the shadows of the Circle.
And no man had gr=
oped
so obstinately nor so enduringly.
He had grown up with the land.
He knew no other land.
Civilization was a dream of some previous life. Camps like Forty Mile and Circle Ci=
ty
were to him metropolises. And=
not
alone had he grown up with the land, for, raw as it was, he had helped to m=
ake
it. He had made history and
geography, and those that followed wrote of his traverses and charted the t=
rails
his feet had broken.
Heroes are seldom
given to hero-worship, but among those of that young land, young as he was,=
he
was accounted an elder hero. =
In
point of time he was before them.
In point of deed he was beyond them. In point of endurance it was
acknowledged that he could kill the hardiest of them. Furthermore, he was accounted a ne=
rvy
man, a square man, and a white man.
In all lands where
life is a hazard lightly played with and lightly flung aside, men turn, alm=
ost
automatically, to gambling for diversion and relaxation. In the Yukon men gambled their liv=
es for
gold, and those that won gold from the ground gambled for it with one anoth=
er. Nor
was Elam Harnish an exception. He
was a man's man primarily, and the instinct in him to play the game of life=
was
strong. Environment had deter=
mined
what form that game should take. He
was born on an Iowa farm, and his father had emigrated to eastern Oregon, in
which mining country Elam's boyhood was lived. He had known nothing but hard knoc=
ks for
big stakes. Pluck and enduran=
ce
counted in the game, but the great god Chance dealt the cards. Honest work for sure but meagre re=
turns did
not count. A man played big.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> He risked everything for everythin=
g, and
anything less than everything meant that he was a loser. So for twelve Yukon years, Elam Ha=
rnish
had been a loser. True, on
Moosehide Creek the past summer he had taken out twenty thousand dollars, a=
nd what
was left in the ground was twenty thousand more. But, as he himself proclaimed, tha=
t was
no more than getting his ante back.
He had ante'd his life for a dozen years, and forty thousand was a s=
mall
pot for such a stake--the price of a drink and a dance at the Tivoli, of a
winter's flutter at Circle City, and a grubstake for the year to come.
The men of the Yu=
kon
reversed the old maxim till it read: hard come, easy go. At the end of the reel, Elam Harni=
sh
called the house up to drink again.
Drinks were a dollar apiece, gold rated at sixteen dollars an ounce;
there were thirty in the house that accepted his invitation, and between ev=
ery
dance the house was Elam's guest.
This was his night, and nobody was to be allowed to pay for anything=
.
Not that Elam Har=
nish
was a drinking man. Whiskey m=
eant
little to him. He was too vital and robust, too untroubled in mind and body=
, to
incline to the slavery of alcohol.
He spent months at a time on trail and river when he drank nothing
stronger than coffee, while he had gone a year at a time without even coffe=
e.
But he was gregarious, and since the sole social expression of the Yukon was
the saloon, he expressed himself that way.=
When he was a lad in the mining camps of the West, men had always do=
ne
that. To him it was the prope=
r way
for a man to express himself socially.&nbs=
p;
He knew no other way.
He was a striking
figure of a man, despite his garb being similar to that of all the men in t=
he
Tivoli. Soft-tanned moccasins=
of moose-hide,
beaded in Indian designs, covered his feet. His trousers were ordinary overall=
s, his
coat was made from a blanket. Long-gauntleted leather mittens, lined with w=
ool,
hung by his side. They were connected in the Yukon fashion, by a leather th=
ong
passed around the neck and across the shoulders. On his head was a fur cap,=
the
ear-flaps raised and the tying-cords dangling. His face, lean and slightly long, =
with
the suggestion of hollows under the cheek-bones, seemed almost Indian. The burnt skin and keen dark eyes
contributed to this effect, though the bronze of the skin and the eyes
themselves were essentially those of a white man. He looked older than thirty, and y=
et,
smooth-shaven and without wrinkles, he was almost boyish. This impression of age was based o=
n no
tangible evidence. It came fr=
om the
abstracter facts of the man, from what he had endured and survived, which w=
as
far beyond that of ordinary men. He
had lived life naked and tensely, and something of all this smouldered in h=
is
eyes, vibrated in his voice, and seemed forever a-whisper on his lips.
The lips themselv=
es
were thin, and prone to close tightly over the even, white teeth. But their harshness was retrieved =
by the
upward curl at the corners of his mouth.&n=
bsp;
This curl gave to him sweetness, as the minute puckers at the corner=
s of
the eyes gave him laughter. T=
hese necessary
graces saved him from a nature that was essentially savage and that otherwi=
se
would have been cruel and bitter.
The nose was lean, full-nostrilled, and delicate, and of a size to f=
it
the face; while the high forehead, as if to atone for its narrowness, was s=
plendidly
domed and symmetrical. In lin=
e with
the Indian effect was his hair, very straight and very black, with a gloss =
to
it that only health could give.
"Burning
Daylight's burning candlelight," laughed Dan MacDonald, as an outburst=
of
exclamations and merriment came from the dancers.
"An' he is d=
er
boy to do it, eh, Louis?" said Olaf Henderson.
"Yes, by Gar!
you bet on dat," said French Louis.&n=
bsp;
"Dat boy is all gold--"
"And when God
Almighty washes Daylight's soul out on the last big slucin' day,"
MacDonald interrupted, "why, God Almighty'll have to shovel gravel alo=
ng
with him into the sluice-boxes."
"Dot iss
goot," Olaf Henderson muttered, regarding the gambler with profound
admiration.
"Ver'
good," affirmed French Louis.
"I t'ink we take a drink on dat one time, eh?"
It was two in the
morning when the dancers, bent on getting something to eat, adjourned the
dancing for half an hour. And=
it
was at this moment that Jack Kearns suggested poker. Jack Kearns was a big, bluff-featu=
red
man, who, along with Bettles, had made the disastrous attempt to found a po=
st
on the head-reaches of the Koyokuk, far inside the Arctic Circle. After that, Kearns had fallen back=
on
his posts at Forty Mile and Sixty Mile and changed the direction of his
ventures by sending out to the States for a small sawmill and a river
steamer. The former was even =
then
being sledded across Chilcoot Pass by Indians and dogs, and would come down=
the
Yukon in the early summer after the ice-run. Later in the summer, when Bering S=
ea and
the mouth of the Yukon cleared of ice, the steamer, put together at St.
Michaels, was to be expected up the river loaded to the guards with supplie=
s.
Jack Kearns sugge=
sted
poker. French Louis, Dan MacD=
onald,
and Hal Campbell (who had make a strike on Moosehide), all three of whom we=
re not
dancing because there were not girls enough to go around, inclined to the
suggestion. They were looking=
for a
fifth man when Burning Daylight emerged from the rear room, the Virgin on h=
is
arm, the train of dancers in his wake.&nbs=
p;
In response to the hail of the poker-players, he came over to their
table in the corner.
"Want you to=
sit
in," said Campbell.
"How's your luck?"
"I sure got =
it
to-night," Burning Daylight answered with enthusiasm, and at the same =
time
felt the Virgin press his arm warningly.&n=
bsp;
She wanted him for the dancing.&nbs=
p;
"I sure got my luck with me, but I'd sooner dance. I ain't hankerin' to take the mone=
y away
from you-all."
Nobody urged. They took his refusal as final, an=
d the
Virgin was pressing his arm to turn him away in pursuit of the supper-seeke=
rs, when
he experienced a change of heart.
It was not that he did not want to dance, nor that he wanted to hurt
her; but that insistent pressure on his arm put his free man-nature in
revolt. The thought in his mi=
nd was
that he did not want any woman running him. Himself a favorite with women,
nevertheless they did not bulk big with him. They were toys, playthings, part o=
f the
relaxation from the bigger game of life. He met women along with the whiskey
and gambling, and from observation he had found that it was far easier to b=
reak
away from the drink and the cards than from a woman once the man was proper=
ly
entangled.
He was a slave to
himself, which was natural in one with a healthy ego, but he rebelled in wa=
ys
either murderous or panicky at being a slave to anybody else. Love's sweet servitude was a thing=
of
which he had no comprehension. Men
he had seen in love impressed him as lunatics, and lunacy was a thing he had
never considered worth analyzing.
But comradeship with men was different from love with women. There was no servitude in
comradeship. It was a business
proposition, a square deal between men who did not pursue each other, but w=
ho
shared the risks of trail and river and mountain in the pursuit of life and
treasure. Men and women pursu=
ed
each other, and one must needs bend the other to his will or hers. Comradeship was different. There w=
as no
slavery about it; and though he, a strong man beyond strength's seeming, ga=
ve
far more than he received, he gave not something due but in royal largess, =
his
gifts of toil or heroic effort falling generously from his hands. To pack f=
or
days over the gale-swept passes or across the mosquito-ridden marshes, and =
to
pack double the weight his comrade packed, did not involve unfairness or
compulsion. Each did his best=
. That
was the business essence of it.
Some men were stronger than others--true; but so long as each man did
his best it was fair exchange, the business spirit was observed, and the sq=
uare
deal obtained.
But with
women--no. Women gave little =
and
wanted all. Women had apron-s=
trings
and were prone to tie them about any man who looked twice in their
direction. There was the Virg=
in,
yawning her head off when he came in and mightily pleased that he asked her=
to
dance. One dance was all very=
well,
but because he danced twice and thrice with her and several times more, she
squeezed his arm when they asked him to sit in at poker. It was the obnoxious apron-string,=
the
first of the many compulsions she would exert upon him if he gave in. Not that she was not a nice bit of=
a
woman, healthy and strapping and good to look upon, also a very excellent
dancer, but that she was a woman with all a woman's desire to rope him with=
her
apron-strings and tie him hand and foot for the branding. Better poker. Besides, he liked poker as well as=
he
did dancing.
He resisted the p=
ull
on his arm by the mere negative mass of him, and said:--
"I sort of f=
eel
a hankering to give you-all a flutter."
Again came the pu=
ll
on his arm. She was trying to=
pass
the apron-string around him. =
For
the fraction of an instant he was a savage, dominated by the wave of fear a=
nd
murder that rose up in him. For that infinitesimal space of time he was to =
all
purposes a frightened tiger filled with rage and terror at the apprehension=
of
the trap. Had he been no more=
than
a savage, he would have leapt wildly from the place or else sprung upon her=
and
destroyed her. But in that sa=
me
instant there stirred in him the generations of discipline by which man had
become an inadequate social animal.
Tact and sympathy strove with him, and he smiled with his eyes into =
the
Virgin's eyes as he said:--
"You-all go =
and
get some grub. I ain't hungry=
. And we'll dance some more by and
by. The night's young yet.
He released his a=
rm
and thrust her playfully on the shoulder, at the same time turning to the
poker-players.
"Take off the
limit and I'll go you-all."
"Limit's the
roof," said Jack Kearns.
"Take off the
roof."
The players glanc=
ed at
one another, and Kearns announced, "The roof's off."
Elam Harnish drop=
ped
into the waiting chair, started to pull out his gold-sack, and changed his
mind. The Virgin pouted a mom=
ent,
then followed in the wake of the other dancers.
"I'll bring =
you
a sandwich, Daylight," she called back over her shoulder.
He nodded. She was smiling her forgiveness. He had escaped the apron-string, a=
nd
without hurting her feelings too severely.
"Let's play
markers," he suggested.
"Chips do everlastingly clutter up the table....If it's agreeab=
le
to you-all?"
"I'm
willing," answered Hal Campbell.
"Let mine run at five hundred."
"Mine,
too," answered Harnish, while the others stated the values they put on
their own markers, French Louis, the most modest, issuing his at a hundred
dollars each.
In Alaska, at that
time, there were no rascals and no tin-horn gamblers. Games were conducted honestly, and=
men
trusted one another. A man's word was as good as his gold in the blower.
Harnish cut and g=
ot
the deal. At this good augury=
, and
while shuffling the deck, he called to the barkeepers to set up the drinks =
for
the house. As he dealt the fi=
rst
card to Dan MacDonald, on his left, he called out:
"Get down to=
the
ground, you-all, Malemutes, huskies, and Siwash purps! Get down and dig
in! Tighten up them traces! Put your weight into the harness a=
nd
bust the breast-bands! Whoop-=
la!
Yow! We're off and bound for =
Helen
Breakfast! And I tell you-all=
clear
and plain there's goin' to be stiff grades and fast goin' to-night before we
win to that same lady. And
somebody's goin' to bump...hard."
Once started, it =
was
a quiet game, with little or no conversation, though all about the players =
the
place was a-roar. Elam Harnish had ignited the spark. More and more miners dropped in to=
the
Tivoli and remained. When Bur=
ning
Daylight went on the tear, no man cared to miss it. The dancing-floor was full. Owing =
to the
shortage of women, many of the men tied bandanna handkerchiefs around their
arms in token of femininity and danced with other men. All the games were crowded, and the
voices of the men talking at the long bar and grouped about the stove were
accompanied by the steady click of chips and the sharp whir, rising and
falling, of the roulette-ball. All
the materials of a proper Yukon night were at hand and mixing.
The luck at the t= able varied monotonously, no big hands being out. As a result, high play went on with small hands though no play lasted long.&nb= sp; A filled straight belonging to French Louis gave him a pot of five thousand against two sets of threes held by Campbell and Kearns. One pot of eight hundred dollars was won by a pair of treys on a showdown. And once Harnish called Kearns for= two thousand dollars on a cold steal. When Kearns laid down his hand it showed a bobtail flush, while Harnish's hand proved that he had had the nerve to call on a pair of tens.<= o:p>
But at three in t=
he
morning the big combination of hands arrived.
It was the moment=
of
moments that men wait weeks for in a poker game. The news of it tingled over
the Tivoli. The onlookers bec=
ame
quiet. The men farther away ceased talking and moved over to the table. The players deserted the other gam=
es,
and the dancing-floor was forsaken, so that all stood at last, fivescore and
more, in a compact and silent group, around the poker-table. The high betti=
ng
had begun before the draw, and still the high betting went on, with the draw
not in sight. Kearns had dealt, and French Louis had opened the pot with on=
e marker--in
his case one hundred dollars.
Campbell had merely "seen" it, but Elam Harnish, corning n=
ext,
had tossed in five hundred dollars, with the remark to MacDonald that he was
letting him in easy.
MacDonald, glanci=
ng
again at his hand, put in a thousand in markers. Kearns, debating a long ti=
me
over his hand, finally "saw."&nb=
sp;
It then cost French Louis nine hundred to remain in the game, which =
he contributed
after a similar debate. It co=
st
Campbell likewise nine hundred to remain and draw cards, but to the surpris=
e of
all he saw the nine hundred and raised another thousand.
"You-all are=
on
the grade at last," Harnish remarked, as he saw the fifteen hundred and
raised a thousand in turn.
"Helen Breakfast's sure on top this divide, and you-all had best
look out for bustin' harness."
"Me for that
same lady," accompanied MacDonald's markers for two thousand and for an
additional thousand-dollar raise.
It was at this st=
age
that the players sat up and knew beyond peradventure that big hands were
out. Though their features sh=
owed nothing,
each man was beginning unconsciously to tense. Each man strove to appear his
natural self, and each natural self was different. Hal Campbell affected his customary
cautiousness.
French Louis betr=
ayed
interest. MacDonald retained =
his
whole-souled benevolence, though it seemed to take on a slightly exaggerated
tone. Kearns was coolly dispassionate and noncommittal, while Elam Harnish =
appeared
as quizzical and jocular as ever. =
span>Eleven
thousand dollars were already in the pot, and the markers were heaped in a
confused pile in the centre of the table.
"I ain't go =
no
more markers," Kearns remarked plaintively. "We'd best begin I.O.U.'s.&qu=
ot;
"Glad you're
going to stay," was MacDonald's cordial response.
"I ain't sta=
yed
yet. I've got a thousand in
already. How's it stand now?&=
quot;
"It'll cost = you three thousand for a look in, but nobody will stop you from raising."<= o:p>
"Raise--hell=
. You must think I got a pat like
yourself." Kearns looked at his hand.=
"But I'll tell you what I'll do, Mac.
"I've got a
hunch, and I'll just see that three thousand."
He wrote the sum =
on a
slip of paper, signed his name, and consigned it to the centre of the table=
.
French Louis beca=
me
the focus of all eyes. He fin=
gered
his cards nervously for a space.
Then, with a "By Gar!
Ah got not one leetle beet hunch," he regretfully tossed his ha=
nd
into the discards.
The next moment t=
he
hundred and odd pairs of eyes shifted to Campbell.
"I won't hump
you, Jack," he said, contenting himself with calling the requisite two
thousand.
The eyes shifted =
to
Harnish, who scribbled on a piece of paper and shoved it forward.
"I'll just l=
et
you-all know this ain't no Sunday-school society of philanthropy," he
said. "I see you, Jack, =
and I
raise you a thousand. Here's where you-all get action on your pat, Mac.&quo=
t;
"Action's wh=
at I
fatten on, and I lift another thousand," was MacDonald's rejoinder.
"I still got=
the
hunch." Kearns fingered =
his cards
a long time. "And I'll p=
lay
it, but you've got to know how I stand. There's my steamer, the Bella--worth
twenty thousand if she's worth an ounce.&n=
bsp;
There's Sixty Mile with five thousand in stock on the shelves. And you know I got a sawmill comin=
g in. It's at Linderman now, and the scow=
is building. Am I good?"
"Dig in; you=
're
sure good," was Daylight's answer.&nb=
sp;
"And while we're about it, I may mention casual that I got twen=
ty
thousand in Mac's safe, there, and there's twenty thousand more in the grou=
nd
on Moosehide. You know the gr=
ound,
Campbell. Is they that-all in=
the dirt?"
"There sure =
is,
Daylight."
"How much do=
es
it cost now?" Kearns asked.
"Two thousan=
d to
see."
"We'll sure =
hump
you if you-all come in," Daylight warned him.
"It's an alm=
ighty
good hunch," Kearns said, adding his slip for two thousand to the grow=
ing
heap. "I can feel her cr=
awlin'
up and down my back."
"I ain't got=
a
hunch, but I got a tolerable likeable hand," Campbell announced, as he
slid in his slip; "but it's not a raising hand."
"Mine is,&qu=
ot;
Daylight paused and wrote. &q=
uot;I
see that thousand and raise her the same old thousand."
The Virgin, stand=
ing
behind him, then did what a man's best friend was not privileged to do. Reaching over Daylight's shoulder,=
she
picked up his hand and read it, at the same time shielding the faces of the
five cards close to his chest. What
she saw were three queens and a pair of eights, but nobody guessed what she
saw. Every player's eyes were=
on her
face as she scanned the cards, but no sign did she give. Her features might have been carve=
d from
ice, for her expression was precisely the same before, during, and after. Not a muscle quivered; nor was the=
re the
slightest dilation of a nostril, nor the slightest increase of light in the
eyes. She laid the hand face =
down
again on the table, and slowly the lingering eyes withdrew from her, having=
learned
nothing.
MacDonald smiled
benevolently. "I see you,
Daylight, and I hump this time for two thousand. How's that hunch, Jack?"
"Still a-cra=
wling,
Mac. You got me now, but that=
hunch
is a rip-snorter persuadin' sort of a critter, and it's my plain duty to ri=
de
it. I call for three thousand=
. And I got another hunch: Daylight's
going to call, too."
"He sure
is," Daylight agreed, after Campbell had thrown up his hand. "He
knows when he's up against it, and he plays accordin'. I see that two thous=
and,
and then I'll see the draw."
In a dead silence,
save for the low voices of the three players, the draw was made. Thirty-four thousand dollars were
already in the pot, and the play possibly not half over. To the Virgin's amazement, Dayligh=
t held
up his three queens, discarding his eights and calling for two cards. And this time not even she dared l=
ook at
what he had drawn. She knew h=
er
limit of control. Nor did he look.
The two new cards lay face down on the table where they had been dea=
lt
to him.
"Cards?"
Kearns asked of MacDonald.
"Got
enough," was the reply.
"You can dra=
w if
you want to, you know," Kearns warned him.
"Nope; this'=
ll
do me."
Kearns himself dr=
ew
two cards, but did not look at them.
Still Harnish let=
his
cards lie.
"I never bet=
in
the teeth of a pat hand," he said slowly, looking at the
saloon-keeper. "You-all =
start
her rolling, Mac."
MacDonald counted=
his
cards carefully, to make double sure it was not a foul hand, wrote a sum on=
a
paper slip, and slid it into the pot, with the simple utterance:--
"Five
thousand."
Kearns, with every
eye upon him, looked at his two-card draw, counted the other three to dispel
any doubt of holding more than five cards, and wrote on a betting slip.
"I see you,
Mac," he said, "and I raise her a little thousand just so as not =
to
keep Daylight out."
The concentrated =
gaze
shifted to Daylight. He likew=
ise
examined his draw and counted his five cards.
"I see that =
six
thousand, and I raise her five thousand...just to try and keep you out,
Jack."
"And I raise=
you
five thousand just to lend a hand at keeping Jack out," MacDonald said=
, in
turn.
His voice was
slightly husky and strained, and a nervous twitch in the corner of his mouth
followed speech.
Kearns was pale, =
and
those who looked on noted that his hand trembled as he wrote his slip. But his voice was unchanged.
"I lift her
along for five thousand," he said.
Daylight was now =
the
centre. The kerosene lamps ab=
ove
flung high lights from the rash of sweat on his forehead. The bronze of his cheeks was darke=
ned by
the accession of blood. His b=
lack
eyes glittered, and his nostrils were distended and eager. They were large nostrils, tokening=
his
descent from savage ancestors who had survived by virtue of deep lungs and
generous air-passages. Yet, unlike MacDonald, his voice was firm and custom=
ary,
and, unlike Kearns, his hand did not tremble when he wrote.
"I call, for=
ten
thousand," he said. &quo=
t;Not
that I'm afraid of you-all, Mac.
It's that hunch of Jack's."
"I hump his
hunch for five thousand just the same," said MacDonald. "I had the best hand before t=
he
draw, and I still guess I got it."
"Mebbe this =
is a
case where a hunch after the draw is better'n the hunch before," Kearns
remarked; "wherefore duty says, 'Lift her, Jack, lift her,' and so I l=
ift
her another five thousand."
Daylight leaned b=
ack
in his chair and gazed up at the kerosene lamps while he computed aloud.
"I was in ni=
ne
thousand before the draw, and I saw and raised eleven thousand--that makes
thirty. I'm only good for ten
more."
He leaned forward=
and
looked at Kearns. "So I =
call
that ten thousand."
"You can rai=
se
if you want," Kearns answered.
"Your dogs are good for five thousand in this game."
"Nary dawg.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> You-all can win my dust and dirt, =
but
nary one of my dawgs. I just
call."
MacDonald conside=
red
for a long time. No one moved=
or
whispered.
Not a muscle was
relaxed on the part of the onlookers.
Not the weight of a body shifted from one leg to the other. It was a sacred silence. Only coul=
d be
heard the roaring draft of the huge stove, and from without, muffled by the
log-walls, the howling of dogs. It
was not every night that high stakes were played on the Yukon, and for that=
matter,
this was the highest in the history of the country. The saloon-keeper finally spoke.
"If anybody =
else
wins, they'll have to take a mortgage on the Tivoli."
The two other pla=
yers
nodded.
"So I call,
too." MacDonald added hi=
s slip
for five thousand.
Not one of them
claimed the pot, and not one of them called the size of his hand. Simultaneously and in silence they=
faced
their cards on the table, while a general tiptoeing and craning of necks to=
ok
place among the onlookers. Da=
ylight
showed four queens and an ace; MacDonald four jacks and an ace; and Kearns =
four
kings and a trey. Kearns reac=
hed forward
with an encircling movement of his arm and drew the pot in to him, his arm
shaking as he did so.
Daylight picked t=
he
ace from his hand and tossed it over alongside MacDonald's ace, saying:--
"That's what
cheered me along, Mac. I know=
ed it
was only kings that could beat me, and he had them.
"What did
you-all have?" he asked, all interest, turning to Campbell.
"Straight fl=
ush
of four, open at both ends--a good drawing hand."
"You bet! You
could a' made a straight, a straight flush, or a flush out of it."
"That's what=
I
thought," Campbell said sadly.
"It cost me six thousand before I quit."
"I wisht
you-all'd drawn," Daylight laughed.&n=
bsp;
"Then I wouldn't a' caught that fourth queen. Now I've got to take Billy Rawlins=
' mail
contract and mush for Dyea. W=
hat's
the size of the killing, Jack?"
Kearns attempted =
to
count the pot, but was too excited.
Daylight drew it across to him, with firm fingers separating and
stacking the markers and I.O.U.'s and with clear brain adding the sum.
"One hundred=
and
twenty-seven thousand," he announced.=
"You-all can sell out now, Jack, and head for home."
The winner smiled=
and
nodded, but seemed incapable of speech.
"I'd shout t=
he
drinks," MacDonald said, "only the house don't belong to me any
more."
"Yes, it
does," Kearns replied, first wetting his lips with his tongue. "Y=
our
note's good for any length of time.
But the drinks are on me."
"Name your
snake-juice, you-all--the winner pays!" Daylight called out loudly to =
all
about him, at the same time rising from his chair and catching the Virgin by
the arm. "Come on for a =
reel,
you-all dancers. The night's young yet, and it's Helen Breakfast and the ma=
il
contract for me in the morning.
Here, you-all Rawlins, you--I hereby do take over that same contract,
and I start for salt water at nine A.M.--savvee? Come on, you-all! Where's that fiddler?"
It was Daylight's
night. He was the centre and =
the
head of the revel, unquenchably joyous, a contagion of fun. He multiplied himself, and in so d=
oing
multiplied the excitement. No=
prank
he suggested was too wild for his followers, and all followed save those th=
at
developed into singing imbeciles and fell warbling by the wayside. Yet never did trouble intrude. It was known on the Yukon that when
Burning Daylight made a night of it, wrath and evil were forbidden. On his nights men dared not
quarrel. In the younger days =
such
things had happened, and then men had known what real wrath was, and been
man-handled as only Burning Daylight could man-handle. On his nights men must laugh and b=
e happy
or go home. Daylight was
inexhaustible. In between dan=
ces he
paid over to Kearns the twenty thousand in dust and transferred to him his
Moosehide claim. Likewise he
arranged the taking over of Billy Rawlins' mail contract, and made his
preparations for the start. H=
e despatched
a messenger to rout out Kama, his dog-driver--a Tananaw Indian, far-wandered
from his tribal home in the service of the invading whites. Kama entered the Tivoli, tall, lea=
n,
muscular, and fur-clad, the pick of his barbaric race and barbaric still,
unshaken and unabashed by the revellers that rioted about him while Dayligh=
t gave
his orders. "Um," said Kama, tabling his instructions on his fing=
ers. "Get um letters from Rawlins.=
Load um on sled. Grub for Selkirk--you think um ple=
nty
dog-grub stop Selkirk?"
"Plenty
dog-grub, Kama."
"Um, bring s=
led
this place nine um clock. Bri=
ng um
snowshoes. No bring um tent. =
Mebbe
bring um fly? um little fly?&=
quot;
"No fly,&quo=
t;
Daylight answered decisively.
"Um much
cold."
"We travel
light--savvee? We carry plenty
letters out, plenty letters back.
You are strong man. Pl=
enty
cold, plenty travel, all right."
"Sure all
right," Kama muttered, with resignation.
"Much cold, =
no
care a damn. Um ready nine um
clock."
He turned on his
moccasined heel and walked out, imperturbable, sphinx-like, neither giving =
nor
receiving greetings nor looking to right or left. The Virgin led Daylight away into a
corner.
"Look here,
Daylight," she said, in a low voice, "you're busted."
"Higher'n a
kite."
"I've eight
thousand in Mac's safe--" she began.
But Daylight
interrupted. The apron-string
loomed near and he shied like an unbroken colt.
"It don't
matter," he said. "=
Busted
I came into the world, busted I go out, and I've been busted most of the ti=
me
since I arrived. Come on; let=
's
waltz."
"But
listen," she urged. &quo=
t;My
money's doing nothing. I coul=
d lend
it to you--a grub-stake," she added hurriedly, at sight of the alarm i=
n his
face.
"Nobody
grub-stakes me," was the answer.
"I stake myself, and when I make a killing it's sure all mine.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> No thank you, old girl. Much obliged. I'll get my stake by running the m=
ail
out and in."
"Daylight,&q=
uot;
she murmured, in tender protest.
But with a sudden
well-assumed ebullition of spirits he drew her toward the dancing-floor, an=
d as
they swung around and around in a waltz she pondered on the iron heart of t=
he man
who held her in his arms and resisted all her wiles.
At six the next
morning, scorching with whiskey, yet ever himself, he stood at the bar putt=
ing
every man's hand down. The wa=
y of
it was that two men faced each other across a corner, their right elbows
resting on the bar, their right hands gripped together, while each strove to
press the other's hand down. =
Man
after man came against him, but no man put his hand down, even Olaf Henders=
on
and French Louis failing despite their hugeness. When they contended it was=
a
trick, a trained muscular knack, he challenged them to another test.
"Look here,
you-all" he cried. "=
;I'm
going to do two things: first, weigh my sack; and second, bet it that after
you-all have lifted clean from the floor all the sacks of flour you-all are
able, I'll put on two more sacks and lift the whole caboodle clean."
"By Gar! Ah =
take
dat!" French Louis rumbled above the cheers.
"Hold on!&qu=
ot;
Olaf Henderson cried. "I=
ban
yust as good as you, Louis. I=
yump
half that bet."
Put on the scales,
Daylight's sack was found to balance an even four hundred dollars, and Louis
and Olaf divided the bet between them. Fifty-pound sacks of flour were brou=
ght
in from MacDonald's cache. Other men tested their strength first. They straddled on two chairs, the =
flour
sacks beneath them on the floor and held together by rope-lashings. Many of the men were able, in this
manner, to lift four or five hundred pounds, while some succeeded with as h=
igh
as six hundred. Then the two =
giants
took a hand, tying at seven hundred. French Louis then added another sack, =
and
swung seven hundred and fifty clear.
Olaf duplicated the performance, whereupon both failed to clear eight
hundred. Again and again they
strove, their foreheads beaded with sweat, their frames crackling with the
effort. Both were able to shi=
ft the
weight and to bump it, but clear the floor with it they could not.
"By Gar!
Daylight, dis tam you mek one beeg meestake," French Louis said,
straightening up and stepping down from the chairs. "Only one damn iron
man can do dat. One hundred p=
un'
more--my frien', not ten poun' more."=
The sacks were unlashed, but when two sacks were added, Kearns
interfered. "Only one sa=
ck
more."
"Two!" =
some
one cried. "Two was the
bet."
"They didn't
lift that last sack," Kearns protested.
"They only
lifted seven hundred and fifty."
But Daylight gran=
dly
brushed aside the confusion.
"What's the =
good
of you-all botherin' around that way?
What's one more sack? =
If I
can't lift three more, I sure can't lift two. Put 'em in."
He stood upon the
chairs, squatted, and bent his shoulders down till his hands closed on the
rope. He shifted his feet sli=
ghtly,
tautened his muscles with a tentative pull, then relaxed again, questing fo=
r a perfect
adjustment of all the levers of his body.
French Louis, loo=
king
on sceptically, cried out,
"Pool lak he=
ll,
Daylight! Pool lak hell!"=
;
Daylight's muscles
tautened a second time, and this time in earnest, until steadily all the en=
ergy
of his splendid body was applied, and quite imperceptibly, without jerk or
strain, the bulky nine hundred pounds rose from the door and swung back and
forth, pendulum like, between his legs.
Olaf Henderson si=
ghed
a vast audible sigh. The Virg=
in,
who had tensed unconsciously till her muscles hurt her, relaxed. While French Louis murmured
reverently:--
"M'sieu
Daylight, salut! Ay am one be=
eg
baby. You are one beeg man.&q=
uot;
Daylight dropped =
his
burden, leaped to the floor, and headed for the bar.
"Weigh in!&q=
uot;
he cried, tossing his sack to the weigher, who transferred to it four hundr=
ed
dollars from the sacks of the two losers.
"Surge up,
everybody!" Daylight went on.
"Name your snake-juice! The winner pays!"
"This is my night!" he was shouting, ten minutes later. "I'm the lone he-wolf, and I'= ve seen thirty winters. This is = my birthday, my one day in the year, and I can put any man on his back. Come on, you-all! I'm going to put you-all in the sn= ow. Come on, you chechaquos [1] and sourdoughs[2], and get your baptism!"<= o:p>
The rout streamed=
out
of doors, all save the barkeepers and the singing Bacchuses. Some fleeting thought of saving hi=
s own
dignity entered MacDonald's head, for he approached Daylight with outstretc=
hed
hand.
"What? You first?" Daylight laughed,
clasping the other's hand as if in greeting.
"No, no,&quo=
t;
the other hurriedly disclaimed.
"Just congratulations on your birthday. Of course you can put me in the
snow. What chance have I agai=
nst a
man that lifts nine hundred pounds?"
MacDonald weighed=
one
hundred and eighty pounds, and Daylight had him gripped solely by his hand;
yet, by a sheer abrupt jerk, he took the saloon-keeper off his feet and flu=
ng
him face downward in the snow. In quick
succession, seizing the men nearest him, he threw half a dozen more. Resistance was useless. They flew helter-skelter out of hi=
s grips,
landing in all manner of attitudes, grotesquely and harmlessly, in the soft
snow. It soon became difficul=
t, in
the dim starlight, to distinguish between those thrown and those waiting th=
eir
turn, and he began feeling their backs and shoulders, determining their sta=
tus
by whether or not he found them powdered with snow.
"Baptized
yet?" became his stereotyped question, as he reached out his terrible
hands.
Several score lay
down in the snow in a long row, while many others knelt in mock humility,
scooping snow upon their heads and claiming the rite accomplished. But a group of five stood upright,
backwoodsmen and frontiersmen, they, eager to contest any man's birthday.
Graduates of the
hardest of man-handling schools, veterans of multitudes of rough-and-tumble
battles, men of blood and sweat and endurance, they nevertheless lacked one
thing that Daylight possessed in high degree--namely, an almost perfect bra=
in
and muscular coordination. It=
was
simple, in its way, and no virtue of his.&=
nbsp;
He had been born with this endowment. His nerves carried messages more q=
uickly
than theirs; his mental processes, culminating in acts of will, were quicker
than theirs; his muscles themselves, by some immediacy of chemistry, obeyed=
the
messages of his will quicker than theirs.&=
nbsp;
He was so made, his muscles were high-power explosives. The levers of his body snapped int=
o play
like the jaws of steel traps. And
in addition to all this, his was that super-strength that is the dower of b=
ut
one human in millions--a strength depending not on size but on degree, a su=
preme
organic excellence residing in the stuff of the muscles themselves. Thus, so swiftly could he apply a
stress, that, before an opponent could become aware and resist, the aim of =
the
stress had been accomplished. In
turn, so swiftly did he become aware of a stress applied to him, that he sa=
ved
himself by resistance or by delivering a lightning counter-stress.
"It ain't no=
use
you-all standing there," Daylight addressed the waiting group. "You-all might as well get ri=
ght
down and take your baptizing.
You-all might down me any other day in the year, but on my birthday I
want you-all to know I'm the best man.&nbs=
p;
Is that Pat Hanrahan's mug looking hungry and willing? Come on, Pat." Pat Hanrahan, ex-bare-knuckle-prize
fighter and roughhouse-expert, stepped forth. The two men came against each othe=
r in
grips, and almost before he had exerted himself the Irishman found himself =
in
the merciless vise of a half-Nelson that buried him head and shoulders in t=
he
snow. Joe Hines, ex-lumber-ja=
ck,
came down with an impact equal to a fall from a two-story building--his
overthrow accomplished by a cross-buttock, delivered, he claimed, before he=
was
ready.
There was nothing
exhausting in all this to Daylight.
He did not heave and strain through long minutes. No time, practically, was occupied=
. His
body exploded abruptly and terrifically in one instant, and on the next ins=
tant
was relaxed. Thus, Doc Watson=
, the
gray-bearded, iron bodied man without a past, a fighting terror himself, was
overthrown in the fraction of a second preceding his own onslaught. As he was in the act of gathering
himself for a spring, Daylight was upon him, and with such fearful suddenne=
ss
as to crush him backward and down.
Olaf Henderson, receiving his cue from this, attempted to take Dayli=
ght unaware,
rushing upon him from one side as he stooped with extended hand to help Doc
Watson up. Daylight dropped o=
n his
hands and knees, receiving in his side Olaf's knees. Olaf's momentum carried him clear =
over
the obstruction in a long, flying fall.&nb=
sp;
Before he could rise, Daylight had whirled him over on his back and =
was
rubbing his face and ears with snow and shoving handfuls down his neck. "Ay ban yust as good a man as=
you
ban, Daylight," Olaf spluttered, as he pulled himself to his feet;
"but by Yupiter, I ban navver see a grip like that." French Louis=
was
the last of the five, and he had seen enough to make him cautious. He circled and baffled for a full =
minute
before coming to grips; and for another full minute they strained and reeled
without either winning the advantage.
And then, just as the contest was becoming interesting, Daylight
effected one of his lightning shifts, changing all stresses and leverages a=
nd
at the same time delivering one of his muscular explosions. French Louis resisted till his huge
frame crackled, and then, slowly, was forced over and under and downward.
"The winner
pays!" Daylight cried; as he sprang to his feet and led the way back i=
nto
the Tivoli. "Surge along
you-all! This way to the snake-room!"
They lined up aga=
inst
the long bar, in places two or three deep, stamping the frost from their
moccasined feet, for outside the temperature was sixty below. Bettles, himself one of the gamest=
of
the old-timers in deeds and daring ceased from his drunken lay of the "=
;Sassafras
Root," and titubated over to congratulate Daylight. But in the midst of it he felt imp=
elled
to make a speech, and raised his voice oratorically.
"I tell you
fellers I'm plum proud to call Daylight my friend. We've hit the trail toge=
ther
afore now, and he's eighteen carat from his moccasins up, damn his mangy old
hide, anyway. He was a shaver=
when
he first hit this country. Wh=
en you
fellers was his age, you wa'n't dry behind the ears yet. He never was no kid. He was born a
full-grown man. An' I tell yo=
u a
man had to be a man in them days.
This wa'n't no effete civilization like it's come to be now." Bettles paused long enough to put =
his
arm in a proper bear-hug around Daylight's neck. "When you an' me mush=
ed
into the Yukon in the good ole days, it didn't rain soup and they wa'n't no
free-lunch joints. Our camp f=
ires
was lit where we killed our game, and most of the time we lived on salmon-t=
racks
and rabbit-bellies--ain't I right?"
But at the roar of
laughter that greeted his inversion, Bettles released the bear-hug and turn=
ed
fiercely on them. "Laugh=
, you
mangy short-horns, laugh! But=
I
tell you plain and simple, the best of you ain't knee-high fit to tie
Daylight's moccasin strings.
"Ain't I rig=
ht,
Campbell? Ain't I right, Mac?=
Daylight's one of the old guard, o=
ne of
the real sour-doughs. And in =
them
days they wa'n't ary a steamboat or ary a trading-post, and we cusses had to
live offen salmon-bellies and rabbit-tracks."
He gazed triumpha=
ntly
around, and in the applause that followed arose cries for a speech from
Daylight. He signified his
consent. A chair was brought,=
and
he was helped to stand upon it. He
was no more sober than the crowd above which he now towered--a wild crowd,
uncouthly garmented, every foot moccasined or muc-lucked[3], with mittens d=
angling
from necks and with furry ear-flaps raised so that they took on the seeming=
of
the winged helmets of the Norsemen.
Daylight's black eyes were flashing, and the flush of strong drink
flooded darkly under the bronze of his cheeks. He was greeted with round on round=
of affectionate
cheers, which brought a suspicious moisture to his eyes, albeit many of the
voices were inarticulate and inebriate.&nb=
sp;
And yet, men have so behaved since the world began, feasting, fighti=
ng,
and carousing, whether in the dark cave-mouth or by the fire of the squatti=
ng-place,
in the palaces of imperial Rome and the rock strongholds of robber barons, =
or
in the sky-aspiring hotels of modern times and in the boozing-kens of
sailor-town. Just so were the=
se
men, empire-builders in the Arctic Light, boastful and drunken and clamorou=
s,
winning surcease for a few wild moments from the grim reality of their hero=
ic
toil. Modern heroes they, and=
in
nowise different from the heroes of old time. "Well, fellows, I don't know =
what
to say to you-all," Daylight began lamely, striving still to control h=
is
whirling brain. "I think=
I'll
tell you-all a story. I had a
pardner wunst, down in Juneau. He
come from North Caroliney, and he used to tell this same story to me. It was down in the mountains in his
country, and it was a wedding.
There they was, the family and all the friends. The parson was just puttin' on the=
last
touches, and he says, 'They as the Lord have joined let no man put asunder.=
'
"'Parson,' s=
ays
the bridegroom, 'I rises to question your grammar in that there sentence. I want this weddin' done right.'
"When the sm= oke clears away, the bride she looks around and sees a dead parson, a dead bridegroom, a dead brother, two dead uncles, and five dead wedding-guests.<= o:p>
"So she heav=
es a
mighty strong sigh and says, 'Them new-fangled, self-cocking revolvers sure=
has
played hell with my prospects.'
"And so I sa=
y to
you-all," Daylight added, as the roar of laughter died down, "that
them four kings of Jack Kearns sure has played hell with my prospects. I'm busted higher'n a kite, and I'm
hittin' the trail for Dyea--"
"Goin'
out?" some one called. A=
spasm
of anger wrought on his face for a flashing instant, but in the next his
good-humor was back again.
"I know you-=
all
are only pokin' fun asking such a question," he said, with a smile.
"Take the oa=
th
again, Daylight," the same voice cried.
"I sure
will. I first come over Chilc=
oot in
'83. I went out over the Pass=
in a
fall blizzard, with a rag of a shirt and a cup of raw flour. I got my
grub-stake in Juneau that winter, and in the spring I went over the Pass on=
ce
more. And once more the famin=
e drew
me out. Next spring I went in
again, and I swore then that I'd never come out till I made my stake. Well, I ain't made it, and here I
am. And I ain't going out now=
. I get the mail and I come right
back. I won't stop the night =
at
Dyea. I'll hit up Chilcoot soon as I change the dogs and get the mail and
grub. And so I swear once mor=
e, by
the mill-tails of hell and the head of John the Baptist, I'll never hit for=
the
Outside till I make my pile. =
And I
tell you-all, here and now, it's got to be an almighty big pile."
"How much mi=
ght
you call a pile?" Bettles demanded from beneath, his arms clutched
lovingly around Daylight's legs.
"Yes, how
much? What do you call a
pile?" others cried.
Daylight steadied
himself for a moment and debated.
"Four or five millions," he said slowly, and held up his h=
and
for silence as his statement was received with derisive yells. "I'll be real conservative, a=
nd put
the bottom notch at a million. And
for not an ounce less'n that will I go out of the country."
Again his stateme=
nt
was received with an outburst of derision. Not only had the total gold outp=
ut
of the Yukon up to date been below five millions, but no man had ever made a
strike of a hundred thousand, much less of a million.
"You-all lis=
ten
to me. You seen Jack Kearns g=
et a
hunch to-night. We had him su=
re
beat before the draw. His orn=
ery
three kings was no good. But he just knew there was another king coming--th=
at
was his hunch--and he got it. And I
tell you-all I got a hunch. T=
here's
a big strike coming on the Yukon, and it's just about due. I don't mean no ornery Moosehide,
Birch-Creek kind of a strike. I
mean a real rip-snorter hair-raiser.
I tell you-all she's in the air and hell-bent for election. Nothing can stop her, and she'll c=
ome up
river. There's where you-all =
track
my moccasins in the near future if you-all want to find me--somewhere in the
country around Stewart River, Indian River, and Klondike River. When I get back with the mail, I'l=
l head
that way so fast you-all won't see my trail for smoke. She's a-coming, fellows, gold from =
the
grass roots down, a hundred dollars to the pan, and a stampede in from the
Outside fifty thousand strong.
You-all'll think all hell's busted loose when that strike is made.&q=
uot;
He raised his gla=
ss
to his lips. "Here's kin=
dness,
and hoping you-all will be in on it."
He drank and step=
ped
down from the chair, falling into another one of Bettles' bear-hugs.
"If I was yo=
u,
Daylight, I wouldn't mush to-day," Joe Hines counselled, coming in from
consulting the spirit thermometer outside the door. "We're in for a go=
od
cold snap. It's sixty-two bel=
ow
now, and still goin' down. Be=
tter
wait till she breaks."
Daylight laughed,=
and
the old sour-doughs around him laughed.
"Just like y=
ou
short-horns," Bettles cried, "afeard of a little frost. And blamed
little you know Daylight, if you think frost kin stop 'm."
"Freeze his
lungs if he travels in it," was the reply.
"Freeze pap =
and
lollypop! Look here, Hines, y=
ou
only ben in this here country three years.=
You ain't seasoned yet. I've
seen Daylight do fifty miles up on the Koyokuk on a day when the thermometer
busted at seventy-two."
Hines shook his h=
ead
dolefully.
"Them's the =
kind
that does freeze their lungs," he lamented. "If Daylight pulls out before=
this
snap breaks, he'll never get through--an' him travelin' without tent or
fly."
"It's a thou=
sand
miles to Dyea," Bettles announced, climbing on the chair and supporting
his swaying body by an arm passed around Daylight's neck. "It's a thousand miles, I'm s=
ayin'
an' most of the trail unbroke, but I bet any chechaquo--anything he wants--=
that
Daylight makes Dyea in thirty days."
"That's an
average of over thirty-three miles a day," Doc Watson warned, "and
I've travelled some myself. A
blizzard on Chilcoot would tie him up for a week."
"Yep,"
Bettles retorted, "an' Daylight'll do the second thousand back again on
end in thirty days more, and I got five hundred dollars that says so, and d=
amn
the blizzards."
To emphasize his
remarks, he pulled out a gold-sack the size of a bologna sausage and thumpe=
d it
down on the bar. Doc Watson t=
humped
his own sack alongside.
"Hold on!&qu=
ot;
Daylight cried. "Bettles=
's
right, and I want in on this. I bet
five hundred that sixty days from now I pull up at the Tivoli door with the
Dyea mail."
A sceptical roar =
went
up, and a dozen men pulled out their sacks.
Jack Kearns crowd=
ed
in close and caught Daylight's attention.
"I take you,
Daylight," he cried. &qu=
ot;Two
to one you don't--not in seventy-five days."
"No charity,
Jack," was the reply. &q=
uot;The
bettin's even, and the time is sixty days."
"Seventy-five
days, and two to one you don't," Kearns insisted. "Fifty Mile'll =
be
wide open and the rim-ice rotten."
"What you win
from me is yours," Daylight went on.&=
nbsp;
"And, by thunder, Jack, you can't give it back that way. I won't bet with you. You're trying to give me money.
They shook hands.=
"Of course h=
e'll
make it," Kearns whispered in Bettles' ear. "And there's five hun=
dred
Daylight's back in sixty days," he added aloud.
Billy Rawlins clo=
sed
with the wager, and Bettles hugged Kearns ecstatically.
"By Yupiter,=
I
ban take that bet," Olaf Henderson said, dragging Daylight away from
Bettles and Kearns.
"Winner
pays!" Daylight shouted, closing the wager.
"And I'm sure
going to win, and sixty days is a long time between drinks, so I pay now. Name your brand, you hoochinoos! Name your brand!"
Bettles, a glass =
of
whiskey in hand, climbed back on his chair, and swaying back and forth, sang
the one song he knew:--
"O, it's Henry Ward Bee=
cher And Sunday-school teach=
ers All sing of the
sassafras-root; B=
ut you
bet all the same, If it
had its right name It's
the juice of the forbidden fruit."
The crowd roared =
out
the chorus:--
"But you bet all the sa=
me If it had its right nam=
e It's the juice of the
forbidden fruit."
Somebody opened t=
he
outer door. A vague gray light
filtered in.
"Burning
daylight, burning daylight," some one called warningly.
Daylight paused f=
or
nothing, heading for the door and pulling down his ear-flaps. Kama stood outside by the sled, a =
long,
narrow affair, sixteen inches wide and seven and a half feet in length, its
slatted bottom raised six inches above the steel-shod runners. On it, lashed with thongs of moose=
-hide,
were the light canvas bags that contained the mail, and the food and gear f=
or
dogs and men. In front of it,=
in a single
line, lay curled five frost-rimed dogs.&nb=
sp;
They were huskies, matched in size and color, all unusually large and
all gray. From their cruel ja=
ws to
their bushy tails they were as like as peas in their likeness to
timber-wolves. Wolves they we=
re,
domesticated, it was true, but wolves in appearance and in all their
characteristics. On top the sled load, thrust under the lashings and ready =
for
immediate use, were two pairs of snowshoes.
Bettles pointed t=
o a
robe of Arctic hare skins, the end of which showed in the mouth of a bag.
"That's his
bed," he said. "Six
pounds of rabbit skins. Warme=
st
thing he ever slept under, but I'm damned if it could keep me warm, and I c=
an go
some myself. Daylight's a hel=
l-fire
furnace, that's what he is."
"I'd hate to=
be
that Indian," Doc Watson remarked.
"He'll kill'=
m,
he'll kill'm sure," Bettles chanted exultantly. "I know. I've ben
with Daylight on trail. That =
man
ain't never ben tired in his life.
Don't know what it means. I
seen him travel all day with wet socks at forty-five below. There ain't another man living can=
do
that."
While this talk w=
ent
on, Daylight was saying good-by to those that clustered around him. The Virgin wanted to kiss him, and,
fuddled slightly though he was with the whiskey, he saw his way out without=
compromising
with the apron-string. He kis=
sed
the Virgin, but he kissed the other three women with equal partiality. He pulled on his long mittens, rou=
sed
the dogs to their feet, and took his Place at the gee-pole.[4]
"Mush, you
beauties!" he cried.
The animals threw
their weights against their breastbands on the instant, crouching low to the
snow, and digging in their claws. They whined eagerly, and before the sled =
had
gone half a dozen lengths both Daylight and Kama (in the rear) were running=
to
keep up. And so, running, man=
and
dogs dipped over the bank and down to the frozen bed of the Yukon, and in t=
he
gray light were gone.
[1] Tenderfeet.
[2] Old-timers.
[3] Muc-luc: a
water-tight, Eskimo boot, made from walrus-hide and trimmed with fur.
[4] A gee-pole: s=
tout
pole projecting forward from one side of the front end of the sled, by which
the sled is steered.
On the river, whe=
re
was a packed trail and where snowshoes were unnecessary, the dogs averaged =
six
miles an hour. To keep up wit=
h them,
the two men were compelled to run.
Daylight and Kama relieved each other regularly at the gee-pole, for
here was the hard work of steering the flying sled and of keeping in advanc=
e of
it. The man relieved dropped =
behind
the sled, occasionally leaping upon it and resting.
It was severe wor=
k,
but of the sort that was exhilarating.
They were flying,
getting over the ground, making the most of the packed trail. Later on they would come to the un=
broken
trail, where three miles an hour would constitute good going. Then there would be no riding and
resting, and no running. Then=
the
gee-pole would be the easier task, and a man would come back to it to rest
after having completed his spell to the fore, breaking trail with the snows=
hoes
for the dogs. Such work was f=
ar
from exhilarating also, they must expect places where for miles at a time t=
hey
must toil over chaotic ice-jams, where they would be fortunate if they made=
two
miles an hour. And there woul=
d be
the inevitable bad jams, short ones, it was true, but so bad that a mile an
hour would require terrific effort.
Kama and Daylight did not talk.&nbs=
p;
In the nature of the work they could not, nor in their own natures w=
ere
they given to talking while they worked. At rare intervals, when necessary,
they addressed each other in monosyllables, Kama, for the most part, conten=
ting
himself with grunts. Occasionally a dog whined or snarled, but in the main =
the
team kept silent. Only could =
be
heard the sharp, jarring grate of the steel runners over the hard surface a=
nd
the creak of the straining sled.
As if through a w=
all,
Daylight had passed from the hum and roar of the Tivoli into another world-=
-a
world of silence and immobility.
Nothing stirred. The Y=
ukon
slept under a coat of ice three feet thick. No breath of wind blew. Nor did the sap move in the hearts=
of
the spruce trees that forested the river banks on either hand. The trees, burdened with the last =
infinitesimal
pennyweight of snow their branches could hold, stood in absolute
petrifaction. The slightest t=
remor
would have dislodged the snow, and no snow was dislodged. The sled was the one point of life=
and
motion in the midst of the solemn quietude, and the harsh churn of its runn=
ers
but emphasized the silence through which it moved.
It was a dead wor=
ld,
and furthermore, a gray world. The
weather was sharp and clear; there was no moisture in the atmosphere, no fog
nor haze; yet the sky was a gray pall.&nbs=
p;
The reason for this was that, though there was no cloud in the sky to
dim the brightness of day, there was no sun to give brightness. Far to the south the sun climbed s=
teadily
to meridian, but between it and the frozen Yukon intervened the bulge of th=
e earth. The Yukon lay in a night shadow, a=
nd the
day itself was in reality a long twilight-light. At a quarter before twelve, where =
a wide
bend of the river gave a long vista south, the sun showed its upper rim abo=
ve
the sky-line. But it did not =
rise perpendicularly. Instead, it rose on a slant, so th=
at by
high noon it had barely lifted its lower rim clear of the horizon. It was a dim, wan sun. There was no heat to its rays, and=
a man
could gaze squarely into the full orb of it without hurt to his eyes. No sooner had it reached meridian t=
han it
began its slant back beneath the horizon, and at quarter past twelve the ea=
rth
threw its shadow again over the land.
The men and dogs
raced on. Daylight and Kama w=
ere
both savages so far as their stomachs were concerned. They could eat irregularly in time=
and
quantity, gorging hugely on occasion, and on occasion going long stretches
without eating at all. As for=
the
dogs, they ate but once a day, and then rarely did they receive more than a
pound each of dried fish. The=
y were
ravenously hungry and at the same time splendidly in condition. Like the
wolves, their forebears, their nutritive processes were rigidly economical =
and
perfect. There was no waste.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> The last least particle of what th=
ey
consumed was transformed into energy.
And Kama and Dayl=
ight
were like them. Descended
themselves from the generations that had endured, they, too, endured. Theirs was the simple, elemental
economy. A little food equipp=
ed
them with prodigious energy.
Nothing was lost. A ma=
n of
soft civilization, sitting at a desk, would have grown lean and woe-begone =
on
the fare that kept Kama and Daylight at the top-notch of physical
efficiency. They knew, as the=
man
at the desk never knows, what it is to be normally hungry all the time, so =
that
they could eat any time. Their
appetites were always with them and on edge, so that they bit voraciously i=
nto
whatever offered and with an entire innocence of indigestion.
By three in the
afternoon the long twilight faded into night. The stars came out, very near=
and
sharp and bright, and by their light dogs and men still kept the trail. They were indefatigable. And this was no record run of a si=
ngle
day, but the first day of sixty such days. Though Daylight had passed a nig=
ht
without sleep, a night of dancing and carouse, it seemed to have left no
effect. For this there were t=
wo explanations
first, his remarkable vitality; and next, the fact that such nights were ra=
re
in his experience. Again ente=
rs the
man at the desk, whose physical efficiency would be more hurt by a cup of
coffee at bedtime than could Daylight's by a whole night long of strong dri=
nk and
excitement.
Daylight travelled
without a watch, feeling the passage of time and largely estimating it by
subconscious processes. By wh=
at he
considered must be six o'clock, he began looking for a camping-place. The trail, at a bend, plunged out =
across
the river. Not having found a
likely spot, they held on for the opposite bank a mile away. But midway they encountered an ice=
-jam
which took an hour of heavy work to cross.=
At last Daylight glimpsed what he was looking for, a dead tree close=
by the
bank. The sled was run in and
up. Kama grunted with satisfa=
ction,
and the work of making camp was begun.
The division of l=
abor
was excellent. Each knew what=
he
must do. With one ax Daylight chopped down the dead pine. Kama, with a snowshoe and the othe=
r ax,
cleared away the two feet of snow above the Yukon ice and chopped a supply =
of
ice for cooking purposes. A p=
iece
of dry birch bark started the fire, and Daylight went ahead with the cooking
while the Indian unloaded the sled and fed the dogs their ration of dried f=
ish. The food sacks he slung high in the
trees beyond leaping-reach of the huskies.=
Next, he chopped down a young spruce tree and trimmed off the
boughs. Close to the fire he
trampled down the soft snow and covered the packed space with the boughs. On this flooring he tossed his own=
and
Daylight's gear-bags, containing dry socks and underwear and their
sleeping-robes. Kama, however=
, had
two robes of rabbit skin to Daylight's one.
They worked on
steadily, without speaking, losing no time. Each did whatever was needed, with=
out
thought of leaving to the other the least task that presented itself to
hand. Thus, Kama saw when mor=
e ice
was needed and went and got it, while a snowshoe, pushed over by the lunge =
of a
dog, was stuck on end again by Daylight.&n=
bsp;
While coffee was boiling, bacon frying, and flapjacks were being mix=
ed,
Daylight found time to put on a big pot of beans. Kama came back, sat down on the ed=
ge of
the spruce boughs, and in the interval of waiting, mended harness.
"I t'ink dat
Skookum and Booga make um plenty fight maybe," Kama remarked, as they =
sat
down to eat.
"Keep an eye=
on
them," was Daylight's answer.
And this was their
sole conversation throughout the meal.&nbs=
p;
Once, with a muttered imprecation, Kama leaped away, a stick of fire=
wood
in hand, and clubbed apart a tangle of fighting dogs. Daylight, between mou=
thfuls,
fed chunks of ice into the tin pot, where it thawed into water. The meal finished, Kama replenishe=
d the
fire, cut more wood for the morning, and returned to the spruce bough bed a=
nd
his harness-mending. Daylight=
cut
up generous chunks of bacon and dropped them in the pot of bubbling beans.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> The moccasins of both men were wet=
, and
this in spite of the intense cold; so when there was no further need for th=
em
to leave the oasis of spruce boughs, they took off their moccasins and hung
them on short sticks to dry before the fire, turning them about from time to
time. When the beans were fin=
ally
cooked, Daylight ran part of them into a bag of flour-sacking a foot and a =
half
long and three inches in diameter.
This he then laid on the snow to freeze. The remainder of the beans were le=
ft in
the pot for breakfast.
It was past nine
o'clock, and they were ready for bed.
The squabbling and bickering among the dogs had long since died down,
and the weary animals were curled in the snow, each with his feet and nose
bunched together and covered by his wolf's brush of a tail. Kama spread his sleeping-furs and
lighted his pipe. Daylight rolled a brown-paper cigarette, and the second
conversation of the evening took place.
"I think we =
come
near sixty miles," said Daylight.
"Um, I t'ink
so," said Kama.
They rolled into
their robes, all-standing, each with a woolen Mackinaw jacket on in place of
the parkas[5] they had worn all day.
Swiftly, almost on the instant they closed their eyes, they were
asleep. The stars leaped and =
danced
in the frosty air, and overhead the colored bars of the aurora borealis were
shooting like great searchlights.
In the darkness
Daylight awoke and roused Kama.
Though the aurora still flamed, another day had begun. Warmed-over flapjacks, warmed-over
beans, fried bacon, and coffee composed the breakfast. The dogs got nothing, though they
watched with wistful mien from a distance, sitting up in the snow, their ta=
ils
curled around their paws. Occasionally they lifted one fore paw or the othe=
r,
with a restless movement, as if the frost tingled in their feet. It was bitter cold, at least sixty=
-five
below zero, and when Kama harnessed the dogs with naked hands he was compel=
led
several times to go over to the fire and warm the numbing finger-tips. Together the two men loaded and la=
shed the
sled. They warmed their hands=
for
the last time, pulled on their mittens, and mushed the dogs over the bank a=
nd
down to the river-trail. According to Daylight's estimate, it was around se=
ven
o'clock; but the stars danced just as brilliantly, and faint, luminous stre=
aks
of greenish aurora still pulsed overhead.
Two hours later it
became suddenly dark--so dark that they kept to the trail largely by instin=
ct;
and Daylight knew that his time-estimate had been right. It was the darkness before dawn, n=
ever
anywhere more conspicuous than on the Alaskan winter-trail.
Slowly the gray l=
ight
came stealing through the gloom, imperceptibly at first, so that it was alm=
ost
with surprise that they noticed the vague loom of the trail underfoot. Next, they were able to see the wh=
eel-dog,
and then the whole string of running dogs and snow-stretches on either
side. Then the near bank loom=
ed for
a moment and was gone, loomed a second time and remained. In a few minutes the far bank, a m=
ile
away, unobtrusively came into view, and ahead and behind, the whole frozen
river could be seen, with off to the left a wide-extending range of sharp-c=
ut,
snow-covered mountains. And t=
hat
was all. No sun arose. The gr=
ay
light remained gray.
Once, during the =
day,
a lynx leaped lightly across the trail, under the very nose of the lead-dog,
and vanished in the white woods.
The dogs' wild impulses roused.&nbs=
p;
They raised the hunting-cry of the pack, surged against their collar=
s,
and swerved aside in pursuit.
Daylight, yelling "Whoa!" struggled with the gee-pole and
managed to overturn the sled into the soft snow. The dogs gave up, the sled was rig=
hted,
and five minutes later they were flying along the hard-packed trail again.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> The lynx was the only sign of life=
they
had seen in two days, and it, leaping velvet-footed and vanishing, had been
more like an apparition.
At twelve o'clock,
when the sun peeped over the earth-bulge, they stopped and built a small fi=
re
on the ice. Daylight, with th=
e ax, chopped
chunks off the frozen sausage of beans. These, thawed and warmed in the
frying-pan, constituted their meal. They had no coffee. He did not believe =
in
the burning of daylight for such a luxury.=
The dogs stopped wrangling with one another, and looked on
wistfully. Only at night did =
they
get their pound of fish. In t=
he
meantime they worked.
The cold snap
continued. Only men of iron k=
ept
the trail at such low temperatures, and Kama and Daylight were picked men of
their races. But Kama knew the other was the better man, and thus, at the
start, he was himself foredoomed to defeat. Not that he slackened his effort o=
r willingness
by the slightest conscious degree, but that he was beaten by the burden he
carried in his mind. His atti=
tude
toward Daylight was worshipful.
Stoical, taciturn, proud of his physical prowess, he found all these
qualities incarnated in his white companion. Here was one that excelled in the =
things
worth excelling in, a man-god ready to hand, and Kama could not but
worship--withal he gave no signs of it. No wonder the race of white men
conquered, was his thought, when it bred men like this man. What chance had the Indian against=
such
a dogged, enduring breed? Eve=
n the
Indians did not travel at such low temperatures, and theirs was the wisdom =
of
thousands of generations; yet here was this Daylight, from the soft Southla=
nd,
harder than they, laughing at their fears, and swinging along the trail ten=
and
twelve hours a day. And this
Daylight thought that he could keep up a day's pace of thirty-three miles f=
or
sixty days! Wait till a fresh=
fall
of snow came down, or they struck the unbroken trail or the rotten rim-ice =
that
fringed open water.
In the meantime K=
ama
kept the pace, never grumbling, never shirking. Sixty-five degrees below ze=
ro
is very cold. Since water fre=
ezes
at thirty-two above, sixty-five below meant ninety-seven degrees below free=
zing-point. Some idea of the significance of t=
his
may be gained by conceiving of an equal difference of temperature in the
opposite direction. One hundr=
ed and
twenty-nine on the thermometer constitutes a very hot day, yet such a
temperature is but ninety-seven degrees above freezing. Double this difference, and possib=
ly
some slight conception may be gained of the cold through which Kama and
Daylight travelled between dark and dark and through the dark.
Kama froze the sk=
in
on his cheek-bones, despite frequent rubbings, and the flesh turned black a=
nd
sore. Also he slightly froze =
the
edges of his lung-tissues--a dangerous thing, and the basic reason why a ma=
n should
not unduly exert himself in the open at sixty-five below. But Kama never complained, and Day=
light
was a furnace of heat, sleeping as warmly under his six pounds of rabbit sk=
ins
as the other did under twelve pounds.
On the second nig=
ht,
fifty more miles to the good, they camped in the vicinity of the boundary
between Alaska and the Northwest Territory. The rest of the journey, save t=
he
last short stretch to Dyea, would be travelled on Canadian territory. With the hard trail, and in the ab=
sence
of fresh snow, Daylight planned to make the camp of Forty Mile on the fourth
night. He told Kama as much, =
but on
the third day the temperature began to rise, and they knew snow was not far
off; for on the Yukon it must get warm in order to snow. Also, on this day, they encountere=
d ten
miles of chaotic ice-jams, where, a thousand times, they lifted the loaded =
sled
over the huge cakes by the strength of their arms and lowered it down
again. Here the dogs were wel=
l-nigh
useless, and both they and the men were tried excessively by the roughness =
of
the way. An hour's extra runn=
ing
that night caught up only part of the lost time.
In the morning th=
ey
awoke to find ten inches of snow on their robes. The dogs were buried under=
it
and were loath to leave their comfortable nests. This new snow meant hard going.
The weather was w=
arm,
as well, barely twenty below zero, and the two men, with raised ear-flaps a=
nd
dangling mittens, sweated as they toiled.&=
nbsp;
They failed to make Forty Mile that night, and when they passed that
camp next day Daylight paused only long enough to get the mail and addition=
al
grub. On the afternoon of the
following day they camped at the mouth of the Klondike River. Not a soul had
they encountered since Forty Mile, and they had made their own trail. As yet, that winter, no one had
travelled the river south of Forty Mile, and, for that matter, the whole wi=
nter
through they might be the only ones to travel it. In that day the Yukon was a lonely
land. Between the Klondike Ri=
ver
and Salt Water at Dyea intervened six hundred miles of snow-covered wildern=
ess,
and in all that distance there were but two places where Daylight might look
forward to meeting men. Both =
were isolated
trading-posts, Sixty Mile and Fort Selkirk. In the summer-time Indians might b=
e met
with at the mouths of the Stewart and White rivers, at the Big and Little
Salmons, and on Lake Le Barge; but in the winter, as he well knew, they wou=
ld
be on the trail of the moose-herds, following them back into the mountains.=
That night, campe=
d at
the mouth of the Klondike, Daylight did not turn in when the evening's work=
was
done. Had a white man been pr=
esent,
Daylight would have remarked that he felt his "hunch" working.
But the mountain
received only passing notice.
Daylight's interest was centered in the big flat itself, with deep w=
ater
all along its edge for steamboat landings.
"A sure enou=
gh
likely town site," he muttered.
"Room for a camp of forty thousand men. All that's needed is the
gold-strike." He meditated for a space. "Ten dollars to the pan'll do=
it,
and it'd be the all-firedest stampede Alaska ever seen. And if it don't come here, it'll c=
ome
somewhere hereabouts. It's a =
sure
good idea to keep an eye out for town sites all the way up."
He stood a while
longer, gazing out over the lonely flat and visioning with constructive
imagination the scene if the stampede did come. In fancy, he placed the sawmills, =
the
big trading stores, the saloons, and dance-halls, and the long streets of
miners' cabins. And along tho=
se streets
he saw thousands of men passing up and down, while before the stores were t=
he
heavy freighting-sleds, with long strings of dogs attached. Also he saw the heavy freighters p=
ulling
down the main street and heading up the frozen Klondike toward the imagined
somewhere where the diggings must be located.
He laughed and sh=
ook
the vision from his eyes, descended to the level, and crossed the flat to
camp. Five minutes after he h=
ad
rolled up in his robe, he opened his eyes and sat up, amazed that he was not
already asleep. He glanced at=
the
Indian sleeping beside him, at the embers of the dying fire, at the five do=
gs
beyond, with their wolf's brushes curled over their noses, and at the four
snowshoes standing upright in the snow.
"It's sure h=
ell
the way that hunch works on me" he murmured. His mind reverted to the
poker game. "Four kings!=
"
He grinned reminiscently. "That WAS a hunch!"
He lay down again,
pulled the edge of the robe around his neck and over his ear-flaps, closed =
his
eyes, and this time fell asleep.
[5] Parka: a light, hooded, smock-l=
ike
garment made of cotton drill.
At Sixty Mile they
restocked provisions, added a few pounds of letters to their load, and held
steadily on. From Forty Mile =
they
had had unbroken trail, and they could look forward only to unbroken trail =
clear
to Dyea. Daylight stood it
magnificently, but the killing pace was beginning to tell on Kama. His pride kept his mouth shut, but=
the result
of the chilling of his lungs in the cold snap could not be concealed. Microscopically small had been the=
edges
of the lung-tissue touched by the frost, but they now began to slough off,
giving rise to a dry, hacking cough.
Any unusually severe exertion precipitated spells of coughing, during
which he was almost like a man in a fit. The blood congested in his eyes ti=
ll
they bulged, while the tears ran down his cheeks. A whiff of the smoke from frying b=
acon
would start him off for a half-hour's paroxysm, and he kept carefully to
windward when Daylight was cooking.
They plodded days
upon days and without end over the soft, unpacked snow. It was hard, monotonous work, with=
none
of the joy and blood-stir that went with flying over hard surface. Now one man to the fore in the
snowshoes, and now the other, it was a case of stubborn, unmitigated plod.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> A yard of powdery snow had to be p=
ressed
down, and the wide-webbed shoe, under a man's weight, sank a full dozen inc=
hes into
the soft surface. Snowshoe wo=
rk,
under such conditions, called for the use of muscles other than those used =
in
ordinary walking. From step t=
o step
the rising foot could not come up and forward on a slant. It had to be rais=
ed
perpendicularly. When the sno=
wshoe
was pressed into the snow, its nose was confronted by a vertical wall of sn=
ow twelve
inches high. If the foot, in
rising, slanted forward the slightest bit, the nose of the shoe penetrated =
the
obstructing wall and tipped downward till the heel of the shoe struck the m=
an's
leg behind. Thus up, straight up, twelve inches, each foot must be raised e=
very
time and all the time, ere the forward swing from the knee could begin.
On this partially
packed surface followed the dogs, the man at the gee-pole, and the sled.
At Selkirk, the
trading post near Pelly River, Daylight suggested that Kama lay over, rejoi=
ning
him on the back trip from Dyea. A
strayed Indian from Lake Le Barge was willing to take his place; but Kama w=
as obdurate. He grunted with a slight intonatio=
n of
resentment, and that was all. The
dogs, however, Daylight changed, leaving his own exhausted team to rest up
against his return, while he went on with six fresh dogs.
They travelled ti=
ll
ten o'clock the night they reached Selkirk, and at six next morning they
plunged ahead into the next stretch of wilderness of nearly five hundred mi=
les
that lay between Selkirk and Dyea.
A second cold snap came on, but cold or warm it was all the same, an=
unbroken
trail. When the thermometer w=
ent
down to fifty below, it was even harder to travel, for at that low temperat=
ure
the hard frost-crystals were more like sand-grains in the resistance they o=
ffered
to the sled runners. The dogs had to pull harder than over the same snow at
twenty or thirty below zero.
Daylight increased the day's travel to thirteen hours. He jealously guarded the margin he=
had gained,
for he knew there were difficult stretches to come.
It was not yet qu=
ite
midwinter, and the turbulent Fifty Mile River vindicated his judgment. In many places it ran wide open, w=
ith precarious
rim-ice fringing it on either side.
In numerous places, where the water dashed against the steep-sided
bluffs, rim-ice was unable to form.
They turned and twisted, now crossing the river, now
coming back again,
sometimes making half a dozen attempts before they found a way over a
particularly bad stretch. It =
was
slow work. The ice-bridges ha=
d to
be tested, and either Daylight or Kama went in advance, snowshoes on their
feet, and long poles carried crosswise in their hands. Thus, if they broke through, they =
could
cling to the pole that bridged the hole made by their bodies. Several such accidents were the sh=
are of
each. At fifty below zero, a =
man
wet to the waist cannot travel without freezing; so each ducking meant
delay. As soon as rescued, th=
e wet
man ran up and down to keep up his circulation, while his dry companion bui=
lt a
fire. Thus protected, a chang=
e of garments
could be made and the wet ones dried against the next misadventure.
To make matters
worse, this dangerous river travel could not be done in the dark, and their
working day was reduced to the six hours of twilight. Every moment was precious, and they
strove never to lose one. Thu=
s,
before the first hint of the coming of gray day, camp was broken, sled load=
ed,
dogs harnessed, and the two men crouched waiting over the fire. Nor did they make the midday halt =
to
eat. As it was, they were run=
ning
far behind their schedule, each day eating into the margin they had run up.
There were days when they made fifteen miles, and days when they made a
dozen. And there was one bad
stretch where in two days they covered nine miles, being compelled to turn
their backs three times on the river and to portage sled and outfit over th=
e mountains.
At last they clea=
red
the dread Fifty Mile River and came out on Lake Le Barge. Here was no open water nor jammed
ice. For thirty miles or more=
the
snow lay level as a table; withal it lay three feet deep and was soft as
flour. Three miles an hour wa=
s the
best they could make, but Daylight celebrated the passing of the Fifty Mile=
by
traveling late. At eleven in =
the
morning they emerged at the foot of the lake. At three in the afternoon, as=
the
Arctic night closed down, he caught his first sight of the head of the lake,
and with the first stars took his bearings. At eight in the evening they left =
the
lake behind and entered the mouth of the Lewes River. Here a halt of half an hour was ma=
de,
while chunks of frozen boiled beans were thawed and the dogs were given an
extra ration of fish. Then th=
ey
pulled on up the river till one in the morning, when they made their regular
camp.
They had hit the
trail sixteen hours on end that day, the dogs had come in too tired to fight
among themselves or even snarl, and Kama had perceptibly limped the last
several miles; yet Daylight was on trail next morning at six o'clock. By eleven he was at the foot of Wh=
ite Horse,
and that night saw him camped beyond the Box Canon, the last bad river-stre=
tch
behind him, the string of lakes before him.
There was no let =
up
in his pace. Twelve hours a d=
ay,
six in the twilight, and six in the dark, they toiled on the trail. Three hours were consumed in cooki=
ng,
repairing harnesses, and making and breaking camp, and the remaining nine h=
ours
dogs and men slept as if dead. The iron
strength of Kama broke. Day b=
y day
the terrific toil sapped him. Day by day he consumed more of his reserves of
strength. He became slower of
movement, the resiliency went out of his muscles, and his limp became
permanent. Yet he labored sto=
ically
on, never shirking, never grunting a hint of complaint. Daylight was thin-faced and tired.=
He looked tired; =
yet
somehow, with that marvelous mechanism of a body that was his, he drove on,
ever on, remorselessly on. Ne=
ver
was he more a god in Kama's mind than in the last days of the south-bound t=
raverse,
as the failing Indian watched him, ever to the fore, pressing onward with
urgency of endurance such as Kama had never seen nor dreamed could thrive in
human form.
The time came when
Kama was unable to go in the lead and break trail, and it was a proof that =
he
was far gone when he permitted Daylight to toil all day at the heavy snowsh=
oe
work. Lake by lake they cross=
ed the
string of lakes from Marsh to Linderman, and began the ascent of Chilcoot.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> By all rights, Daylight should hav=
e camped
below the last pitch of the pass at the dim end of day; but he kept on and =
over
and down to Sheep Camp, while behind him raged a snow-storm that would have=
delayed
him twenty-four hours.
This last excessi=
ve
strain broke Kama completely. In
the morning he could not travel. At
five, when called, he sat up after a struggle, groaned, and sank back
again. Daylight did the camp =
work
of both, harnessed the dogs, and, when ready for the start, rolled the help=
less
Indian in all three sleeping robes and lashed him on top of the sled. The g=
oing
was good; they were on the last lap; and he raced the dogs down through Dyea
Canon and along the hard-packed trail that led to Dyea Post. And running still, Kama groaning o=
n top
the load, and Daylight leaping at the gee-pole to avoid going under the run=
ners
of the flying sled, they arrived at Dyea by the sea.
True to his promi=
se,
Daylight did not stop. An hou=
r's
time saw the sled loaded with the ingoing mail and grub, fresh dogs harness=
ed,
and a fresh Indian engaged. K=
ama
never spoke from the time of his arrival till the moment Daylight, ready to
depart, stood beside him to say good-by.&n=
bsp;
They shook hands.
"You kill um=
dat
damn Indian," Kama said.
"Sawee, Daylight? You
kill um."
"He'll sure =
last
as far as Pelly," Daylight grinned.
Kama shook his he=
ad
doubtfully, and rolled over on his side, turning his back in token of farew=
ell.
Daylight won acro=
ss
Chilcoot that same day, dropping down five hundred feet in the darkness and=
the
flurrying snow to Crater Lake, where he camped. It was a 'cold' camp, far above the
timber-line, and he had not burdened his sled with firewood. That night thr=
ee
feet of snow covered them, and in the black morning, when they dug themselv=
es
out, the Indian tried to desert. He
had had enough of traveling with what he considered a madman. But Daylight persuaded him in grim=
ways
to stay by the outfit, and they pulled on across Deep Lake and Long Lake and
dropped down to the level-going of Lake Linderman. It was the same killing pace going=
in as
coming out, and the Indian did not stand it as well as Kama. He, too, never complained. Nor did he try again to desert.
But on the Fifty =
Mile
accident befell them. Crossin=
g an
ice-bridge, the dogs broke through and were swept under the down-stream
ice. The traces that connecte=
d the
team with the wheel-dog parted, and the team was never seen again. Only the one wheel-dog remained, a=
nd
Daylight harnessed the Indian and himself to the sled. But a man cannot take the place of=
a dog
at such work, and the two men were attempting to do the work of five dogs.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> At the end of the first hour, Dayl=
ight lightened
up. Dog-food, extra gear, and the spare ax were thrown away. Under the
extraordinary exertion the dog snapped a tendon the following day, and was
hopelessly disabled. Daylight=
shot
it, and abandoned the sled. O=
n his
back he took one hundred and sixty pounds of mail and grub, and on the Indi=
an's
put one hundred and twenty-five pounds.&nb=
sp;
The stripping of gear was remorseless. The Indian was appalled when he sa=
w every
pound of worthless mail matter retained, while beans, cups, pails, plates, =
and
extra clothing were thrown by the board.&n=
bsp;
One robe each was kept, one ax, one tin pail, and a scant supply of
bacon and flour. Bacon could =
be
eaten raw on a pinch, and flour, stirred in hot water, could keep men
going. Even the rifle and the=
score
of rounds of ammunition were left behind.
And in this fashi=
on
they covered the two hundred miles to Selkirk. Daylight travelled late and
early, the hours formerly used by camp-making and dog-tending being now dev=
oted
to the trail. At night they
crouched over a small fire, wrapped in their robes, drinking flour broth and
thawing bacon on the ends of sticks; and in the morning darkness, without a
word, they arose, slipped on their packs, adjusted head-straps, and hit the
trail. The last miles into Se=
lkirk,
Daylight drove the Indian before him, a hollow-cheeked, gaunt-eyed wraith o=
f a man
who else would have lain down and slept or abandoned his burden of mail.
At Selkirk, the o=
ld
team of dogs, fresh and in condition, were harnessed, and the same day saw
Daylight plodding on, alternating places at the gee-pole, as a matter of
course, with the Le Barge Indian who had volunteered on the way out. Daylight was two days behind his s=
chedule,
and falling snow and unpacked trail kept him two days behind all the way to
Forty Mile. And here the weat=
her
favored. It was time for a bi=
g cold
snap, and he gambled on it, cutting down the weight of grub for dogs and
men. The men of Forty Mile sh=
ook
their heads ominously, and demanded to know what he would do if the snow st=
ill
fell.
"That cold
snap's sure got to come," he laughed, and mushed out on the trail.
A number of sleds=
had
passed back and forth already that winter between Forty Mile and Circle Cit=
y,
and the trail was well packed. And
the cold snap came and remained, and Circle City was only two hundred miles=
away. The Le Barge Indian was a young ma=
n,
unlearned yet in his own limitations, and filled with pride.
He took Daylight's
pace with joy, and even dreamed, at first, that he would play the white man
out. The first hundred miles =
he
looked for signs of weakening, and marveled that he saw them not.
Throughout the se=
cond
hundred miles he observed signs in himself, and gritted his teeth and kept
up. And ever Daylight flew on=
and
on, running at the gee-pole or resting his spell on top the flying sled. The
last day, clearer and colder than ever, gave perfect going, and they covere=
d seventy
miles. It was ten at night wh=
en
they pulled up the earth-bank and flew along the main street of Circle City;
and the young Indian, though it was his spell to ride, leaped off and ran b=
ehind
the sled. It was honorable
braggadocio, and despite the fact that he had found his limitations and was
pressing desperately against them, he ran gamely on.
A crowd filled the
Tivoli--the old crowd that had seen Daylight depart two months before; for =
this
was the night of the sixtieth day, and opinion was divided as ever as to
whether or not he would compass the achievement. At ten o'clock bets were still bei=
ng
made, though the odds rose, bet by bet, against his success. Down in her heart the Virgin belie=
ved he
had failed, yet she made a bet of twenty ounces with Charley Bates, against
forty ounces, that Daylight would arrive before midnight.
She it was who he=
ard
the first yelps of the dogs.
"Listen!&quo=
t;
she cried. "It's
Daylight!"
There was a gener=
al
stampede for the door; but where the double storm-doors were thrown wide op=
en,
the crowd fell back. They hea=
rd the
eager whining of dogs, the snap of a dog-whip, and the voice of Daylight cr=
ying
encouragement as the weary animals capped all they had done by dragging the
sled in over the wooden floor. They
came in with a rush, and with them rushed in the frost, a visible vapor of
smoking white, through which their heads and backs showed, as they strained=
in the
harness, till they had all the seeming of swimming in a river. Behind them,=
at
the gee-pole, came Daylight, hidden to the knees by the swirling frost thro=
ugh
which he appeared to wade.
He was the same o=
ld
Daylight, withal lean and tired-looking, and his black eyes were sparkling =
and
flashing brighter than ever. His parka of cotton drill hooded him like a mo=
nk,
and fell in straight lines to his knees.&n=
bsp;
Grimed and scorched by camp-smoke and fire, the garment in itself to=
ld
the story of his trip. A
two-months' beard covered his face; and the beard, in turn, was matted with=
the
ice of his breathing through the long seventy-mile run.
His entry was
spectacular, melodramatic; and he knew it.=
It was his life, and he was living it at the top of his bent. Among his fellows he was a great m=
an, an
Arctic hero. He was proud of =
the
fact, and it was a high moment for him, fresh from two thousand miles of tr=
ail,
to come surging into that bar-room, dogs, sled, mail, Indian, paraphernalia,
and all. He had performed one=
more
exploit that would make the Yukon ring with his name--he, Burning Daylight,=
the
king of travelers and dog-mushers.
He experienced a
thrill of surprise as the roar of welcome went up and as every familiar det=
ail
of the Tivoli greeted his vision--the long bar and the array of bottles, the
gambling games, the big stove, the weigher at the gold-scales, the musician=
s,
the men and women, the Virgin, Celia, and Nellie, Dan MacDonald, Bettles, B=
illy
Rawlins, Olaf Henderson, Doc Watson,--all of them.
It was just as he=
had
left it, and in all seeming it might well be the very day he had left. The sixty days of incessant travel
through the white wilderness suddenly telescoped, and had no existence in t=
ime.
They were a moment, an incident. He
had plunged out and into them through the wall of silence, and back through=
the
wall of silence he had plunged, apparently the next instant, and into the r=
oar
and turmoil of the Tivoli.
A glance down at =
the
sled with its canvas mail-bags was necessary to reassure him of the reality=
of
those sixty days and the two thousand miles over the ice. As in a dream, he shook the hands =
that
were thrust out to him. He fe=
lt a
vast exaltation. Life was
magnificent. He loved it all.=
A great sense of humanness and
comradeship swept over him. T=
hese
were all his, his own kind. I=
t was
immense, tremendous. He felt melting in the heart of him, and he would have
liked to shake hands with them all at once, to gather them to his breast in=
one
mighty embrace.
He drew a deep br=
eath
and cried: "The winner pays, and I'm the winner, ain't I? Surge up, you-all Malemutes and
Siwashes, and name your poison!
There's your Dyea mail, straight from Salt Water, and no hornswogglin
about it! Cast the lashings a=
drift,
you-all, and wade into it!"
A dozen pairs of
hands were at the sled-lashings, when the young Le Barge Indian, bending at=
the
same task, suddenly and limply straightened up. In his eyes was a great surprise.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> He stared about him wildly, for the
thing he was undergoing was new to him.
He was profoundly
struck by an unguessed limitation.
He shook as with a palsy, and he gave at the knees, slowly sinking d=
own
to fall suddenly across the sled and to know the smashing blow of darkness
across his consciousness.
"Exhaustion,=
"
said Daylight. "Take him=
off
and put him to bed, some of you-all.
He's sure a good Indian."
"Daylight's =
right,"
was Doc Watson's verdict, a moment later. "The man's plumb tuckered
out."
The mail was taken
charge of, the dogs driven away to quarters and fed, and Bettles struck up =
the
paean of the sassafras root as they lined up against the long bar to drink =
and
talk and collect their debts.
A few minutes lat=
er,
Daylight was whirling around the dance-floor, waltzing with the Virgin. He had replaced his parka with his=
fur
cap and blanket-cloth coat, kicked off his frozen moccasins, and was dancin=
g in
his stocking feet. After wett=
ing
himself to the knees late that afternoon, he had run on without changing his
foot-gear, and to the knees his long German socks were matted with ice. In the warmth of the room it began=
to
thaw and to break apart in clinging chunks. These chunks rattled together as hi=
s legs
flew around, and every little while they fell clattering to the floor and w=
ere
slipped upon by the other dancers.
But everybody forgave Daylight.&nbs=
p;
He, who was one of the few that made the Law in that far land, who s=
et
the ethical pace, and by conduct gave the standard of right and wrong, was
nevertheless above the Law. H=
e was
one of those rare and favored mortals who can do no wrong. What he did had to be right, wheth=
er
others were permitted or not to do the same things. Of course, such mortals are so fav=
ored
by virtue of the fact that they almost always do the right and do it in fin=
er
and higher ways than other men. So
Daylight, an elder hero in that young land and at the same time younger than
most of them, moved as a creature apart, as a man above men, as a man who w=
as
greatly man and all man. And =
small
wonder it was that the Virgin yielded herself to his arms, as they danced d=
ance
after dance, and was sick at heart at the knowledge that he found nothing i=
n her
more than a good friend and an excellent dancer. Small consolation it was to know t=
hat he
had never loved any woman. Sh=
e was
sick with love of him, and he danced with her as he would dance with any wo=
man,
as he would dance with a man who was a good dancer and upon whose arm was t=
ied
a handkerchief to conventionalize him into a woman.
One such man Dayl=
ight
danced with that night. Among
frontiersmen it has always been a test of endurance for one man to whirl
another down; and when Ben Davis, the faro-dealer, a gaudy bandanna on his =
arm,
got Daylight in a Virginia reel, the fun began. The reel broke up and all fell bac=
k to
watch. Around and around the =
two
men whirled, always in the one direction.&=
nbsp;
Word was passed on into the big bar-room, and bar and gambling tables
were deserted. Everybody want=
ed to
see, and they packed and jammed the dance-room. The musicians played on and on, an=
d on
and on the two men whirled. D=
avis
was skilled at the trick, and on the Yukon he had put many a strong man on =
his
back. But after a few minutes=
it
was clear that he, and not Daylight, was going.
For a while longer
they spun around, and then Daylight suddenly stood still, released his part=
ner,
and stepped back, reeling himself, and fluttering his hands aimlessly, as i=
f to
support himself against the air.
But Davis, a giddy smile of consternation on his face, gave sideways,
turned in an attempt to recover balance, and pitched headlong to the
floor. Still reeling and stag=
gering
and clutching at the air with his hands, Daylight caught the nearest girl a=
nd
started on in a waltz. Again he had done the big thing. Weary from two thousand miles over=
the
ice and a run that day of seventy miles, he had whirled a fresh man down, a=
nd
that man Ben Davis.
Daylight loved the
high places, and though few high places there were in his narrow experience=
, he
had made a point of sitting in the highest he had ever glimpsed. The great world had never heard his
name, but it was known far and wide in the vast silent North, by whites and
Indians and Eskimos, from Bering Sea to the Passes, from the head reaches o=
f remotest
rivers to the tundra shore of Point Barrow. Desire for mastery was strong in h=
im,
and it was all one whether wrestling with the elements themselves, with men=
, or
with luck in a gambling game. It was
all a game, life and its affairs.
And he was a gambler to the core.&n=
bsp;
Risk and chance were meat and drink. True, it was not altogether blind,=
for
he applied wit and skill and strength; but behind it all was the everlasting
Luck, the thing that at times turned on its votaries and crushed the wise w=
hile
it blessed the fools--Luck, the thing all men sought and dreamed to conquer.
And so he. Deep in his life-p=
rocesses
Life itself sang the siren song of its own majesty, ever a-whisper and urge=
nt,
counseling him that he could achieve more than other men, win out where they
failed, ride to success where they perished. It was the urge of Life healthy and
strong, unaware of frailty and decay, drunken with sublime complacence,
ego-mad, enchanted by its own mighty optimism.
And ever in vague=
st
whisperings and clearest trumpet-calls came the message that sometime,
somewhere, somehow, he would run Luck down, make himself the master of Luck,
and tie it and brand it as his own.
When he played poker, the whisper was of four aces and royal
flushes. When he prospected, =
it was
of gold in the grass-roots, gold on bed-rock, and gold all the way down.
And so, reversing=
at
times, Daylight waltzed off his dizziness and led the way to the bar. But a united protest went up. His theory that the winner paid wa=
s no
longer to be tolerated. It was
contrary to custom and common sense, and while it emphasized good-fellowshi=
p, nevertheless,
in the name of good-fellowship it must cease. The drinks were rightfully on Ben =
Davis,
and Ben Davis must buy them. Furthermore, all drinks and general treats that
Daylight was guilty of ought to be paid by the house, for Daylight brought =
much
custom to it whenever he made a night. Bettles was the spokesman, and his
argument, tersely and offensively vernacular, was unanimously applauded.
Daylight grinned,
stepped aside to the roulette-table, and bought a stack of yellow chips.
"Now the win=
ner
sure does pay," he said.
And they
surrendered. There was no
withstanding Daylight when he vaulted on the back of life, and rode it bitt=
ed
and spurred.
At one in the mor=
ning
he saw Elijah Davis herding Henry Finn and Joe Hines, the lumber-jack, towa=
rd
the door. Daylight interfered=
.
"Where are
you-all going?" he demanded, attempting to draw them to the bar.
"Bed,"
Elijah Davis answered.
He was a lean
tobacco-chewing New Englander, the one daring spirit in his family that had
heard and answered the call of the West shouting through the Mount Desert b=
ack
odd-lots. "Got to,"=
Joe
Hines added apologetically.
"We're mushing out in the mornin'."
Daylight still
detained them. "Where to=
? What's the excitement?"
"No
excitement," Elijah explained.
"We're just a-goin' to play your hunch, an' tackle the Upper
Country. Don't you want to co=
me
along?"
"I sure
do," Daylight affirmed.
But the question =
had
been put in fun, and Elijah ignored the acceptance.
"We're tackl=
in'
the Stewart," he went on.
"Al Mayo told me he seen some likely lookin' bars first time he
come down the Stewart, and we're goin' to sample 'em while the river's froz=
e.
You listen, Daylight, an' mark my words, the time's comin' when winter
diggin's'll be all the go. There'll be men in them days that'll laugh at our
summer stratchin' an' ground-wallerin'."
At that time, win=
ter
mining was undreamed of on the Yukon.
From the moss and grass the land was frozen to bed-rock, and frozen
gravel, hard as granite, defied pick and shovel. In the summer the men stripped the=
earth
down as fast as the sun thawed it. Then was the time they did their
mining. During the winter they
freighted their provisions, went moose-hunting, got all ready for the summe=
r's
work, and then loafed the bleak, dark months through in the big central cam=
ps
such as Circle City and Forty Mile.
"Winter digg=
in's
sure comin'," Daylight agreed.
"Wait till that big strike is made up river. Then you-all'll see a new kind of
mining. What's to prevent wood-burning and sinking shafts and drifting alon=
g bed-rock? Won't need to timber. That frozen muck and gravel'll sta=
nd till
hell is froze and its mill-tails is turned to ice-cream. Why, they'll be working pay-streak=
s a
hundred feet deep in them days that's comin'. I'm sure going along with you-all,
Elijah."
Elijah laughed,
gathered his two partners up, and was making a second attempt to reach the
door.
"Hold on,&qu=
ot;
Daylight called. "I sure=
mean
it."
The three men tur= ned back suddenly upon him, in their faces surprise, delight, and incredulity.<= o:p>
"G'wan, you'=
re
foolin'," said Finn, the other lumberjack, a quiet, steady, Wisconsin =
man.
"There's my
dawgs and sled," Daylight answered.&n=
bsp;
"That'll make two teams and halve the loads--though we-all'll h=
ave
to travel easy for a spell, for them dawgs is sure tired."
The three men were
overjoyed, but still a trifle incredulous.
"Now look
here," Joe Hines blurted out, "none of your foolin, Daylight. We =
mean
business. Will you come?"=
;
Daylight extended=
his
hand and shook.
"Then you'd =
best
be gettin' to bed," Elijah advised. "We're mushin' out at six, and
four hours' sleep is none so long."
"Mebbe we ou=
ght
to lay over a day and let him rest up," Finn suggested.
Daylight's pride =
was
touched.
"No you
don't," he cried. "=
We all
start at six. What time do yo=
u-all want
to be called? Five? All right, I'll rouse you-all out.=
"
"You oughter
have some sleep," Elijah counselled gravely. "You can't go on forever.&quo=
t;
Daylight was tire=
d,
profoundly tired. Even his ir=
on
body acknowledged weariness. =
Every
muscle was clamoring for bed and rest, was appalled at continuance of exert=
ion
and at thought of the trail again.
All this physical protest welled up into his brain in a wave of
revolt. But deeper down, scor=
nful
and defiant, was Life itself, the essential fire of it, whispering that all
Daylight's fellows were looking on, that now was the time to pile deed upon
deed, to flaunt his strength in the face of strength. It was merely Life, whispering its
ancient lies. And in league with it was whiskey, with all its consummate
effrontery and vain-glory.
"Mebbe you-a=
ll
think I ain't weaned yet?" Daylight demanded. "Why, I ain't had a
drink, or a dance, or seen a soul in two months. You-all get to bed. I'll call you-all at five."
And for the rest =
of
the night he danced on in his stocking feet, and at five in the morning,
rapping thunderously on the door of his new partners' cabin, he could be he=
ard
singing the song that had given him his name:--
"Burning
daylight, you-all Stewart River hunchers!&=
nbsp;
Burning daylight! Burning daylight!=
Burning daylight!"
This time the tra=
il
was easier. It was better pac=
ked,
and they were not carrying mail against time. The day's run was shorter, and lik=
ewise
the hours on trail. On his ma=
il run
Daylight had played out three Indians; but his present partners knew that t=
hey
must not be played out when they arrived at the Stewart bars, so they set t=
he slower
pace. And under this milder t=
oil,
where his companions nevertheless grew weary, Daylight recuperated and rest=
ed
up. At Forty Mile they laid o=
ver
two days for the sake of the dogs, and at Sixty Mile Daylight's team was le=
ft
with the trader. Unlike Dayli=
ght,
after the terrible run from Selkirk to Circle City, they had been unable to=
recuperate
on the back trail. So the fou=
r men
pulled on from Sixty Mile with a fresh team of dogs on Daylight's sled.
The following nig=
ht
they camped in the cluster of islands at the mouth of the Stewart. Daylight talked town sites, and, t=
hough
the others laughed at him, he staked the whole maze of high, wooded islands=
.
"Just suppos=
ing
the big strike does come on the Stewart," he argued. "Mebbe
you-all'll be in on it, and then again mebbe you-all won't. But I sure will. You-all'd better reconsider and go=
in
with me on it."
But they were
stubborn.
"You're as b=
ad
as Harper and Joe Ladue," said Joe Hines. "They're always at that
game. You know that big flat =
jest
below the Klondike and under Moosehide Mountain? Well, the recorder at Forty Mile w=
as tellin'
me they staked that not a month ago--The Harper & Ladue Town Site. Ha! Ha! Ha!"
Elijah and Finn
joined him in his laughter; but Daylight was gravely in earnest.
"There she
is!" he cried. "The=
hunch
is working! It's in the air, =
I tell
you-all! What'd they-all stak=
e the
big flat for if they-all didn't get the hunch? Wish I'd staked it."
The regret in his
voice was provocative of a second burst of laughter.
"Laugh, you-=
all,
laugh! That's what's the trou=
ble
with you-all. You-all think gold-hunting is the only way to make a stake. But let me tell you-all that when =
the
big strike sure does come, you-all'll do a little surface-scratchin' and
muck-raking, but danged little you-all'll have to show for it. You-all laugh at quicksilver in the
riffles and think flour gold was manufactured by God Almighty for the expre=
ss purpose
of fooling suckers and chechaquos.
Nothing but coarse gold for you-all, that's your way, not getting ha=
lf
of it out of the ground and losing into the tailings half of what you-all do
get.
"But the men
that land big will be them that stake the town sites, organize the tradin'
companies, start the banks--"
Here the explosio=
n of
mirth drowned him out. Banks =
in
Alaska! The idea of it was excruciating.
"Yep, and st=
art
the stock exchanges--"
Again they were c=
onvulsed. Joe Hines rolled over on his
sleeping-robe, holding his sides.
"And after t=
hem
will come the big mining sharks that buy whole creeks where you-all have be=
en
scratching like a lot of picayune hens, and they-all will go to hydraulicki=
ng
in summer and steam-thawing in winter--"
Steam-thawing!
"Laugh, dang
you, laugh! Why your eyes ain't open yet.&=
nbsp;
You-all are a bunch of little mewing kittens. I tell you-all if that strike come=
s on Klondike,
Harper and Ladue will be millionaires. And if it comes on Stewart, you-all
watch the Elam Harnish town site boom.&nbs=
p;
In them days, when you-all come around makin' poor mouths..." He heaved a sigh of resignation. "Well, I suppose I'll have to=
give
you-all a grub-stake or soup, or something or other."
Daylight had
vision. His scope had been ri=
gidly
limited, yet whatever he saw, he saw big.&=
nbsp;
His mind was orderly, his imagination practical, and he never dreamed
idly. When he superimposed a
feverish metropolis on a waste of timbered, snow-covered flat, he predicated
first the gold-strike that made the city possible, and next he had an eye f=
or steamboat
landings, sawmill and warehouse locations, and all the needs of a far-north=
ern
mining city. But this, in tur=
n, was
the mere setting for something bigger, namely, the play of temperament.
Opportunities swarmed in the streets and buildings and human and economic
relations of the city of his dream.
It was a larger table for gambling.=
The limit was the sky, with the Southland on one side and the aurora=
borealis
on the other. The play would =
be
big, bigger than any Yukoner had ever imagined, and he, Burning Daylight, w=
ould
see that he got in on that play.
In the meantime t=
here
was naught to show for it but the hunch. But it was coming. As he would stake his last ounce o=
n a
good poker hand, so he staked his life and effort on the hunch that the fut=
ure
held in store a big strike on the Upper River. So he and his three companions, wi=
th
dogs, and sleds, and snowshoes, toiled up the frozen breast of the Stewart,
toiled on and on through the white wilderness where the unending stillness =
was
never broken by the voices of men, the stroke of an ax, or the distant crac=
k of
a rifle. They alone moved thr=
ough
the vast and frozen quiet, little mites of earth-men, crawling their score =
of
miles a day, melting the ice that they might have water to drink, camping in
the snow at night, their wolf-dogs curled in frost-rimed, hairy bunches, th=
eir
eight snowshoes stuck on end in the snow beside the sleds.
No signs of other= men did they see, though once they passed a rude poling-boat, cached on a platf= orm by the river bank. Whoever had cached it had never come back for it; and th= ey wondered and mushed on. Another time they chanced upon the site of an Indian village, but the Indians had disappeared; undoubtedly they were on the high= er reaches of the Stewart in pursuit of the moose-herds. Two hundred miles up from the Yuko= n, they came upon what Elijah decided were the bars mentioned by Al Mayo. A permanent camp was made, their o= utfit of food cached on a high platform to keep it from the dogs, and they started work on the bars, cutting their way down to gravel through the rim of ice.<= o:p>
It was a hard and
simple life. Breakfast over, =
and
they were at work by the first gray light; and when night descended, they d=
id
their cooking and camp-chores, smoked and yarned for a while, then rolled u=
p in
their sleeping-robes, and slept while the aurora borealis flamed overhead a=
nd
the stars leaped and danced in the great cold. Their fare was monotonous: sour-do=
ugh
bread, bacon, beans, and an occasional dish of rice cooked along with a han=
dful
of prunes. Fresh meat they fa=
iled to
obtain. There was an unwonted
absence of animal life. At ra=
re intervals
they chanced upon the trail of a snowshoe rabbit or an ermine; but in the m=
ain
it seemed that all life had fled the land.=
It was a condition not unknown to them, for in all their experience,=
at one
time or another, they had travelled one year through a region teeming with
game, where, a year or two or three years later, no game at all would be fo=
und.
Gold they found on
the bars, but not in paying quantities. Elijah, while on a hunt for moose f=
ifty
miles away, had panned the surface gravel of a large creek and found good
colors. They harnessed their =
dogs,
and with light outfits sledded to the place. Here, and possibly for the first t=
ime in
the history of the Yukon, wood-burning, in sinking a shaft, was tried. It was Daylight's initiative. After clearing away the moss and g=
rass,
a fire of dry spruce was built. Six
hours of burning thawed eight inches of muck. Their picks drove full depth into =
it,
and, when they had shoveled out, another fire was started. They worked early and late, excite=
d over
the success of the experiment. Six
feet of frozen muck brought them to gravel, likewise frozen. Here progress =
was
slower. But they learned to h=
andle
their fires better, and were soon able to thaw five and six inches at a bur=
ning. Flour gold was in this gravel, and=
after
two feet it gave away again to muck.
At seventeen feet they struck a thin streak of gravel, and in it coa=
rse
gold, testpans running as high as six and eight dollars. Unfortunately, this streak of grav=
el was
not more than an inch thick.
Beneath it was more muck, tangled with the trunks of ancient trees a=
nd
containing fossil bones of forgotten monsters. But gold they had found--coarse go=
ld;
and what more likely than that the big deposit would be found on bed-rock?<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> Down to bed-rock they would go, if=
it
were forty feet away. They di=
vided
into two shifts, working day and night, on two shafts, and the smoke of the=
ir
burning rose continually.
It was at this ti=
me
that they ran short of beans and that Elijah was despatched to the main cam=
p to
bring up more grub. Elijah wa=
s one
of the hard-bitten old-time travelers himself. The round trip was a hundred miles=
, but
he promised to be back on the third day, one day going light, two days
returning heavy. Instead, he
arrived on the night of the second day.&nb=
sp;
They had just gone to bed when they heard him coming.
"What in hel=
l's
the matter now?" Henry Finn demanded, as the empty sled came into the
circle of firelight and as he noted that Elijah's long, serious face was lo=
nger
and even more serious.
Joe Hines threw w=
ood
on the fire, and the three men, wrapped in their robes, huddled up close to=
the
warmth. Elijah's whiskered fa=
ce was
matted with ice, as were his eyebrows, so that, what of his fur garb, he lo=
oked
like a New England caricature of Father Christmas.
"You recolle=
ct
that big spruce that held up the corner of the cache next to the river?&quo=
t;
Elijah began.
The disaster was
quickly told. The big tree, w=
ith
all the seeming of hardihood, promising to stand for centuries to come, had
suffered from a hidden decay. In
some way its rooted grip on the earth had weakened. The added burden of the
cache and the winter snow had been too much for it; the balance it had so l=
ong
maintained with the forces of its environment had been overthrown; it had
toppled and crashed to the ground, wrecking the cache and, in turn,
overthrowing the balance with environment that the four men and eleven dogs=
had
been maintaining. Their supply of grub was gone. The wolverines had got into the wr=
ecked cache,
and what they had not eaten they had destroyed.
"They plumb =
e't
all the bacon and prunes and sugar and dog-food," Elijah reported,
"and gosh darn my buttons, if they didn't gnaw open the sacks and scat=
ter
the flour and beans and rice from Dan to Beersheba. I found empty sacks where they'd d=
ragged
them a quarter of a mile away."
Nobody spoke for a
long minute. It was nothing l=
ess
than a catastrophe, in the dead of an Arctic winter and in a game-abandoned=
land,
to lose their grub. They were=
not
panic-stricken, but they were busy looking the situation squarely in the fa=
ce
and considering. Joe Hines wa=
s the
first to speak.
"We can pan =
the
snow for the beans and rice... though there wa'n't more'n eight or ten poun=
ds
of rice left."
"And somebody
will have to take a team and pull for Sixty Mile," Daylight said next.=
"I'll go,&qu=
ot;
said Finn.
They considered a
while longer.
"But how are=
we
going to feed the other team and three men till he gets back?" Hines
demanded.
"Only one th=
ing
to it," was Elijah's contribution.&nb=
sp;
"You'll have to take the other team, Joe, and pull up the Stewa=
rt
till you find them Indians. T=
hen
you come back with a load of meat. You'll get here long before Henry can ma=
ke
it from Sixty Mile, and while you're gone there'll only be Daylight and me =
to
feed, and we'll feed good and small."
"And in the
morning we-all'll pull for the cache and pan snow to find what grub we've
got." Daylight lay back,=
as he
spoke, and rolled in his robe to sleep, then added: "Better turn in fo=
r an
early start. Two of you can t=
ake
the dogs down. Elijah and me'=
ll
skin out on both sides and see if we-all can scare up a moose on the way
down."
No time was
lost. Hines and Finn, with the
dogs, already on short rations, were two days in pulling down. At noon of the third day Elijah ar=
rived,
reporting no moose sign. That=
night
Daylight came in with a similar report.&nb=
sp;
As fast as they arrived, the men had started careful panning of the =
snow
all around the cache. It was a
large task, for they found stray beans fully a hundred yards from the
cache. One more day all the m=
en
toiled. The result was pitiful, and the four showed their caliber in the
division of the few pounds of food that had been recovered. Little as it wa=
s,
the lion's share was left with Daylight and Elijah. The men who pulled on with the dog=
s, one
up the Stewart and one down, would come more quickly to grub. The two who remained would have to=
last
out till the others returned. Furthermore, while the dogs, on several ounces
each of beans a day, would travel slowly, nevertheless, the men who travell=
ed
with them, on a pinch, would have the dogs themselves to eat. But the men w=
ho
remained, when the pinch came, would have no dogs. It was for this reason that Daylig=
ht and
Elijah took the more desperate chance.&nbs=
p;
They could not do less, nor did they care to do less. The days passed, and the winter be=
gan
merging imperceptibly into the Northland spring that comes like a thunderbo=
lt
of suddenness. It was the spr=
ing of
1896 that was preparing. Each=
day
the sun rose farther east of south, remained longer in the sky, and set far=
ther
to the west. March ended and =
April began,
and Daylight and Elijah, lean and hungry, wondered what had become of their=
two
comrades. Granting every dela=
y, and
throwing in generous margins for good measure, the time was long since pass=
ed
when they should have returned.
Without doubt they had met with disaster. The party had considered t=
he
possibility of disaster for one man, and that had been the principal reason=
for
despatching the two in different directions. But that disaster should have come=
to
both of them was the final blow.
In the meantime,
hoping against hope, Daylight and Elija eked out a meagre existence. The thaw had not yet begun, so the=
y were
able to gather the snow about the ruined cache and melt it in pots and pail=
s and
gold pans. Allowed to stand f=
or a
while, when poured off, a thin deposit of slime was found on the bottoms of=
the
vessels. This was the flour, =
the
infinitesimal trace of it scattered through thousands of cubic yards of
snow. Also, in this slime occ=
urred
at intervals a water-soaked tea-leaf or coffee-ground, and there were in it
fragments of earth and litter. But
the farther they worked away from the site of the cache, the thinner became=
the
trace of flour, the smaller the deposit of slime.
Elijah was the ol=
der
man, and he weakened first, so that he came to lie up most of the time in h=
is
furs. An occasional tree-squi=
rrel
kept them alive. The hunting =
fell
upon Daylight, and it was hard work.
With but thirty rounds of ammunition, he dared not risk a miss; and,
since his rifle was a 45-90, he was compelled to shoot the small creatures =
through
the head. There were very few=
of
them, and days went by without seeing one.=
When he did see one, he took infinite precautions. He would stalk it=
for
hours. A score of times, with=
arms
that shook from weakness, he would draw a sight on the animal and refrain f=
rom pulling
the trigger. His inhibition w=
as a
thing of iron. He was the mas=
ter.
Not til absolute certitude was his did he shoot. No matter how sharp the pangs of h=
unger
and desire for that palpitating morsel of chattering life, he refused to ta=
ke the
slightest risk of a miss. He,=
born
gambler, was gambling in the bigger way.&n=
bsp;
His life was the stake, his cards were the cartridges, and he played=
as
only a big gambler could play, with infinite precaution, with infinite
consideration. Each shot meant a squirrel, and though days elapsed between
shots, it never changed his method of play.
Of the squirrels,
nothing was lost. Even the sk=
ins
were boiled to make broth, the bones pounded into fragments that could be
chewed and swallowed. Daylight
prospected through the snow, and found occasional patches of mossberries. At the best, mossberries were comp=
osed practically
of seeds and water, with a tough rind of skin about them; but the berries he
found were of the preceding year, dry and shrivelled, and the nourishment t=
hey
contained verged on the minus quality.&nbs=
p;
Scarcely better was the bark of young saplings, stewed for an hour a=
nd
swallowed after prodigious chewing.
April drew toward=
its
close, and spring smote the land.
The days stretched out their length. Under the heat of the sun, the snow
began to melt, while from down under the snow arose the trickling of tiny s=
treams. For twenty-four hours the Chinook =
wind
blew, and in that twenty-four hours the snow was diminished fully a foot in
depth. In the late afternoons=
the
melting snow froze again, so that its surface became ice capable of support=
ing
a man's weight. Tiny white
snow-birds appeared from the south, lingered a day, and resumed their journ=
ey
into the north. Once, high in=
the
air, looking for open water and ahead of the season, a wedged squadron of w=
ild
geese honked northwards. And =
down
by the river bank a clump of dwarf willows burst into bud. These young buds, stewed, seemed to
posess an encouraging nutrition. Elijah took heart of hope, though he was c=
ast
down again when Daylight failed to find another clump of willows.
The sap was risin=
g in
the trees, and daily the trickle of unseen streamlets became louder as the
frozen land came back to life. But the river held in its bonds of frost.
On the twelfth of
May, carrying their sleeping-robes, a pail, an ax, and the precious rifle, =
the
two men started down the river on the ice. Their plan was to gain to the ca=
ched
poling-boat they had seen, so that at the first open water they could launc=
h it
and drift with the stream to Sixty Mile.&n=
bsp;
In their weak condition, without food, the going was slow and diffic=
ult.
Elijah developed a habit of falling down and being unable to rise. Daylight gave of his own strength =
to
lift him to his feet, whereupon the older man would stagger automatically on
until he stumbled and fell again.
On the day they s=
hould
have reached the boat, Elijah collapsed utterly. When Daylight raised him, =
he
fell again. Daylight essayed =
to
walk with him, supporting him, but such was Daylight's own weakness that th=
ey fell
together.
Dragging Elijah to
the bank, a rude camp was made, and Daylight started out in search of
squirrels. It was at this tim=
e that
he likewise developed the falling habit.&n=
bsp;
In the evening he found his first squirrel, but darkness came on wit=
hout
his getting a certain shot. With primitive patience he waited till next day,
and then, within the hour, the squirrel was his.
The major portion=
he
fed to Elijah, reserving for himself the tougher parts and the bones. But such is the chemistry of life,=
that
this small creature, this trifle of meat that moved, by being eaten, transm=
uted
to the meat of the men the same power to move. No longer did the squirrel run up =
spruce
trees, leap from branch to branch, or cling chattering to giddy perches.
Light as the task
would have been for a strong man to lower the small boat to the ground, it =
took
Daylight hours. And many hours
more, day by day, he dragged himself around it, lying on his side to calk t=
he gaping
seams with moss. Yet, when th=
is was
done, the river still held. Its ice had risen many feet, but would not start
down-stream. And one more task
waited, the launching of the boat when the river ran water to receive it. Vainly Daylight staggered and stum=
bled
and fell and crept through the snow that was wet with thaw, or across it wh=
en the
night's frost still crusted it beyond the weight of a man, searching for on=
e more
squirrel, striving to achieve one more transmutation of furry leap and scol=
ding
chatter into the lifts and tugs of a man's body that would hoist the boat o=
ver
the rim of shore-ice and slide it down into the stream.
Not till the
twentieth of May did the river break.
The down-stream movement began at five in the morning, and already w=
ere
the days so long that Daylight sat up and watched the ice-run. Elijah was too far gone to be inte=
rested
in the spectacle. Though vagu=
ely
conscious, he lay without movement while the ice tore by, great cakes of it
caroming against the bank, uprooting trees, and gouging out earth by hundre=
ds
of tons.
All about them the
land shook and reeled from the shock of these tremendous collisions. At the end of an hour the run stop=
ped. Somewhere
below it was blocked by a jam. Then
the river began to rise, lifting the ice on its breast till it was higher t=
han
the bank. From behind ever mo=
re
water bore down, and ever more millions of tons of ice added their weight to
the congestion. The pressures and stresses became terrific. Huge cakes of ice were squeezed ou=
t till
they popped into the air like melon seeds squeezed from between the thumb a=
nd
forefinger of a child, while all along the banks a wall of ice was forced u=
p. When
the jam broke, the noise of grinding and smashing redoubled. For another hour the run continued=
. The river fell rapidly. But the wall of ice on top the ban=
k, and
extending down into the falling water, remained.
The tail of the
ice-run passed, and for the first time in six months Daylight saw open
water. He knew that the ice h=
ad not
yet passed out from the upper reaches of the Stewart, that it lay in packs =
and
jams in those upper reaches, and that it might break loose and come down in=
a second
run any time; but the need was too desperate for him to linger. Elijah was =
so
far gone that he might pass at any moment.=
As for himself, he was not sure that enough strength remained in his
wasted muscles to launch the boat.
It was all a gamble. I=
f he
waited for the second ice-run, Elijah would surely die, and most probably
himself. If he succeeded in
launching the boat, if he kept ahead of the second ice-run, if he did not g=
et
caught by some of the runs from the upper Yukon; if luck favored in all the=
se
essential particulars, as well as in a score of minor ones, they would reach
Sixty Mile and be saved, if--and again the if--he had strength enough to la=
nd
the boat at Sixty Mile and not go by.
He set to work. The wall of ice was five feet abov=
e the
ground on which the boat rested.
First prospecting for the best launching-place, he found where a huge
cake of ice shelved upward from the river that ran fifteen feet below to the
top of the wall. This was a s=
core
of feet away, and at the end of an hour he had managed to get the boat that
far. He was sick with nausea =
from
his exertions, and at times it seemed that blindness smote him, for he could
not see, his eyes vexed with spots and points of light that were as
excruciating as diamond-dust, his heart pounding up in his throat and
suffocating him. Elijah betrayed no interest, did not move nor open his eye=
s;
and Daylight fought out his battle alone.&=
nbsp;
At last, falling on his knees from the shock of exertion, he got the
boat poised on a secure balance on top the wall. Crawling on hands and knees, he pl=
aced
in the boat his rabbit-skin robe, the rifle, and the pail. He did not bother with the ax. It meant an additional crawl of tw=
enty
feet and back, and if the need for it should arise he well knew he would be
past all need.
Elijah proved a
bigger task than he had anticipated.
A few inches at a time, resting in between, he dragged him over the
ground and up a broken rubble of ice to the side of the boat. But into the =
boat
he could not get him. Elijah'=
s limp
body was far more difficult to lift and handle than an equal weight of like
dimensions but rigid. Dayligh=
t failed
to hoist him, for the body collapsed at the middle like a part-empty sack of
corn. Getting into the boat, Daylight tried vainly to drag his comrade in a=
fter
him. The best he could do was=
to
get Elijah's head and shoulders on top the gunwale. When he released his hold, to heav=
e from
farther down the body, Elijah promptly gave at the middle and came down on =
the
ice.
In despair, Dayli=
ght
changed his tactics. He struc=
k the
other in the face.
"God Almight=
y,
ain't you-all a man?" he cried.
"There! damn you-all! there!"
At each curse he
struck him on the cheeks, the nose, the mouth, striving, by the shock of the
hurt, to bring back the sinking soul and far-wandering will of the man. The eyes fluttered open.
"Now
listen!" he shouted hoarsely.
"When I get your head to the gunwale, hang on! Hear me? Hang on! Bite into it with your teeth, but =
HANG
ON!"
The eyes fluttered
down, but Daylight knew the message had been received. Again he got the helpless man's he=
ad and
shoulders on the gunwale.
"Hang on, da=
mn
you! Bite in!" he shoute=
d, as
he shifted his grip lower down.
One weak hand sli=
pped
off the gunwale, the fingers of the other hand relaxed, but Elijah obeyed, =
and
his teeth held on. When the l=
ift
came, his face ground forward, and the splintery wood tore and crushed the =
skin
from nose, lips, and chin; and, face downward, he slipped on and down to the
bottom of the boat till his limp middle collapsed across the gunwale and his
legs hung down outside. But t=
hey
were only his legs, and Daylight shoved them in; after him. Breathing heavily, he turned Elija=
h over
on his back, and covered him with his robes.
The final task
remained--the launching of the boat.
This, of necessity, was the severest of all, for he had been compell=
ed
to load his comrade in aft of the balance.=
It meant a supreme effort at lifting. Daylight steeled himself and began.
Something must have snapped, for, though he was unaware of it, the next he =
knew
he was lying doubled on his stomach across the sharp stern of the boat. Evi=
dently,
and for the first time in his life, he had fainted. Furthermore, it seemed =
to
him that he was finished, that he had not one more movement left in him, and
that, strangest of all, he did not care. Visions came to him, clear-cut and
real, and concepts sharp as steel cutting-edges. He, who all his days had
looked on naked Life, had never seen so much of Life's nakedness before.
Life was a liar a=
nd a
cheat. It fooled all
creatures. It had fooled him,
Burning Daylight, one of its chiefest and most joyous exponents. He was
nothing--a mere bunch of flesh and nerves and sensitiveness that crawled in=
the
muck for gold, that dreamed and aspired and gambled, and that passed and was
gone. Only the dead things
remained, the things that were not flesh and nerves and sensitiveness, the =
sand
and muck and gravel, the stretching flats, the mountains, the river itself,
freezing and breaking, year by year, down all the years. When all was said and done, it was=
a
scurvy game. The dice were
loaded. Those that died did n=
ot
win, and all died. Who won? Not even Life, the stool-pigeon, t=
he arch-capper
for the game--Life, the ever flourishing graveyard, the everlasting funeral
procession.
He drifted back to
the immediate present for a moment and noted that the river still ran wide
open, and that a moose-bird, perched on the bow of the boat, was surveying =
him
impudently. Then he drifted dreamily back to his meditations.
There was no esca=
ping
the end of the game. He was d=
oomed
surely to be out of it all. A=
nd
what of it? He pondered that
question again and again.
Conventional reli=
gion
had passed Daylight by. He had
lived a sort of religion in his square dealing and right playing with other
men, and he had not indulged in vain metaphysics about future life. Death ended all. He had always believed that, and b=
een
unafraid. And at this moment,=
the
boat fifteen feet above the water and immovable, himself fainting with weak=
ness
and without a particle of strength left in him, he still believed that death
ended all, and he was still unafraid.
His views were too simply and solidly based to be overthrown by the
first squirm, or the last, of death-fearing life.
He had seen men a=
nd
animals die, and into the field of his vision, by scores, came such
deaths. He saw them over agai=
n,
just as he had seen them at the time, and they did not shake him.
What of it? They were dead, and dead long
since. They weren't bothering=
about
it. They weren't lying on the=
ir
bellies across a boat and waiting to die.&=
nbsp;
Death was easy--easier than he had ever imagined; and, now that it w=
as
near, the thought of it made him glad.
A new vision came=
to
him. He saw the feverish city=
of
his dream--the gold metropolis of the North, perched above the Yukon on a h=
igh earth-bank
and far-spreading across the flat.
He saw the river steamers tied to the bank and lined against it three
deep; he saw the sawmills working and the long dog-teams, with double sleds
behind, freighting supplies to the diggings. And he saw, further, the gambling-=
houses,
banks, stock-exchanges, and all the gear and chips and markers, the chances=
and
opportunities, of a vastly bigger gambling game than any he had ever seen.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> It was sure hell, he thought, with=
the hunch
a-working and that big strike coming, to be out of it all. Life thrilled and stirred at the t=
hought
and once more began uttering his ancient lies.
Daylight rolled o=
ver
and off the boat, leaning against it as he sat on the ice. He wanted to be in on that strike.=
And why shouldn't he? Somewhere in=
all
those wasted muscles of his was enough strength, if he could gather it all =
at
once, to up-end the boat and launch it.&nb=
sp;
Quite irrelevantly the idea suggested itself of buying a share in th=
e Klondike
town site from Harper and Joe Ladue.
They would surely sell a third interest cheap. Then, if the strike came on the St=
ewart,
he would be well in on it with the Elam Harnish town site; if on the Klondi=
ke,
he would not be quite out of it.
In the meantime, =
he
would gather strength. He str=
etched
out on the ice full length, face downward, and for half an hour he lay and
rested. Then he arose, shook the flashing blindness from his eyes, and took=
hold
of the boat. He knew his cond=
ition
accurately. If the first effo=
rt
failed, the following efforts were doomed to fail. He must pull all his rallied stren=
gth
into the one effort, and so thoroughly must he put all of it in that there
would be none left for other attempts.
He lifted, and he
lifted with the soul of him as well as with the body, consuming himself, bo=
dy
and spirit, in the effort. Th=
e boat
rose. He thought he was going=
to
faint, but he continued to lift. He
felt the boat give, as it started on its downward slide. With the last shred of his strengt=
h he
precipitated himself into it, landing in a sick heap on Elijah's legs. He was beyond attempting to rise, =
and as
he lay he heard and felt the boat take the water. By watching the tree-tops he knew =
it was
whirling. A smashing shock and
flying fragments of ice told him that it had struck the bank. A dozen times it whirled and struc=
k, and
then it floated easily and free.
Daylight came to,=
and
decided he had been asleep. T=
he sun
denoted that several hours had passed.&nbs=
p;
It was early afternoon. He dragged himself into the stern and sat
up. The boat was in the middl=
e of
the stream. The wooded banks, with their base-lines of flashing ice, were
slipping by. Near him floated=
a
huge, uprooted pine. A freak =
of the
current brought the boat against it.
Crawling forward, he fastened the painter to a root.
The tree, deeper =
in
the water, was travelling faster, and the painter tautened as the boat took=
the
tow. Then, with a last giddy =
look around,
wherein he saw the banks tilting and swaying and the sun swinging in
pendulum-sweep across the sky, Daylight wrapped himself in his rabbit-skin
robe, lay down in the bottom, and fell asleep.
When he awoke, it=
was
dark night. He was lying on h=
is
back, and he could see the stars shining.&=
nbsp;
A subdued murmur of swollen waters could be heard. A sharp jerk informed him that the=
boat,
swerving slack into the painter, had been straightened out by the
swifter-moving pine tree. A piece of stray drift-ice thumped against the bo=
at
and grated along its side. We=
ll,
the following jam hadn't caught him yet, was his thought, as he closed his =
eyes
and slept again.
It was bright day
when next he opened his eyes. The
sun showed it to be midday. A
glance around at the far-away banks, and he knew that he was on the mighty
Yukon. Sixty Mile could not b=
e far
away. He was abominably weak.=
His movements were slow, fumbling,=
and
inaccurate, accompanied by panting and head-swimming, as he dragged himself
into a sitting-up position in the stern, his rifle beside him. He looked a long time at Elijah, b=
ut
could not see whether he breathed or not, and he was too immeasurably far a=
way
to make an investigation.
He fell to dreami=
ng
and meditating again, dreams and thoughts being often broken by sketches of
blankness, wherein he neither slept, nor was unconscious, nor was aware of
anything. It seemed to him mo=
re
like cogs slipping in his brain.
And in this intermittent way he reviewed the situation. He was still alive, and most likely
would be saved, but how came it that he was not lying dead across the boat =
on
top the ice-rim? Then he
recollected the great final effort he had made. But why had he made it? he asked himself. It had not been fear of death. He =
had
not been afraid, that was sure.
Then he remembered the hunch and the big strike he believed was comi=
ng,
and he knew that the spur had been his desire to sit in for a hand at that =
big
game. And again why? What if =
he
made his million? He would di=
e,
just the same as those that never won more than grub-stakes. Then again why? But the blank stretches in his thi=
nking
process began to come more frequently, and he surrendered to the delightful
lassitude that was creeping over him.
He roused with a
start. Something had whispere=
d in
him that he must awake. Abrup=
tly he
saw Sixty Mile, not a hundred feet away.
The current had
brought him to the very door. But
the same current was now sweeping him past and on into the down-river
wilderness. No one was in
sight. The place might have b=
een
deserted, save for the smoke he saw rising from the kitchen chimney. He tried to call, but found he had=
no
voice left. An unearthly gutt=
ural
hiss alternately rattled and wheezed in his throat. He fumbled for the rifle, got it t=
o his shoulder,
and pulled the trigger. The r=
ecoil
of the discharge tore through his frame, racking it with a thousand
agonies. The rifle had fallen
across his knees, and an attempt to lift it to his shoulder failed. He knew he must be quick, and felt=
that
he was fainting, so he pulled the trigger of the gun where it lay. This time it kicked off and
overboard. But just before da=
rkness
rushed over him, he saw the kitchen door open, and a woman look out of the =
big
log house that was dancing a monstrous jig among the trees.
Ten days later,
Harper and Joe Ladue arrived at Sixty Mile, and Daylight, still a trifle we=
ak,
but strong enough to obey the hunch that had come to him, traded a third
interest in his Stewart town site for a third interest in theirs on the
Klondike.
They had faith in=
the
Upper Country, and Harper left down-stream, with a raft-load of supplies, to
start a small post at the mouth of the Klondike.
"Why don't y=
ou
tackle Indian River, Daylight?" Harper advised, at parting. "There's whole slathers of cr=
eeks
and draws draining in up there, and somewhere gold just crying to be
found. That's my hunch. There=
's a
big strike coming, and Indian River ain't going to be a million miles
away."
"And the pla=
ce
is swarming with moose," Joe Ladue added. "Bob Henderson's up there
somewhere, been there three years now, swearing something big is going to
happen, living off'n straight moose and prospecting around like a crazy
man."
Daylight decided =
to
go Indian River a flutter, as he expressed it; but Elijah could not be
persuaded into accompanying him. Elijah's soul had been seared by famine, a=
nd
he was obsessed by fear of repeating the experience.
"I jest can'=
t bear
to separate from grub," he explained.=
"I know it's downright foolishness, but I jest can't help it. It's all I can do to tear myself a=
way
from the table when I know I'm full to bustin' and ain't got storage for
another bite. I'm going back =
to
Circle to camp by a cache until I get cured."
Daylight lingered=
a
few days longer, gathering strength and arranging his meagre outfit. He planned to go in light, carryin=
g a
pack of seventy-five pounds and making his five dogs pack as well, Indian f=
ashion,
loading them with thirty pounds each. Depending on the report of Ladue, he
intended to follow Bob Henderson's example and live practically on straight
meat. When Jack Kearns' scow,=
laden
with the sawmill from Lake Linderman, tied up at Sixty Mile, Daylight bundl=
ed his
outfit and dogs on board, turned his town-site application over to Elijah t=
o be
filed, and the same day was landed at the mouth of Indian River.
Forty miles up the
river, at what had been described to him as Quartz Creek, he came upon sign=
s of
Bob Henderson's work, and also at Australia Creek, thirty miles farther
on. The weeks came and went, =
but Daylight
never encountered the other man.
However, he found moose plentiful, and he and his dogs prospered on =
the
meat diet. He found "pay=
"
that was no more than "wages" on a dozen surface bars, and from t=
he
generous spread of flour gold in the muck and gravel of a score of creeks, =
he
was more confident than ever that coarse gold in quantity was waiting to be
unearthed. Often he turned hi=
s eyes
to the northward ridge of hills, and pondered if the gold came from them. In the end, he ascended Dominion C=
reek
to its head, crossed the divide, and came down on the tributary to the Klon=
dike
that was later to be called Hunker Creek.&=
nbsp;
While on the divide, had he kept the big dome on his right, he would
have come down on the Gold Bottom, so named by Bob Henderson, whom he would
have found at work on it, taking out the first pay-gold ever panned on the
Klondike. Instead, Daylight
continued down Hunker to the Klondike, and on to the summer fishing camp of=
the
Indians on the Yukon.
Here for a day he
camped with Carmack, a squaw-man, and his Indian brother-in-law, Skookum Ji=
m,
bought a boat, and, with his dogs on board, drifted down the Yukon to Forty
Mile. August was drawing to a=
close,
the days were growing shorter, and winter was coming on. Still with unbounded faith in his =
hunch
that a strike was coming in the Upper Country, his plan was to get together=
a
party of four or five, and, if that was impossible, at least a partner, and=
to
pole back up the river before the freeze-up to do winter prospecting. But the men of Forty Mile were wit=
hout
faith. The diggings to the we=
stward
were good enough for them.
Then it was that Carmack, his brother-in-law, Skookum Jim, and Cultus Charlie, another India= n, arrived in a canoe at Forty Mile, went straight to the gold commissioner, a= nd recorded three claims and a discovery claim on Bonanza Creek. After that, in the Sourdough Saloo= n, that night, they exhibited coarse gold to the sceptical crowd. Men grinned and shook their heads.= They had seen the motions of a gol= d strike gone through before. This was= too patently a scheme of Harper's and Joe Ladue's, trying to entice prospecting= in the vicinity of their town site and trading post. And who was Carmack? A squaw-man. And who ever heard of a squaw-man striking anything? And what w= as Bonanza Creek? Merely a moose pasture, entering the Klondike just above its= mouth, and known to old-timers as Rabbit Creek.&n= bsp; Now if Daylight or Bob Henderson had recorded claims and shown coarse gold, they'd known there was something in it. But Carmack, the squaw-man! And Sk= ookum Jim! And Cultus Charlie! No, no; that was asking too much.<= o:p>
Daylight, too, was
sceptical, and this despite his faith in the Upper Country. Had he not, only a few days before=
, seen
Carmack loafing with his Indians and with never a thought of prospecting?
But at eleven that
night, sitting on the edge of his bunk and unlacing his moccasins, a thought
came to him. He put on his co=
at and
hat and went back to the Sourdough.
Carmack was still there, flashing his coarse gold in the eyes of an
unbelieving generation. Dayli=
ght
ranged alongside of him and emptied Carmack's sack into a blower. This he studied for a long time. T=
hen,
from his own sack, into another blower, he emptied several ounces of Circle
City and Forty Mile gold. Aga=
in, for
a long time, he studied and compared.
Finally, he pocketed his own gold, returned Carmack's, and held up h=
is
hand for silence.
"Boys, I wan=
t to
tell you-all something," he said.&nbs=
p;
"She's sure come--the up-river strike. And I tell you-all, clear and forc=
ible, this
is it. There ain't never been=
gold
like that in a blower in this country before. It's new gold. It's got more silver in it. You-all can see it by the color. Carmack's sure made a strike. Who-all's got faith to come along =
with
me?"
There were no
volunteers. Instead, laughter=
and
jeers went up.
"Mebbe you g=
ot a
town site up there," some one suggested.
"I sure
have," was the retort, "and a third interest in Harper and Ladue'=
s. And I can see my corner lots selli=
ng out
for more than your hen-scratching ever turned up on Birch Creek."
"That's all
right, Daylight," one Curly Parson interposed soothingly. "You've=
got
a reputation, and we know you're dead sure on the square. But you're as lik=
ely
as any to be mistook on a flimflam game, such as these loafers is putting
up. I ask you straight: When =
did
Carmack do this here prospecting?
You said yourself he was lying in camp, fishing salmon along with his
Siwash relations, and that was only the other day."
"And Daylight
told the truth," Carmack interrupted excitedly. "And I'm telling =
the
truth, the gospel truth. I wa=
sn't
prospecting. Hadn't no idea of
it. But when Daylight pulls o=
ut,
the very same day, who drifts in, down river, on a raft-load of supplies, b=
ut
Bob Henderson. He'd come out =
to
Sixty Mile, planning to go back up Indian River and portage the grub across=
the
divide between Quartz Creek and Gold Bottom--"
"Where in he=
ll's
Gold Bottom?" Curly Parsons demanded.
"Over beyond
Bonanza that was Rabbit Creek," the squaw-man went on. "It's a dr=
aw
of a big creek that runs into the Klondike. That's the way I went up, but I
come back by crossing the divide, keeping along the crest several miles, and
dropping down into Bonanza. '=
Come
along with me, Carmack, and get staked,' says Bob Henderson to me. 'I've hit it this time, on Gold
Bottom. I've took out forty-f=
ive
ounces already.' And I went along, Skookum Jim and Cultus Charlie, too. And we all staked on Gold Bottom. =
I come
back by Bonanza on the chance of finding a moose. Along down Bonanza we stopped and =
cooked
grub. I went to sleep, and wh=
at
does Skookum Jim do but try his hand at prospecting. He'd been watching Hen=
derson,
you see. He goes right slap u=
p to
the foot of a birch tree, first pan, fills it with dirt, and washes out mor=
e'n
a dollar coarse gold. Then he=
wakes
me up, and I goes at it. I go=
t two
and a half the first lick. Th=
en I
named the creek 'Bonanza,' staked Discovery, and we come here and
recorded."
He looked about h=
im
anxiously for signs of belief, but found himself in a circle of incredulous
faces--all save Daylight, who had studied his countenance while he told his
story.
"How much is
Harper and Ladue givin' you for manufacturing a stampede?" some one as=
ked.
"They don't =
know
nothing about it," Carmack answered.&=
nbsp;
"I tell you it's the God Almighty's truth. I washed out three ounces in an
hour."
"And there's=
the
gold," Daylight said. &q=
uot;I
tell you-all boys they ain't never been gold like that in the blower
before. Look at the color of =
it."
"A trifle
darker," Curly Parson said.
"Most likely Carmack's been carrying a couple of silver dollars
along in the same sack. And what's more, if there's anything in it, why ain=
't
Bob Henderson smoking along to record?"
"He's up on =
Gold
Bottom," Carmack explained.
"We made the strike coming back."
A burst of laught=
er
was his reward.
"Who-all'll =
go
pardners with me and pull out in a poling-boat to-morrow for this here
Bonanza?" Daylight asked.
No one volunteere=
d.
"Then who-al=
l'll
take a job from me, cash wages in advance, to pole up a thousand pounds of
grub?"
Curly Parsons and
another, Pat Monahan, accepted, and, with his customary speed, Daylight paid
them their wages in advance and arranged the purchase of the supplies, thou=
gh
he emptied his sack in doing so. He was leaving the Sourdough, when he sudd=
enly
turned back to the bar from the door.
"Got another
hunch?" was the query.
"I sure
have," he answered.
"Flour's sure going to be worth what a man will pay for it this
winter up on the Klondike. Wh=
o'll
lend me some money?"
On the instant a
score of the men who had declined to accompany him on the wild-goose chase =
were
crowding about him with proffered gold-sacks.
"How much fl=
our
do you want?" asked the Alaska Commercial Company's storekeeper.
"About two
ton."
The proffered
gold-sacks were not withdrawn, though their owners were guilty of an outrag=
eous
burst of merriment.
"What are you
going to do with two tons?" the store-keeper demanded.
"Son,"
Daylight made reply, "you-all ain't been in this country long enough to
know all its curves. I'm goin=
g to
start a sauerkraut factory and combined dandruff remedy."
He borrowed money
right and left, engaging and paying six other men to bring up the flour in =
half
as many more poling-boats. Again his sack was empty, and he was heavily in
debt.
Curly Parsons bow=
ed
his head on the bar with a gesture of despair.
"What gets
me," he moaned, "is what you're going to do with it all."
"I'll tell
you-all in simple A, B, C and one, two, three." Daylight held up one
finger and began checking off.
"Hunch number one: a big strike coming in Upper Country. Hunch number two: Carmack's made i=
t. Hunch
number three: ain't no hunch at all.
It's a cinch. If one a=
nd two
is right, then flour just has to go sky-high. If I'm riding hunches one and two,=
I
just got to ride this cinch, which is number three. If I'm right, flour'll balance gol=
d on
the scales this winter. I tell you-all boys, when you-all got a hunch, play=
it
for all it's worth. What's lu=
ck
good for, if you-all ain't to ride it?&nbs=
p;
And when you-all ride it, ride like hell. I've been years in this country, j=
ust waiting
for the right hunch to come along.
And here she is. Well, I'm going to play her, that's all. Good night, you-all; good night.&q=
uot;
Still men were
without faith in the strike. =
When
Daylight, with his heavy outfit of flour, arrived at the mouth of the Klond=
ike,
he found the big flat as desolate and tenantless as ever. Down close by the river, Chief Isa=
ac and
his Indians were camped beside the frames on which they were drying salmon.
Several old-timers were also in camp there. Having finished their summer work =
on Ten
Mile Creek, they had come down the Yukon, bound for Circle City. But at Sixty Mile they had learned=
of
the strike, and stopped off to look over the ground. They had just returned to their bo=
at
when Daylight landed his flour, and their report was pessimistic.
"Damned
moose-pasture," quoth one, Long Jim Harney, pausing to blow into his t=
in
mug of tea. "Don't you h=
ave
nothin' to do with it, Daylight.
It's a blamed rotten sell.
They're just going through the motions of a strike. Harper and Ladue's behind it, and
Carmack's the stool-pigeon. W=
hoever
heard of mining a moose-pasture half a mile between rim-rock and God alone
knows how far to bed-rock!"
Daylight nodded
sympathetically, and considered for a space.
"Did you-all=
pan
any?" he asked finally.
"Pan hell!&q=
uot;
was the indignant answer.
"Think I was born yesterday! Only a chechaquo'd fool around that
pasture long enough to fill a pan of dirt.=
You don't catch me at any such foolishness. One look was enough for me. We're pulling on in the morning for
Circle City. I ain't never had
faith in this Upper Country.
Head-reaches of the Tanana is good enough for me from now on, and ma=
rk
my words, when the big strike comes, she'll come down river. Johnny, here, staked a couple of m=
iles
below Discovery, but he don't know no better." Johnny looked shamefaced.
"I just did =
it
for fun," he explained.
"I'd give my chance in the creek for a pound of Star plug."=
;
"I'll go
you," Daylight said promptly.
"But don't you-all come squealing if I take twenty or thirty
thousand out of it."
Johnny grinned
cheerfully.
"Gimme the
tobacco," he said.
"Wish I'd st=
aked
alongside," Long Jim murmured plaintively.
"It ain't too
late," Daylight replied.
"But it's a
twenty-mile walk there and back."
"I'll stake =
it
for you to-morrow when I go up," Daylight offered.
"Then you do=
the
same as Johnny. Get the fees =
from
Tim Logan. He's tending bar in the Sourdough, and he'll lend it to me. Then fill in your own name, transf=
er to
me, and turn the papers over to Tim."
"Me, too,&qu=
ot;
chimed in the third old-timer.
And for three pou=
nds
of Star plug chewing tobacco, Daylight bought outright three five-hundred-f=
oot
claims on Bonanza. He could s=
till stake
another claim in his own name, the others being merely transfers.
"Must say yo=
u're
almighty brash with your chewin' tobacco," Long Jim grinned. "Got a factory somewheres?&qu=
ot;
"Nope, but I=
got
a hunch," was the retort, "and I tell you-all it's cheaper than d=
irt
to ride her at the rate of three plugs for three claims."
But an hour later=
, at
his own camp, Joe Ladue strode in, fresh from Bonanza Creek. At first, non-committal over Carma=
ck's
strike, then, later, dubious, he finally offered Daylight a hundred dollars=
for
his share in the town site.
"Cash?"
Daylight queried.
"Sure. There she is."
So saying, Ladue
pulled out his gold-sack. Day=
light
hefted it absent-mindedly, and, still absent-mindedly, untied the strings a=
nd
ran some of the gold-dust out on his palm.=
It showed darker than any dust he had ever seen, with the exception =
of
Carmack's. He ran the gold back tied the mouth of the sack, and returned it=
to
Ladue.
"I guess you=
-all
need it more'n I do," was Daylight's comment.
"Nope; got
plenty more," the other assured him.
"Where that =
come
from?"
Daylight was all
innocence as he asked the question, and Ladue received the question as stol=
idly
as an Indian. Yet for a swift
instant they looked into each other's eyes, and in that instant an intangib=
le something
seemed to flash out from all the body and spirit of Joe Ladue. And it seemed to Daylight that he =
had caught
this flash, sensed a secret something in the knowledge and plans behind the
other's eyes.
"You-all know
the creek better'n me," Daylight went on. "And if my share in the town =
site's
worth a hundred to you-all with what you-all know, it's worth a hundred to =
me
whether I know it or not."
"I'll give y=
ou
three hundred," Ladue offered desperately.
"Still the s=
ame
reasoning. No matter what I d=
on't
know, it's worth to me whatever you-all are willing to pay for it."
Then it was that =
Joe
Ladue shamelessly gave over. =
He led
Daylight away from the camp and men and told him things in confidence.
"She's sure
there," he said in conclusion.
"I didn't sluice it, or cradle it. I panned it, all in that sack,
yesterday, on the rim-rock. I tell you, you can shake it out of the grassro=
ots.
And what's on bed-rock down in the bottom of the creek they ain't no way of
tellin'. But she's big, I tell you, big.&n=
bsp;
Keep it quiet, and locate all you can. It's in spots, but I wouldn't=
be
none surprised if some of them claims yielded as high as fifty thousand.
=
&nb=
sp;
* * *
A month passed by,
and Bonanza Creek remained quiet. =
span>A
sprinkling of men had staked; but most of them, after staking, had gone on =
down
to Forty Mile and Circle City. The
few that possessed sufficient faith to remain were busy building log cabins
against the coming of winter. Carmack and his Indian relatives were occupie=
d in
building a sluice box and getting a head of water. The work was slow, for they had to=
saw their
lumber by hand from the standing forest.&n=
bsp;
But farther down Bonanza were four men who had drifted in from up ri=
ver,
Dan McGilvary, Dave McKay, Dave Edwards, and Harry Waugh. They were a quiet party, neither a=
sking
nor giving confidences, and they herded by themselves. But Daylight, who had
panned the spotted rim of Carmack's claim and shaken coarse gold from the
grass-roots, and who had panned the rim at a hundred other places up and do=
wn
the length of the creek and found nothing, was curious to know what lay on
bed-rock. He had noted the fo=
ur
quiet men sinking a shaft close by the stream, and he had heard their whip-=
saw
going as they made lumber for the sluice boxes. He did not wait for an
invitation, but he was present the first day they sluiced. And at the end of five hours' shov=
elling
for one man, he saw them take out thirteen ounces and a half of gold.
It was coarse gol=
d,
running from pinheads to a twelve-dollar nugget, and it had come from off
bed-rock. The first fall snow=
was
flying that day, and the Arctic winter was closing down; but Daylight had no
eyes for the bleak-gray sadness of the dying, short-lived summer. He saw his vision coming true, and=
on
the big flat was upreared anew his golden city of the snows. Gold had been found on bed-rock. That was the big thing. Carmack's strike was assured. Daylight staked a claim in his own=
name
adjoining the three he had purchased with his plug tobacco. This gave him a block of property =
two
thousand feet long and extending in width from rim-rock to rim-rock.
Returning that ni=
ght
to his camp at the mouth of Klondike, he found in it Kama, the Indian he had
left at Dyea. Kama was travel=
ling
by canoe, bringing in the last mail of the year. In his possession was some two hun=
dred dollars
in gold-dust, which Daylight immediately borrowed. In return, he arranged to stake a =
claim
for him, which he was to record when he passed through Forty Mile. When Kama departed next morning, h=
e carried
a number of letters for Daylight, addressed to all the old-timers down rive=
r,
in which they were urged to come up immediately and stake.
Also Kama carried
letters of similar import, given him by the other men on Bonanza.
"It will sur=
e be
the gosh-dangdest stampede that ever was," Daylight chuckled, as he tr=
ied
to vision the excited populations of Forty Mile and Circle City tumbling in=
to
poling-boats and racing the hundreds of miles up the Yukon; for he knew that
his word would be unquestioningly accepted.
With the arrival =
of
the first stampeders, Bonanza Creek woke up, and thereupon began a
long-distance race between unveracity and truth, wherein, lie no matter how
fast, men were continually overtaken and passed by truth. When men who doubted Carmack's rep=
ort of
two and a half to the pan, themselves panned two and a half, they lied and =
said
that they were getting an ounce.
And long ere the lie was fairly on its way, they were getting not one
ounce but five ounces. This t=
hey claimed
was ten ounces; but when they filled a pan of dirt to prove the lie, they
washed out twelve ounces. And=
so it
went. They continued valiantl=
y to
lie, but the truth continued to outrun them.
One day in Decemb=
er
Daylight filled a pan from bed rock on his own claim and carried it into his
cabin. Here a fire burned and=
enabled
him to keep water unfrozen in a canvas tank. He squatted over the tank and bega=
n to
wash. Earth and gravel seemed=
to
fill the pan. As he imparted =
to it
a circular movement, the lighter, coarser particles washed out over the
edge. At times he combed the
surface with his fingers, raking out handfuls of gravel. The contents of the pan diminished=
. As it drew near to the bottom, for=
the
purpose of fleeting and tentative examination, he gave the pan a sudden
sloshing movement, emptying it of water.&n=
bsp;
And the whole bottom showed as if covered with butter. Thus the yellow gold flashed up as=
the
muddy water was flirted away. It
was gold--gold-dust, coarse gold, nuggets, large nuggets. He was all alone. He set the pan down for a moment a=
nd
thought long thoughts. Then he
finished the washing, and weighed the result in his scales. At the rate of sixteen dollars to =
the
ounce, the pan had contained seven hundred and odd dollars. It was beyond anything that even h=
e had
dreamed. His fondest anticipa=
tion's
had gone no farther than twenty or thirty thousand dollars to a claim; but =
here
were claims worth half a million each at the least, even if they were spott=
ed.
He did not go bac=
k to
work in the shaft that day, nor the next, nor the next. Instead, capped and mittened, a li=
ght
stampeding outfit, including his rabbit skin robe, strapped on his back, he=
was
out and away on a many-days' tramp over creeks and divides, inspecting the =
whole
neighboring territory. On each
creek he was entitled to locate one claim, but he was chary in thus
surrendering up his chances. =
On Hunker
Creek only did he stake a claim.
Bonanza Creek he found staked from mouth to source, while every litt=
le
draw and pup and gulch that drained into it was like-wise staked. Little faith was had in these side=
-streams.
They had been staked by the hundreds of men who had failed to get in on
Bonanza. The most popular of =
these
creeks was Adams. The one lea=
st
fancied was Eldorado, which flowed into Bonanza, just above Karmack's Disco=
very
claim. Even Daylight disliked=
the
looks of Eldorado; but, still riding his hunch, he bought a half share in o=
ne claim
on it for half a sack of flour. A
month later he paid eight hundred dollars for the adjoining claim. Three months later, enlarging this=
block
of property, he paid forty thousand for a third claim; and, though it was
concealed in the future, he was destined, not long after, to pay one hundred
and fifty thousand for a fourth claim on the creek that had been the least
liked of all the creeks.
In the meantime, =
and
from the day he washed seven hundred dollars from a single pan and squatted
over it and thought a long thought, he never again touched hand to pick and
shovel. As he said to Joe Lad=
ue the
night of that wonderful washing:--
"Joe, I ain'=
t never
going to work hard again. Her=
e's
where I begin to use my brains. I'm
going to farm gold. Gold will=
grow
gold if you-all have the savvee and can get hold of some for seed. When I seen them seven hundred dol=
lars
in the bottom of the pan, I knew I had the seed at last."
"Where are y=
ou
going to plant it?" Joe Ladue had asked.
And Daylight, wit=
h a
wave of his hand, definitely indicated the whole landscape and the creeks t=
hat
lay beyond the divides.
"There she
is," he said, "and you-all just watch my smoke. There's millions =
here
for the man who can see them. And I
seen all them millions this afternoon when them seven hundred dollars peepe=
d up
at me from the bottom of the pan and chirruped, 'Well, if here ain't Burnin=
g Daylight
come at last.'"
The hero of the Y=
ukon
in the younger days before the Carmack strike, Burning Daylight now became =
the
hero of the strike. The story=
of
his hunch and how he rode it was told up and down the land. Certainly he had ridden it far and=
away
beyond the boldest, for no five of the luckiest held the value in claims th=
at
he held. And, furthermore, he=
was
still riding the hunch, and with no diminution of daring. The wise ones shook their heads and
prophesied that he would lose every ounce he had won. He was speculating, t=
hey
contended, as if the whole country was made of gold, and no man could win w=
ho
played a placer strike in that fashion.
On the other hand,
his holdings were reckoned as worth millions, and there were men so sanguine
that they held the man a fool who coppered[6] any bet Daylight laid. Behind his magnificent free-handed=
ness
and careless disregard for money were hard, practical judgment, imagination=
and
vision, and the daring of the big gambler. He foresaw what with his own eye=
s he
had never seen, and he played to win much or lose all.
"There's too
much gold here in Bonanza to be just a pocket," he argued. "It's =
sure
come from a mother-lode somewhere, and other creeks will show up. You-all keep your eyes on Indian R=
iver.
The creeks that drain that side the Klondike watershed are just as likely to
have gold as the creeks that drain this side."
And he backed this
opinion to the extent of grub-staking half a dozen parties of prospectors
across the big divide into the Indian River region. Other men, themselves failing to s=
take
on lucky creeks, he put to work on his Bonanza claims. And he paid them well--sixteen dol=
lars a
day for an eight-hour shift, and he ran three shifts. He had grub to start them on, and =
when,
on the last water, the Bella arrived loaded with provisions, he traded a
warehouse site to Jack Kearns for a supply of grub that lasted all his men
through the winter of 1896. A=
nd
that winter, when famine pinched, and flour sold for two dollars a pound, h=
e kept
three shifts of men at work on all four of the Bonanza claims. Other
mine-owners paid fifteen dollars a day to their men; but he had been the fi=
rst
to put men to work, and from the first he paid them a full ounce a day. One result was that his were picke=
d men,
and they more than earned their higher pay.
One of his wildest
plays took place in the early winter after the freeze-up. Hundreds of stampeders, after stak=
ing on
other creeks than Bonanza, had gone on disgruntled down river to Forty Mile=
and
Circle City. Daylight mortgag=
ed one
of his Bonanza dumps with the Alaska Commercial Company, and tucked a lette=
r of
credit into his pouch. Then he
harnessed his dogs and went down on the ice at a pace that only he could
travel. One Indian down, anot=
her
Indian back, and four teams of dogs was his record. And at Forty Mile and Circle City =
he
bought claims by the score. Many of these were to prove utterly worthless, =
but some
few of them were to show up more astoundingly than any on Bonanza. He bought
right and left, paying as low as fifty dollars and as high as five
thousand. This highest one he
bought in the Tivoli Saloon. =
It was
an upper claim on Eldorado, and when he agreed to the price, Jacob Wilkins,=
an
old-timer just returned from a look at the moose-pasture, got up and left t=
he room,
saying:--
"Daylight, I=
've
known you seven year, and you've always seemed sensible till now. And now you're just letting them r=
ob you
right and left. That's what it is--robbery. Five thousand for a claim on that =
damned
moose-pasture is bunco. I just
can't stay in the room and see you buncoed that way."
"I tell
you-all," Daylight answered, "Wilkins, Carmack's strike's so big =
that
we-all can't see it all. It's=
a
lottery. Every claim I buy is=
a
ticket. And there's sure goin=
g to
be some capital prizes."
Jacob Wilkins,
standing in the open door, sniffed incredulously.
"Now supposi=
ng,
Wilkins," Daylight went on, "supposing you-all knew it was going =
to
rain soup. What'd you-all do?=
Buy spoons, of course. Well, I'm s=
ure
buying spoons. She's going to=
rain
soup up there on the Klondike, and them that has forks won't be catching no=
ne
of it."
But Wilkins here
slammed the door behind him, and Daylight broke off to finish the purchase =
of
the claim.
Back in Dawson,
though he remained true to his word and never touched hand to pick and shov=
el,
he worked as hard as ever in his life.&nbs=
p;
He had a thousand irons in the fire, and they kept him busy. Representation work was expensive,=
and
he was compelled to travel often over the various creeks in order to decide
which claims should lapse and which should be retained. A quartz miner himself in his early
youth, before coming to Alaska, he dreamed of finding the mother-lode. A placer camp he knew was ephemera=
l,
while a quartz camp abided, and he kept a score of men in the quest for
months. The mother-lode was n=
ever
found, and, years afterward, he estimated that the search for it had cost h=
im
fifty thousand dollars.
But he was playing
big. Heavy as were his expens=
es, he
won more heavily. He took lay=
s,
bought half shares, shared with the men he grub-staked, and made personal
locations. Day and night his =
dogs
were ready, and he owned the fastest teams; so that when a stampede to a ne=
w discovery
was on, it was Burning Daylight to the fore through the longest, coldest ni=
ghts
till he blazed his stakes next to Discovery. In one way or another (to say
nothing of the many worthless creeks) he came into possession of properties=
on
the good creeks, such as Sulphur, Dominion, Excelsis, Siwash, Cristo, Alham=
bra,
and Doolittle. The thousands =
he
poured out flowed back in tens of thousands. Forty Mile men told the story of h=
is two
tons of flour, and made calculations of what it had returned him that ranged
from half a million to a million. One thing was known beyond all doubt, nam=
ely,
that the half share in the first Eldorado claim, bought by him for a half s=
ack
of flour, was worth five hundred thousand.=
On the other hand, it was told that when Freda, the dancer, arrived =
from
over the passes in a Peterborough canoe in the midst of a drive of mush-ice=
on
the Yukon, and when she offered a thousand dollars for ten sacks and could =
find
no sellers, he sent the flour to her as a present without ever seeing her.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> In the same way ten sacks were sen=
t to
the lone Catholic priest who was starting the first hospital.
His generosity was
lavish. Others called it
insane. At a time when, ridin=
g his
hunch, he was getting half a million for half a sack of flour, it was nothi=
ng
less than insanity to give twenty whole sacks to a dancing-girl and a
priest. But it was his way. M=
oney
was only a marker. It was the=
game
that counted with him. The possession of millions made little change in him,
except that he played the game more passionately. Temperate as he had always been, s=
ave on
rare occasions, now that he had the wherewithal for unlimited drinks and had
daily access to them, he drank even less.&=
nbsp;
The most radical change lay in that, except when on trail, he no lon=
ger
did his own cooking. A broken=
-down
miner lived in his log cabin with him and now cooked for him. But it was the same food: bacon, b=
eans,
flour, prunes, dried fruits, and rice. He still dressed as formerly: overal=
ls,
German socks, moccasins, flannel shirt, fur cap, and blanket coat. He did not take up with cigars, wh=
ich
cost, the cheapest, from half a dollar to a dollar each. The same Bull Durham and brown-pap=
er
cigarette, hand-rolled, contented him.&nbs=
p;
It was true that he kept more dogs, and paid enormous prices for
them. They were not a luxury,=
but a
matter of business. He needed=
speed
in his travelling and stampeding.
And by the same token, he hired a cook. He was too busy to cook for himsel=
f, that
was all. It was poor business,
playing for millions, to spend time building fires and boiling water.
Dawson grew rapid=
ly
that winter of 1896. Money po=
ured
in on Daylight from the sale of town lots.=
He promptly invested it where it would gather more. In fact, he played the dangerous g=
ame of
pyramiding, and no more perilous pyramiding than in a placer camp could be
imagined. But he played with his eyes wide open.
"You-all just
wait till the news of this strike reaches the Outside," he told his
old-timer cronies in the Moosehorn Saloon. "The news won't get out till
next spring. Then there's goi=
ng to
be three rushes. A summer rus=
h of
men coming in light; a fall rush of men with outfits; and a spring rush, the
next year after that, of fifty thousand. You-all won't be able to see the
landscape for chechaquos. Wel=
l, there's
the summer and fall rush of 1897 to commence with. What are you-all going to do about
it?"
"What are you
going to do about it?" a friend demanded.
"Nothing,&qu=
ot;
he answered. "I've sure
already done it. I've got a d=
ozen gangs
strung out up the Yukon getting out logs.&=
nbsp;
You-all'll see their rafts coming down after the river breaks. Cabins! They sure will be worth wh=
at a
man can pay for them next fall. Lumber! It will sure go to top-notch. I've got two sawmills freighting i=
n over
the passes. They'll come down as soon as the lakes open up. And if you-all are thinking of nee=
ding
lumber, I'll make you-all contracts right now--three hundred dollars a
thousand, undressed."
Corner lots in
desirable locations sold that winter for from ten to thirty thousand
dollars. Daylight sent word o=
ut
over the trails and passes for the newcomers to bring down log-rafts, and, =
as a
result, the summer of 1897 saw his sawmills working day and night, on three
shifts, and still he had logs left over with which to build cabins. These cabins, land included, sold =
at
from one to several thousand dollars. Two-story log buildings, in the busin=
ess
part of town, brought him from forty to fifty thousand dollars apiece. These fresh accretions of capital =
were
immediately invested in other ventures.&nb=
sp;
He turned gold over and over, until everything that he touched seeme=
d to
turn to gold.
But that first wi=
ld
winter of Carmack's strike taught Daylight many things. Despite the prodigality of his nat=
ure,
he had poise. He watched the =
lavish
waste of the mushroom millionaires, and failed quite to understand it. According to his nature and outloo=
k, it
was all very well to toss an ante away in a night's frolic. That was what he had done the nigh=
t of
the poker-game in Circle City when he lost fifty thousand--all that he
possessed. But he had looked on that fifty thousand as a mere ante. When it came to millions, it was
different. Such a fortune was a stake, and was not to be sown on bar-room
floors, literally sown, flung broadcast out of the moosehide sacks by drunk=
en millionaires
who had lost all sense of proportion.
There was McMann, who ran up a single bar-room bill of thirty-eight
thousand dollars; and Jimmie the Rough, who spent one hundred thousand a mo=
nth
for four months in riotous living, and then fell down drunk in the snow one=
March
night and was frozen to death; and Swiftwater Bill, who, after spending thr=
ee
valuable claims in an extravagance of debauchery, borrowed three thousand
dollars with which to leave the country, and who, out of this sum, because =
the
lady-love that had jilted him liked eggs, cornered the one hundred and ten
dozen eggs on the Dawson market, paying twenty-four dollars a dozen for them
and promptly feeding them to the wolf-dogs.
Champagne sold at
from forty to fifty dollars a quart, and canned oyster stew at fifteen
dollars. Daylight indulged in=
no
such luxuries. He did not mind treating a bar-room of men to whiskey at fif=
ty
cents a drink, but there was somewhere in his own extravagant nature a sens=
e of
fitness and arithmetic that revolted against paying fifteen dollars for the
contents of an oyster can. On=
the
other hand, he possibly spent more money in relieving hard-luck cases than =
did
the wildest of the new millionaires on insane debauchery. Father Judge, of the hospital, cou=
ld
have told of far more important donations than that first ten sacks of
flour. And old-timers who cam=
e to
Daylight invariably went away relieved according to their need. But fifty
dollars for a quart of fizzy champagne!&nb=
sp;
That was appalling.
And yet he still,=
on
occasion, made one of his old-time hell-roaring nights. But he did so for different reason=
s.
First, it was expected of him because it had been his way in the old days.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> And second, he could afford it.
With the summer r=
ush
from the Outside came special correspondents for the big newspapers and
magazines, and one and all, using unlimited space, they wrote Daylight up; =
so
that, so far as the world was concerned, Daylight loomed the largest figure=
in
Alaska. Of course, after seve=
ral
months, the world became interested in the Spanish War, and forgot all about
him; but in the Klondike itself Daylight still remained the most prominent
figure. Passing along the str=
eets
of Dawson, all heads turned to follow him, and in the saloons chechaquos wa=
tched
him awesomely, scarcely taking their eyes from him as long as he remained i=
n their
range of vision. Not alone wa=
s he
the richest man in the country, but he was Burning Daylight, the pioneer, t=
he
man who, almost in the midst of antiquity of that young land, had crossed t=
he Chilcoot
and drifted down the Yukon to meet those elder giants, Al Mayo and Jack
McQuestion. He was the Burning
Daylight of scores of wild adventures, the man who carried word to the
ice-bound whaling fleet across the tundra wilderness to the Arctic Sea, who
raced the mail from Circle to Salt Water and back again in sixty days, who
saved the whole Tanana tribe from perishing in the winter of '91--in short,=
the
man who smote the chechaquos' imaginations more violently than any other do=
zen men
rolled into one.
He had the fatal
facility for self-advertisement.
Things he did, no matter how adventitious or spontaneous, struck the
popular imagination as remarkable.
And the latest thing he had done was always on men's lips, whether it
was being first in the heartbreaking stampede to Danish Creek, in killing t=
he
record baldface grizzly over on Sulphur Creek, or in winning the single-pad=
dle
canoe race on the Queen's Birthday, after being forced to participate at the
last moment by the failure of the sourdough representative to appear. Thus, one night in the Moosehorn, =
he locked
horns with Jack Kearns in the long-promised return game of poker. The sky and eight o'clock in the m=
orning
were made the limits, and at the close of the game Daylight's winnings were=
two
hundred and thirty thousand dollars.
To Jack Kearns, already a several-times millionaire, this loss was n=
ot
vital. But the whole communit=
y was
thrilled by the size of the stakes, and each one of the dozen correspondent=
s in
the field sent out a sensational article.
[6] To copper: a term in faro, mean=
ing to
play a card to lose.
Despite his many
sources of revenue, Daylight's pyramiding kept him pinched for cash through=
out
the first winter. The pay-gra=
vel,
thawed on bed-rock and hoisted to the surface, immediately froze again. Thus his dumps, containing several
millions of gold, were inaccessible.
Not until the returning sun thawed the dumps and melted the water to
wash them was he able to handle the gold they contained. And then he found himself with a s=
urplus
of gold, deposited in the two newly organized banks; and he was promptly
besieged by men and groups of men to enlist his capital in their enterprise=
s.
But he elected to
play his own game, and he entered combinations only when they were generally
defensive or offensive. Thus,
though he had paid the highest wages, he joined the Mine-owners' Associatio=
n, engineered
the fight, and effectually curbed the growing insubordination of the
wage-earners. Times had chang=
ed.
The old days were gone forever.
This was a new era, and Daylight, the wealthy mine-owner, was loyal =
to
his class affiliations. It was
true, the old-timers who worked for him, in order to be saved from the club=
of the
organized owners, were made foremen over the gang of chechaquos; but this, =
with
Daylight, was a matter of heart, not head.=
In his heart he could not forget the old days, while with his head he
played the economic game according to the latest and most practical methods=
.
But outside of su=
ch
group-combinations of exploiters, he refused to bind himself to any man's
game. He was playing a great =
lone
hand, and he needed all his money for his own backing. The newly founded stock-exchange
interested him keenly. He had=
never
before seen such an institution, but he was quick to see its virtues and to
utilize it. Most of all, it was gambling, and on many an occasion not neces=
sary
for the advancement of his own schemes, he, as he called it, went the stock=
-exchange
a flutter, out of sheer wantonness and fun.
"It sure bea=
ts
faro," was his comment one day, when, after keeping the Dawson specula=
tors
in a fever for a week by alternate bulling and bearing, he showed his hand =
and
cleaned up what would have been a fortune to any other man.
Other men, having
made their strike, had headed south for the States, taking a furlough from =
the
grim Arctic battle. But, aske=
d when
he was going Outside, Daylight always laughed and said when he had finished=
playing
his hand. He also added that =
a man
was a fool to quit a game just when a winning hand had been dealt him.
It was held by the
thousands of hero-worshipping chechaquos that Daylight was a man absolutely
without fear. But Bettles and=
Dan MacDonald
and other sourdoughs shook their heads and laughed as they mentioned
women. And they were right. He had always been afraid of them =
from
the time, himself a lad of seventeen, when Queen Anne, of Juneau, made open=
and
ridiculous love to him. For t=
hat
matter, he never had known women.
Born in a mining-camp where they were rare and mysterious, having no
sisters, his mother dying while he was an infant, he had never been in cont=
act
with them. True, running away=
from
Queen Anne, he had later encountered them on the Yukon and cultivated an ac=
quaintance
with them--the pioneer ones who crossed the passes on the trail of the men =
who
had opened up the first diggings.
But no lamb had ever walked with a wolf in greater fear and trembling
than had he walked with them. It
was a matter of masculine pride that he should walk with them, and he had d=
one
so in fair seeming; but women had remained to him a closed book, and he
preferred a game of solo or seven-up any time.
And now, known as=
the
King of the Klondike, carrying several other royal titles, such as Eldorado
King, Bonanza King, the Lumber Baron, and the Prince of the Stampeders, not=
to
omit the proudest appellation of all, namely, the Father of the Sourdoughs,=
he
was more afraid of women than ever.
As never before they held out their arms to him, and more women were
flocking into the country day by day.
It mattered not whether he sat at dinner in the gold commissioner's
house, called for the drinks in a dancehall, or submitted to an interview f=
rom
the woman representative of the New York Sun, one and all of them held out
their arms.
There was one
exception, and that was Freda, the girl that danced, and to whom he had giv=
en
the flour. She was the only w=
oman
in whose company he felt at ease, for she alone never reached out her
arms. And yet it was from her=
that
he was destined to receive next to his severest fright. It came about in the fall of 1897.=
He was returning from one of his d=
ashes,
this time to inspect Henderson, a creek that entered the Yukon just below t=
he
Stewart. Winter had come on w=
ith a rush,
and he fought his way down the Yukon seventy miles in a frail Peterborough
canoe in the midst of a run of mush-ice.&n=
bsp;
Hugging the rim-ice that had already solidly formed, he shot across =
the
ice-spewing mouth of the Klondike just in time to see a lone man dancing
excitedly on the rim and pointing into the water. Next, he saw the fur-clad body of =
a woman,
face under, sinking in the midst of the driving mush-ice. A lane opening in=
the
swirl of the current, it was a matter of seconds to drive the canoe to the
spot, reach to the shoulder in the water, and draw the woman gingerly to the
canoe's side. It was Freda. And all might yet have been well w=
ith
him, had she not, later, when brought back to consciousness, blazed at him =
with
angry blue eyes and demanded: "Why did you? Oh, why did you?"
This worried
him. In the nights that follo=
wed,
instead of sinking immediately to sleep as was his wont, he lay awake,
visioning her face and that blue blaze of wrath, and conning her words over=
and
over. They rang with sincerity. The
reproach was genuine. She had=
meant
just what she said. And still=
he
pondered.
The next time he
encountered her she had turned away from him angrily and contemptuously.
That was the
thing--love. It caused the
trouble. It was more terrible=
than
frost or famine. Women were a=
ll
very well, in themselves good to look upon and likable; but along came this
thing called love, and they were seared to the bone by it, made so irration=
al
that one could never guess what they would do next.
This Freda-woman =
was
a splendid creature, full-bodied, beautiful, and nobody's fool; but love had
come along and soured her on the world, driving her to the Klondike and to
suicide so compellingly that she was made to hate the man that saved her li=
fe.
Well, he had esca=
ped
love so far, just as he had escaped smallpox; yet there it was, as contagio=
us
as smallpox, and a whole lot worse in running its course. It made men and women do such fear=
ful
and unreasonable things. It w=
as
like delirium tremens, only worse.
And if he, Daylight, caught it, he might have it as badly as any of
them. It was lunacy, stark lu=
nacy,
and contagious on top of it all. A
half dozen young fellows were crazy over Freda. They all wanted to marry her. Yet she, in turn, was crazy over t=
hat
some other fellow on the other side of the world, and would have nothing to=
do
with them.
But it was left to
the Virgin to give him his final fright.&n=
bsp;
She was found one morning dead in her cabin. A shot through the head had done i=
t, and
she had left no message, no explanation.&n=
bsp;
Then came the talk. Some wit, voicing public opinion, called it a ca=
se
of too much Daylight. She had
killed herself because of him.
Everybody knew this, and said so.&n=
bsp;
The correspondents wrote it up, and once more Burning Daylight, King=
of
the Klondike, was sensationally featured in the Sunday supplements of the
United States. The Virgin had
straightened up, so the feature-stories ran, and correctly so. Never had she entered a Dawson City
dance-hall. When she first ar=
rived
from Circle City, she had earned her living by washing clothes. Next, she had bought a sewing-mach=
ine
and made men's drill parkas, fur caps, and moosehide mittens. Then she had gone as a clerk into =
the
First Yukon Bank. All this, a=
nd
more, was known and told, though one and all were agreed that Daylight, whi=
le
the cause, had been the innocent cause of her untimely end.
And the worst of =
it
was that Daylight knew it was true.
Always would he remember that last night he had seen her. He had thought nothing of it at th=
e time;
but, looking back, he was haunted by every little thing that had happened.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> In the light of the tragic event, =
he
could understand everything--her quietness, that calm certitude as if all v=
exing
questions of living had been smoothed out and were gone, and that certain
ethereal sweetness about all that she had said and done that had been almost
maternal. He remembered the w=
ay she
had looked at him, how she had laughed when he narrated Mickey Dolan's mist=
ake
in staking the fraction on Skookum Gulch.&=
nbsp;
Her laughter had been lightly joyous, while at the same time it had
lacked its oldtime robustness. Not that she had been grave or subdued. On the contrary, she had been so
patently content, so filled with peace.
She had fooled hi=
m,
fool that he was. He had even
thought that night that her feeling for him had passed, and he had taken
delight in the thought, and caught visions of the satisfying future friends=
hip
that would be theirs with this perturbing love out of the way.
And then, when he
stood at the door, cap in hand, and said good night. It had struck him at t=
he
time as a funny and embarrassing thing, her bending over his hand and kissi=
ng
it. He had felt like a fool, =
but he
shivered now when he looked back on it and felt again the touch of her lips=
on his
hand. She was saying good-by,=
an
eternal good-by, and he had never guessed.=
At that very moment, and for all the moments of the evening, coolly =
and
deliberately, as he well knew her way, she had been resolved to die. If he had only known it! Untouched by the contagious malady
himself, nevertheless he would have married her if he had had the slightest
inkling of what she contemplated.
And yet he knew, furthermore, that hers was a certain stiff-kneed pr=
ide
that would not have permitted her to accept marriage as an act of
philanthropy. There had reall=
y been
no saving her, after all. The love-disease had fastened upon her, and she h=
ad
been doomed from the first to perish of it.
Her one possible
chance had been that he, too, should have caught it. And he had failed to c=
atch
it. Most likely, if he had, it
would have been from Freda or some other woman. There was Dartworthy, the college =
man
who had staked the rich fraction on Bonanza above Discovery. Everybody knew
that old Doolittle's daughter, Bertha, was madly in love with him. Yet, when he contracted the diseas=
e, of
all women, it had been with the wife of Colonel Walthstone, the great
Guggenhammer mining expert. Result, three lunacy cases: Dartworthy selling =
out
his mine for one-tenth its value; the poor woman sacrificing her respectabi=
lity
and sheltered nook in society to flee with him in an open boat down the Yuk=
on;
and Colonel Walthstone, breathing murder and destruction, taking out after =
them
in another open boat. The who=
le
impending tragedy had moved on down the muddy Yukon, passing Forty Mile and
Circle and losing itself in the wilderness beyond. But there it was, love, disorganiz=
ing men's
and women's lives, driving toward destruction and death, turning topsy-turvy
everything that was sensible and considerate, making bawds or suicides out =
of
virtuous women, and scoundrels and murderers out of men who had always been
clean and square.
For the first tim=
e in
his life Daylight lost his nerve.
He was badly and avowedly frightened. Women were terrible creatures, and=
the love-germ
was especially plentiful in their neighborhood.
And they were so
reckless, so devoid of fear. =
THEY
were not frightened by what had happened to the Virgin. They held out their arms to him mo=
re
seductively than ever. Even w=
ithout
his fortune, reckoned as a mere man, just past thirty, magnificently strong=
and
equally good-looking and good-natured, he was a prize for most normal women=
. But
when to his natural excellences were added the romance that linked with his
name and the enormous wealth that was his, practically every free woman he
encountered measured him with an appraising and delighted eye, to say nothi=
ng
of more than one woman who was not free.&n=
bsp;
Other men might have been spoiled by this and led to lose their head=
s;
but the only effect on him was to increase his fright. As a result he refused most invita=
tions
to houses where women might be met, and frequented bachelor boards and the
Moosehorn Saloon, which had no dance-hall attached.
Six thousand spent
the winter of 1897 in Dawson, work on the creeks went on apace, while beyond
the passes it was reported that one hundred thousand more were waiting for =
the
spring. Late one brief aftern=
oon, Daylight,
on the benches between French Hill and Skookum Hill, caught a wider vision =
of
things. Beneath him lay the r=
ichest
part of Eldorado Creek, while up and down Bonanza he could see for miles. It was a scene of a vast devastati=
on.
The hills, to their tops, had been shorn of trees, and their naked sides sh=
owed
signs of goring and perforating that even the mantle of snow could not
hide. Beneath him, in every d=
irection
were the cabins of men. But n=
ot
many men were visible. A blan=
ket of
smoke filled the valleys and turned the gray day to melancholy twilight.
"It-all's pl=
ain
gophering," Daylight muttered aloud.
He looked at the
naked hills and realized the enormous wastage of wood that had taken
place. From this bird's-eye v=
iew he
realized the monstrous confusion of their excited workings. It was a gigantic inadequacy. Each worked for himself, and the r=
esult
was chaos. In this richest of
diggings it cost out by their feverish, unthinking methods another dollar w=
as
left hopelessly in the earth. Given
another year, and most of the claims would be worked out, and the sum of th=
e gold
taken out would no more than equal what was left behind.
Organization was =
what
was needed, he decided; and his quick imagination sketched Eldorado Creek, =
from
mouth to source, and from mountain top to mountain top, in the hands of one
capable management. Even stea=
m-thawing,
as yet untried, but bound to come, he saw would be a makeshift. What should be done was to hydraul=
ic the
valley sides and benches, and then, on the creek bottom, to use gold-dredges
such as he had heard described as operating in California.
There was the very
chance for another big killing. He
had wondered just what was precisely the reason for the Guggenhammers and t=
he
big English concerns sending in their high-salaried experts. That was their scheme. That was why they had approached h=
im for
the sale of worked-out claims and tailings. They were content to let the sm=
all mine-owners
gopher out what they could, for there would be millions in the leavings.
And, gazing down =
on
the smoky inferno of crude effort, Daylight outlined the new game he would
play, a game in which the Guggenhammers and the rest would have to reckon w=
ith
him. Cut along with the delig=
ht in
the new conception came a weariness. He was tired of the long Arctic years,=
and
he was curious about the Outside--the great world of which he had heard oth=
er
men talk and of which he was as ignorant as a child. There were games out t=
here
to play. It was a larger tabl=
e, and
there was no reason why he with his millions should not sit in and take a h=
and. So it was, that afternoon on Skook=
um
Hill, that he resolved to play this last best Klondike hand and pull for the
Outside.
It took time,
however. He put trusted agent=
s to
work on the heels of great experts, and on the creeks where they began to b=
uy
he likewise bought. Wherever =
they
tried to corner a worked-out creek, they found him standing in the way, own=
ing
blocks of claims or artfully scattered claims that put all their plans to
naught.
"I play you-=
all
wide open to win--am I right" he told them once, in a heated conferenc=
e.
Followed wars,
truces, compromises, victories, and defeats. By 1898, sixty thousand men were o=
n the
Klondike and all their fortunes and affairs rocked back and forth and were
affected by the battles Daylight fought.&n=
bsp;
And more and more the taste for the larger game urged in Daylight's
mouth. Here he was already lo=
cked
in grapples with the great Guggenhammers, and winning, fiercely winning.
The plan was his =
own,
but he sent down to the States for competent engineers to carry it out. In the Rinkabilly watershed, eighty
miles away, he built his reservoir, and for eighty miles the huge wooden co=
nduit
carried the water across country to Ophir.=
Estimated at three millions, the reservoir and conduit cost nearer
four. Nor did he stop with
this. Electric power plants w=
ere
installed, and his workings were lighted as well as run by electricity. Other sourdoughs, who had struck i=
t rich
in excess of all their dreams, shook their heads gloomily, warned him that =
he
would go broke, and declined to invest in so extravagant a venture.
But Daylight smil=
ed,
and sold out the remainder of his town-site holdings. He sold at the right time, at the =
height
of the placer boom. When he prophesied to his old cronies, in the Moosehorn
Saloon, that within five years town lots in Dawson could not be given away,
while the cabins would be chopped up for firewood, he was laughed at roundl=
y, and
assured that the mother-lode would be found ere that time. But he went ahead, when his need f=
or
lumber was finished, selling out his sawmills as well. Likewise, he began to get rid of h=
is
scattered holdings on the various creeks, and without thanks to any one he =
finished
his conduit, built his dredges, imported his machinery, and made the gold of
Ophir immediately accessible. And
he, who five years before had crossed over the divide from Indian River and
threaded the silent wilderness, his dogs packing Indian fashion, himself li=
ving
Indian fashion on straight moose meat, now heard the hoarse whistles calling
his hundreds of laborers to work, and watched them toil under the white gla=
re
of the arc-lamps.
But having done t=
he
thing, he was ready to depart. And
when he let the word go out, the Guggenhammers vied with the English concer=
ns
and with a new French company in bidding for Ophir and all its plant. The Guggenhammers bid highest, and=
the
price they paid netted Daylight a clean million. It was current rumor that he was w=
orth
anywhere from twenty to thirty millions.&n=
bsp;
But he alone knew just how he stood, and that, with his last claim s=
old
and the table swept clean of his winnings, he had ridden his hunch to the t=
une
of just a trifle over eleven millions.
His departure was=
a
thing that passed into the history of the Yukon along with his other
deeds. All the Yukon was his =
guest,
Dawson the seat of the festivity.
On that one last night no man's dust save his own was good. Drinks were not to be purchased. Every saloon ran open, with extra =
relays
of exhausted bartenders, and the drinks were given away. A man who refused this hospitality=
, and
persisted in paying, found a dozen fights on his hands. The veriest chechaquos rose up to =
defend
the name of Daylight from such insult.&nbs=
p;
And through it all, on moccasined feet, moved Daylight, hell-roaring
Burning Daylight, over-spilling with good nature and camaraderie, howling h=
is
he-wolf howl and claiming the night as his, bending men's arms down on the =
bars,
performing feats of strength, his bronzed face flushed with drink, his black
eyes flashing, clad in overalls and blanket coat, his ear-flaps dangling and
his gauntleted mittens swinging from the cord across the shoulders. But this time it was neither an an=
te nor
a stake that he threw away, but a mere marker in the game that he who held =
so many
markers would not miss.
As a night, it eclipsed anything that Dawson had ever seen. It was Daylight's desire to make it memorable, and his attempt was a success. A goodly portion of Dawson got dr= unk that night. The fall weather = was on, and, though the freeze-up of the Yukon still delayed, the thermometer was d= own to twenty-five below zero and falling.&nbs= p; Wherefore, it was necessary to organize gangs of life-savers, who patrolled the streets to pick up drunken men from where they fell in the sn= ow and where an hour's sleep would be fatal.&= nbsp; Daylight, whose whim it was to make them drunk by hundreds and by thousands, was the one who initiated this life saving. He wanted Dawson to have its night= , but, in his deeper processes never careless nor wanton, he saw to it that it was= a night without accident. And, like h= is olden nights, his ukase went forth that there should be no quarrelling nor fighting, offenders to be dealt with by him personally. Nor did he have to deal with any. = Hundreds of devoted followers saw to it that the evilly disposed were rolled in the = snow and hustled off to bed. In the great world, where great captains of industry die, all wheels under their erstwhile management are stopped for a minute.<= o:p>
But in the Klondi=
ke,
such was its hilarious sorrow at the departure of its captain, that for
twenty-four hours no wheels revolved.
Even great Ophir, with its thousand men on the pay-roll, closed
down. On the day after the ni=
ght
there were no men present or fit to go to work.
Next morning, at break of day, Dawson said good-by. The thousands that lined the bank wore mittens and their ear-flaps pulled down and tied. It was thirty below zero, the rim-ice was thickening,= and the Yukon carried a run of mush-ice. From the deck of the Seattle, Daylight waved and called his farewells. As the lines were = cast off and the steamer swung out into the current, those near him saw the mois= ture well up in Daylight's eyes. I= n a way, it was to him departure from his native land, this grim Arctic region which was practically the only land he had known. He tore off his cap and waved it.<= o:p>
"Good-by,
you-all!" he called.
"Good-by, you-all!"
PART II=
In no blaze of gl=
ory
did Burning Daylight descend upon San Francisco. Not only had he been
forgotten, but the Klondike along with him. The world was interested in other
things, and the Alaskan adventure, like the Spanish War, was an old story.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> Many things had happened since the=
n. Exciting things were happening eve=
ry
day, and the sensation-space of newspapers was limited. The effect of being
ignored, however, was an exhilaration.&nbs=
p;
Big man as he had been in the Arctic game, it merely showed how much
bigger was this new game, when a man worth eleven millions, and with a hist=
ory
such as his, passed unnoticed.
He settled down in
St. Francis Hotel, was interviewed by the cub-reporters on the hotel-run, a=
nd
received brief paragraphs of notice for twenty-four hours. He grinned to himself, and began t=
o look
around and get acquainted with the new order of beings and things. He was very awkward and very
self-possessed. In addition t=
o the
stiffening afforded his backbone by the conscious ownership of eleven milli=
ons,
he possessed an enormous certitude.
Nothing abashed h=
im,
nor was he appalled by the display and culture and power around him. It was another kind of wilderness,=
that
was all; and it was for him to learn the ways of it, the signs and trails a=
nd water-holes
where good hunting lay, and the bad stretches of field and flood to be
avoided. As usual, he fought =
shy of
the women. He was still too b=
adly
scared to come to close quarters with the dazzling and resplendent creatures
his own millions made accessible.
They looked and
longed, but he so concealed his timidity that he had all the seeming of mov=
ing
boldly among them. Nor was it=
his
wealth alone that attracted them.
He was too much a man, and too much an unusual type of man. Young yet, barely thirty-six, emin=
ently
handsome, magnificently strong, almost bursting with a splendid virility, h=
is free
trail-stride, never learned on pavements, and his black eyes, hinting of gr=
eat
spaces and unwearied with the close perspective of the city dwellers, drew =
many
a curious and wayward feminine glance.&nbs=
p;
He saw, grinned knowingly to himself, and faced them as so many dang=
ers,
with a cool demeanor that was a far greater personal achievement than had t=
hey
been famine, frost, or flood.
He had come down =
to
the States to play the man's game, not the woman's game; and the men he had=
not
yet learned. They struck him =
as soft--soft
physically; yet he divined them hard in their dealings, but hard under an
exterior of supple softness. =
It
struck him that there was something cat-like about them. He met them in the clubs, and wond=
ered
how real was the good-fellowship they displayed and how quickly they would
unsheathe their claws and gouge and rend.&=
nbsp;
"That's the proposition," he repeated to himself; "wh=
at
will they-all do when the play is close and down to brass tacks?" He felt unwarrantably suspicious of
them. "They're sure slick," was his secret judgment; and from bit=
s of
gossip dropped now and again he felt his judgment well buttressed. On the other hand, they radiated an
atmosphere of manliness and the fair play that goes with manliness. They might gouge and rend in a
fight--which was no more than natural; but he felt, somehow, that they would
gouge and rend according to rule. This was the impression he got of them--a
generalization tempered by knowledge that there was bound to be a certain
percentage of scoundrels among them.
Several months pa=
ssed
in San Francisco during which time he studied the game and its rules, and
prepared himself to take a hand. He
even took private instruction in English, and succeeded in eliminating his
worst faults, though in moments of excitement he was prone to lapse into &q=
uot;you-all,"
"knowed," "sure," and similar solecisms. He learned to eat and dress and
generally comport himself after the manner of civilized man; but through it=
all
he remained himself, not unduly reverential nor considerative, and never
hesitating to stride rough-shod over any soft-faced convention if it got in=
his
way and the provocation were great enough.=
Also, and unlike the average run of weaker men coming from back
countries and far places, he failed to reverence the particular tin gods
worshipped variously by the civilized tribes of men. He had seen totems before, and kne=
w them
for what they were.
Tiring of being
merely an onlooker, he ran up to Nevada, where the new gold-mining boom was
fairly started--"just to try a flutter," as he phrased it to
himself. The flutter on the T=
onopah
Stock Exchange lasted just ten days, during which time his smashing, wild-b=
ull
game played ducks and drakes with the more stereotyped gamblers, and at the=
end
of which time, having gambled Floridel into his fist, he let go for a net
profit of half a million.
Whereupon, smacking his lips, he departed for San Francisco and the =
St.
Francis Hotel. It tasted good=
, and
his hunger for the game became more acute.
And once more the
papers sensationalized him. B=
URNING
DAYLIGHT was a big-letter headline again.&=
nbsp;
Interviewers flocked about him.
Old files of
magazines and newspapers were searched through, and the romantic and histor=
ic
Elam Harnish, Adventurer of the Frost, King of the Klondike, and father of =
the
Sourdoughs, strode upon the breakfast table of a million homes along with t=
he
toast and breakfast foods. Even before his elected time, he was forcibly
launched into the game. Financiers and promoters, and all the flotsam and
jetsam of the sea of speculation surged upon the shores of his eleven
millions. In self-defence he =
was
compelled to open offices. He=
had
made them sit up and take notice, and now, willy-nilly, they were dealing h=
im
hands and clamoring for him to play.
Well, play he would; he'd show 'em; even despite the elated prophesi=
es
made of how swiftly he would be trimmed--prophesies coupled with descriptio=
ns
of the bucolic game he would play and of his wild and woolly appearance.
He dabbled in lit=
tle
things at first--"stalling for time," as he explained it to
Holdsworthy, a friend he had made at the Alta-Pacific Club. Daylight himself was a member of t=
he
club, and Holdsworthy had proposed him.&nb=
sp;
And it was well that Daylight played closely at first, for he was
astounded by the multitudes of sharks--"ground-sharks," he called
them--that flocked about him.
He saw through th=
eir
schemes readily enough, and even marveled that such numbers of them could f=
ind
sufficient prey to keep them going. Their rascality and general dubiousness=
was
so transparent that he could not understand how any one could be taken in by
them.
And then he found
that there were sharks and sharks.
Holdsworthy treated him more like a brother than a mere fellow-clubm=
an,
watching over him, advising him, and introducing him to the magnates of the=
local
financial world. Holdsworthy's
family lived in a delightful bungalow near Menlo Park, and here Daylight sp=
ent
a number of weekends, seeing a fineness and kindness of home life of which =
he
had never dreamed. Holdsworth=
y was
an enthusiast over flowers, and a half lunatic over raising prize poultry; =
and
these engrossing madnesses were a source of perpetual joy to Daylight, who
looked on in tolerant good humor. Such amiable weaknesses tokened the
healthfulness of the man, and drew Daylight closer to him. A prosperous, successful business =
man without
great ambition, was Daylight's estimate of him--a man too easily satisfied =
with
the small stakes of the game ever to launch out in big play.
On one such week-=
end
visit, Holdsworthy let him in on a good thing, a good little thing, a brick=
yard
at Glen Ellen. Daylight liste=
ned closely
to the other's description of the situation. It was a most reasonable venture, =
and
Daylight's one objection was that it was so small a matter and so far out of
his line; and he went into it only as a matter of friendship, Holdsworthy
explaining that he was himself already in a bit, and that while it was a go=
od
thing, he would be compelled to make sacrifices in other directions in orde=
r to
develop it. Daylight advanced=
the
capital, fifty thousand dollars, and, as he laughingly explained afterward,
"I was stung, all right, but it wasn't Holdsworthy that did it half as
much as those blamed chickens and fruit-trees of his."
It was a good les=
son,
however, for he learned that there were few faiths in the business world, a=
nd
that even the simple, homely faith of breaking bread and eating salt counted
for little in the face of a worthless brickyard and fifty thousand dollars =
in
cash.
But the sharks and
sharks of various orders and degrees, he concluded, were on the surface.
So it was that he
resolved to leave the little men, the Holdsworthys, alone; and, while he met
them in good-fellowship, he chummed with none, and formed no deep
friendships. He did not disli=
ke the
little men, the men of the Alta-Pacific, for instance. He merely did not elect to choose =
them
for partners in the big game in which he intended to play. What that big ga=
me
was, even he did not know. He=
was
waiting to find it. And in the
meantime he played small hands, investing in several arid-lands reclamation
projects and keeping his eyes open for the big chance when it should come
along.
And then he met J=
ohn
Dowsett, the great John Dowsett.
The whole thing was fortuitous.&nbs=
p;
This cannot be doubted, as Daylight himself knew, it was by the mere=
st
chance, when in Los Angeles, that he heard the tuna were running strong at
Santa Catalina, and went over to the island instead of returning directly to
San Francisco as he had planned. There he met John Dowsett, resting off for
several days in the middle of a flying western trip. Dowsett had of course
heard of the spectacular Klondike King and his rumored thirty millions, and=
he certainly
found himself interested by the man in the acquaintance that was formed.
Somewhere along in this acquaintanceship the idea must have popped into his
brain. But he did not broach =
it,
preferring to mature it carefully.
So he talked in large general ways, and did his best to be agreeable=
and
win Daylight's friendship.
It was the first =
big
magnate Daylight had met face to face, and he was pleased and charmed. There was such a kindly humanness =
about
the man, such a genial democraticness, that Daylight found it hard to reali=
ze that
this was THE John Dowsett, president of a string of banks, insurance manipu=
lator,
reputed ally of the lieutenants of Standard Oil, and known ally of the
Guggenhammers.
Nor did his looks
belie his reputation and his manner.
Physically, he
guaranteed all that Daylight knew of him.&=
nbsp;
Despite his sixty years and snow-white hair, his hand-shake was firm=
ly
hearty, and he showed no signs of decrepitude, walking with a quick, snappy
step, making all movements definitely and decisively. His skin was a healthy pink, and h=
is
thin, clean lips knew the way to writhe heartily over a joke. He had honest blue eyes of palest =
blue;
they looked out at one keenly and frankly from under shaggy gray brows. His mind showed itself disciplined=
and
orderly, and its workings struck Daylight as having all the certitude of a
steel trap. He was a man who =
KNEW
and who never decorated his knowledge with foolish frills of sentiment or e=
motion. That he was accustomed to command =
was
patent, and every word and gesture tingled with power. Combined with this was his sympath=
y and
tact, and Daylight could note easily enough all the earmarks that distingui=
shed
him from a little man of the Holdsworthy caliber. Daylight knew also his
history, the prime old American stock from which he had descended, his own =
war
record, the John Dowsett before him who had been one of the banking buttres=
ses
of the Cause of the Union, the Commodore Dowsett of the War of 1812 the Gen=
eral
Dowsett of Revolutionary fame, and that first far Dowsett, owner of lands a=
nd slaves
in early New England.
"He's sure t=
he
real thing," he told one of his fellow-clubmen afterwards, in the
smoking-room of the Alta-Pacific.
"I tell you, Gallon, he was a genuine surprise to me. I knew the big ones had to be like=
that,
but I had to see him to really know it. He's one of the fellows that does
things. You can see it sticki=
ng out
all over him. He's one in a thousand, that's straight, a man to tie to. There's no limit to any game he pl=
ays,
and you can stack on it that he plays right up to the handle. I bet he can lose or win half a do=
zen
million without batting an eye."
Gallon puffed at =
his
cigar, and at the conclusion of the panegyric regarded the other curiously;=
but
Daylight, ordering cocktails, failed to note this curious stare.
"Going in wi=
th
him on some deal, I suppose," Gallon remarked.
"Nope, not t= he slightest idea. Here's kindness. I was just explaining that I'd com= e to understand how these big fellows do big things. Why, d'ye know, he gave me such a feeling that he knew everything, that I was plumb ashamed of myself."<= o:p>
"I guess I c=
ould
give him cards and spades when it comes to driving a dog-team, though,"
Daylight observed, after a meditative pause. "And I really believe I could=
put
him on to a few wrinkles in poker and placer mining, and maybe in paddling a
birch canoe. And maybe I stan=
d a better
chance to learn the game he's been playing all his life than he would stand=
of
learning the game I played up North."
It was not long
afterward that Daylight came on to New York. A letter from John Dowsett had bee=
n the
cause--a simple little typewritten letter of several lines. But Daylight had thrilled as he re=
ad
it. He remembered the thrill =
that
was his, a callow youth of fifteen, when, in Tempas Butte, through lack of a
fourth man, Tom Galsworthy, the gambler, had said, "Get in, Kid; take a
hand." That thrill was h=
is now. The bald, typewritten sentences se=
emed
gorged with mystery. "Ou=
r Mr.
Howison will call upon you at your hotel.&=
nbsp;
He is to be trusted. W=
e must
not be seen together. You will
understand after we have had our talk." Daylight conned the words over and
over. That was it. The big ga=
me had
arrived, and it looked as if he were being invited to sit in and take a
hand. Surely, for no other re=
ason
would one man so peremptorily invite another man to make a journey across t=
he
continent.
They met--thanks =
to
"our" Mr. Howison,--up the Hudson, in a magnificent country
home. Daylight, according to
instructions, arrived in a private motor-car which had been furnished him.
Whose car it was he did not know any more than did he know the owner of the
house, with its generous, rolling, tree-studded lawns. Dowsett was already there, and ano=
ther
man whom Daylight recognized before the introduction was begun. It was
Nathaniel Letton, and none other.
Daylight had seen his face a score of times in the magazines and
newspapers, and read about his standing in the financial world and about his
endowed University of Daratona. He,
likewise, struck Daylight as a man of power, though he was puzzled in that =
he
could find no likeness to Dowsett. <=
/span>Except
in the matter of cleanness,--a cleanness that seemed to go down to the deep=
est
fibers of him,--Nathaniel Letton was unlike the other in every particular.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> Thin to emaciation, he seemed a co=
ld
flame of a man, a man of a mysterious, chemic sort of flame, who, under a
glacier-like exterior, conveyed, somehow, the impression of the ardent heat=
of
a thousand suns. His large gr=
ay
eyes were mainly responsible for this feeling, and they blazed out feverish=
ly
from what was almost a death's-head, so thin was the face, the skin of which
was a ghastly, dull, dead white.
Not more than fifty, thatched with a sparse growth of iron-gray hair=
, he
looked several times the age of Dowsett.&n=
bsp;
Yet Nathaniel Letton possessed control--Daylight could see that plai=
nly.
He was a thin-faced ascetic, living in a state of high, attenuated calm--a
molten planet under a transcontinental ice sheet. And yet, above all most of all, Da=
ylight
was impressed by the terrific and almost awful cleanness of the man. There was no dross in him. He had all the seeming of having b=
een
purged by fire. Daylight had =
the feeling
that a healthy man-oath would be a deadly offence to his ears, a sacrilege =
and
a blasphemy.
They drank--that =
is,
Nathaniel Letton took mineral water served by the smoothly operating machin=
e of
a lackey who inhabited the place, while Dowsett took Scotch and soda and
Daylight a cocktail. Nobody s=
eemed
to notice the unusualness of a Martini at midnight, though Daylight looked =
sharply
for that very thing; for he had long since learned that Martinis had their
strictly appointed times and places.
But he liked Martinis, and, being a natural man, he chose deliberate=
ly
to drink when and how he pleased.
Others had noticed this peculiar habit of his, but not so Dowsett and
Letton; and Daylight's secret thought was: "They sure wouldn't bat an =
eye
if I called for a glass of corrosive sublimate."
Leon Guggenhammer
arrived in the midst of the drink, and ordered Scotch. Daylight studied him curiously.
Echoes! Daylight could not escape the shoc=
k of
the phrase--echoes had come down to them of the fight into which he had flu=
ng
all his strength and the strength of his Klondike millions. The Guggenhammers sure must go som=
e when
a fight of that dimension was no more than a skirmish of which they deigned=
to
hear echoes.
"They sure p=
lay
an almighty big game down here," was his conclusion, accompanied by a
corresponding elation that it was just precisely that almighty big game in
which he was about to be invited to play a hand. For the moment he poignant=
ly
regretted that rumor was not true, and that his eleven millions were not in
reality thirty millions. Well=
, that
much he would be frank about; he would let them know exactly how many stack=
s of
chips he could buy.
Leon Guggenhammer=
was
young and fat. Not a day more=
than
thirty, his face, save for the adumbrated puff sacks under the eyes, was as
smooth and lineless as a boy's. He,
too, gave the impression of cleanness. He showed in the pink of health; his
unblemished, smooth-shaven skin shouted advertisement of his splendid physi=
cal
condition. In the face of that
perfect skin, his very fatness and mature, rotund paunch could be nothing o=
ther
than normal. He was constitut=
ed to
be prone to fatness, that was all.
The talk soon cen=
tred
down to business, though Guggenhammer had first to say his say about the
forthcoming international yacht race and about his own palatial steam yacht,
the Electra, whose recent engines were already antiquated. Dowsett broached the plan, aided b=
y an
occasional remark from the other two, while Daylight asked questions. Whatever the proposition was, he w=
as
going into it with his eyes open.
And they filled his eyes with the practical vision of what they had =
in
mind.
"They will n=
ever
dream you are with us," Guggenhammer interjected, as the outlining of =
the
matter drew to a close, his handsome Jewish eyes flashing enthusiastically.=
"They'll think you are raidin=
g on
your own in proper buccaneer style."
"Of course, =
you
understand, Mr. Harnish, the absolute need for keeping our alliance in the
dark," Nathaniel Letton warned gravely.
Daylight nodded h=
is
head. "And you also unde=
rstand,"
Letton went on, "that the result can only be productive of good. The thing is legitimate and right,=
and
the only ones who may be hurt are the stock gamblers themselves. It is not an attempt to smash the
market. As you see yourself, =
you
are to bull the market. The h=
onest
investor will be the gainer."
"Yes, that's=
the
very thing," Dowsett said.
"The commercial need for copper is continually increasing. Ward Valley Copper, and all that i=
t stands
for,--practically one-quarter of the world's supply, as I have shown you,--=
is a
big thing, how big, even we can scarcely estimate. Our arrangements are
made. We have plenty of capit=
al
ourselves, and yet we want more.
Also, there is too much Ward Valley out to suit our present plans. Thus we kill both birds with one
stone--"
"And I am the
stone," Daylight broke in with a smile.
"Yes, just
that. Not only will you bull =
Ward
Valley, but you will at the same time gather Ward Valley in. This will be of inestimable advant=
age to
us, while you and all of us will profit by it as well. And as Mr. Letton has
pointed out, the thing is legitimate and square. On the eighteenth the
directors meet, and, instead of the customary dividend, a double dividend w=
ill
be declared."
"And where w=
ill
the shorts be then?" Leon Guggenhammer cried excitedly.
"The shorts =
will
be the speculators," Nathaniel Letton explained, "the gamblers, t=
he
froth of Wall Street--you understand.
The genuine investors will not be hurt. Furthermore, they will have learne=
d for the
thousandth time to have confidence in Ward Valley. And with their confidence we can c=
arry
through the large developments we have outlined to you."
"There will =
be
all sorts of rumors on the street," Dowsett warned Daylight, "but=
do
not let them frighten you. Th=
ese
rumors may even originate with us.
You can see how and why clearly.&nb=
sp;
But rumors are to be no concern of yours. You are on the inside. All you hav=
e to
do is buy, buy, buy, and keep on buying to the last stroke, when the direct=
ors
declare the double dividend. Ward Valley will jump so that it won't be feas=
ible
to buy after that."
"What we
want," Letton took up the strain, pausing significantly to sip his min=
eral
water, "what we want is to take large blocks of Ward Valley off the ha=
nds
of the public. We could do th=
is
easily enough by depressing the market and frightening the holders. And we could do it more cheaply in=
such
fashion. But we are absolute
masters of the situation, and we are fair enough to buy Ward Valley on a ri=
sing
market. Not that we are phila=
nthropists,
but that we need the investors in our big development scheme. Nor do we lose directly by the
transaction. The instant the action of the directors becomes known, Ward Va=
lley
will rush heavenward. In addi=
tion,
and outside the legitimate field of the transaction, we will pinch the shor=
ts
for a very large sum. But tha=
t is
only incidental, you understand, and in a way, unavoidable. On the other hand, we shall not tu=
rn up
our noses at that phase of it. The
shorts shall be the veriest gamblers, of course, and they will get no more =
than
they deserve."
"And one oth=
er
thing, Mr. Harnish," Guggenhammer said, "if you exceed your avail=
able
cash, or the amount you care to invest in the venture, don't fail immediate=
ly
to call on us. Remember, we a=
re
behind you."
"Yes, we are
behind you," Dowsett repeated.
Nathaniel Letton
nodded his head in affirmation.
"Now about t=
hat
double dividend on the eighteenth--" John Dowsett drew a slip of paper
from his note-book and adjusted his glasses.
"Let me show=
you
the figures. Here, you see...=
"
And thereupon he
entered into a long technical and historical explanation of the earnings and
dividends of Ward Valley from the day of its organization.
The whole confere=
nce
lasted not more than an hour, during which time Daylight lived at the topmo=
st
of the highest peak of life that he had ever scaled. These men were big players. They were powers. True, as he knew himself, they wer=
e not
the real inner circle. They d=
id not
rank with the Morgans and Harrimans.
And yet they were in touch with those giants and were themselves les=
ser
giants. He was pleased, too, =
with
their attitude toward him. Th=
ey met
him deferentially, but not patronizingly.&=
nbsp;
It was the deference of equality, and Daylight could not escape the
subtle flattery of it; for he was fully aware that in experience as well as
wealth they were far and away beyond him.
"We'll shake=
up
the speculating crowd," Leon Guggenhammer proclaimed jubilantly, as th=
ey
rose to go. "And you are=
the
man to do it, Mr. Harnish. Th=
ey are
bound to think you are on your own, and their shears are all sharpened for =
the
trimming of newcomers like you."
"They will
certainly be misled," Letton agreed, his eerie gray eyes blazing out f=
rom
the voluminous folds of the huge Mueller with which he was swathing his nec=
k to
the ears. "Their minds r=
un in
ruts. It is the unexpected th=
at
upsets their stereotyped calculations--any new combination, any strange fac=
tor,
any fresh variant. And you wi=
ll be all
that to them, Mr. Harnish. An=
d I
repeat, they are gamblers, and they will deserve all that befalls them. They clog and cumber all legitimate
enterprise. You have no idea =
of the
trouble they cause men like us--sometimes, by their gambling tactics, upset=
ting
the soundest plans, even overturning the stablest institutions."
Dowsett and young
Guggenhammer went away in one motor-car, and Letton by himself in another.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> Daylight, with still in the forefr=
ont of
his consciousness all that had occurred in the preceding hour, was deeply i=
mpressed
by the scene at the moment of departure.&n=
bsp;
The three machines stood like weird night monsters at the gravelled =
foot
of the wide stairway under the unlighted porte-cochere. It was a dark night, and the light=
s of
the motor-cars cut as sharply through the blackness as knives would cut thr=
ough
solid substance. The obsequio=
us
lackey--the automatic genie of the house which belonged to none of the thre=
e men,--stood
like a graven statue after having helped them in. The fur-coated chauffeurs
bulked dimly in their seats. =
One
after the other, like spurred steeds, the cars leaped into the blackness, t=
ook the
curve of the driveway, and were gone.
Daylight's car was
the last, and, peering out, he caught a glimpse of the unlighted house that
loomed hugely through the darkness like a mountain. Whose was it? he wondered. How came they to use it for their =
secret
conference? Would the lackey
talk? How about the chauffeur=
s? Were they trusted men like
"our" Mr. Howison?
Mystery? The affair was alive with it. And hand in hand with mystery walk=
ed Power. He leaned back and inhaled his
cigarette. Big things were af=
oot. The cards were shuffled even the f=
or a
mighty deal, and he was in on it.
He remembered back to his poker games with Jack Kearns, and laughed
aloud. He had played for thou=
sands
in those days on the turn of a card; but now he was playing for millions. And on the eighteenth, when that
dividend was declared, he chuckled at the confusion that would inevitably
descend upon the men with the sharpened shears waiting to trim him--him,
Burning Daylight.
Back at his hotel,
though nearly two in the morning, he found the reporters waiting to intervi=
ew
him. Next morning there were
more. And thus, with blare of=
paper
trumpet, was he received by New York.
Once more, with beating of toms-toms and wild hullaballoo, his
picturesque figure strode across the printed sheet. The King of the Klondike, the hero=
of
the Arctic, the thirty-million-dollar millionaire of the North, had come to=
New
York. What had he come for? To trim the New Yorkers as he had
trimmed the Tonopah crowd in Nevada?
Wall Street had best watch out, for the wild man of Klondike had just
come to town. Or, perchance, =
would
Wall Street trim him? Wall St=
reet
had trimmed many wild men; would this be Burning Daylight's fate? Daylight grinned to himself, and g=
ave
out ambiguous interviews. It =
helped
the game, and he grinned again, as he meditated that Wall Street would sure
have to go some before it trimmed him.
They were prepared
for him to play, and, when heavy buying of Ward Valley began, it was quickly
decided that he was the operator. Financial gossip buzzed and hummed. He was after the Guggenhammers once
more. The story of Ophir was =
told
over again and sensationalized until even Daylight scarcely recognized it.
Still, it was all grist to his mill.
The stock gamblers were clearly befooled. Each day he increased his buying, =
and so
eager were the sellers that Ward Valley rose but slowly. "It sure beats poker,"
Daylight whispered gleefully to himself, as he noted the perturbation he was
causing. The newspapers hazar=
ded
countless guesses and surmises, and Daylight was constantly dogged by a sma=
ll
battalion of reporters. His o=
wn interviews
were gems. Discovering the de=
light
the newspapers took in his vernacular, in his "you-alls," and
"sures," and "surge-ups," he even exaggerated these
particularities of speech, exploiting the phrases he had heard other
frontiersmen use, and inventing occasionally a new one of his own.
A wildly exciting
time was his during the week preceding Thursday the eighteenth. Not only was he gambling as he had=
never
gambled before, but he was gambling at the biggest table in the world and f=
or
stakes so large that even the case-hardened habitues of that table were
compelled to sit up. In spite=
of
the unlimited selling, his persistent buying compelled Ward Valley steadily=
to
rise, and as Thursday approached, the situation became acute. Something had=
to
smash. How much Ward Valley w=
as
this Klondike gambler going to buy?
How much could he buy? What was
the Ward Valley crowd doing all this time?=
Daylight appreciated the interviews with them that appeared--intervi=
ews
delightfully placid and non-committal.&nbs=
p;
Leon Guggenhammer even hazarded the opinion that this Northland Croe=
sus
might possibly be making a mistake. But not that they cared, John Dowsett
explained. Nor did they
object. While in the dark reg=
arding
his intentions, of one thing they were certain; namely, that he was bulling
Ward Valley. And they did not=
mind
that. No matter what happened=
to
him and his spectacular operations, Ward Valley was all right, and would re=
main
all right, as firm as the Rock of Gibraltar. No; they had no Ward Valley to sel=
l,
thank you. This purely fictit=
ious
state of the market was bound shortly to pass, and Ward Valley was not to be
induced to change the even tenor of its way by any insane stock exchange
flurry. "It is purely ga=
mbling
from beginning to end," were Nathaniel Letton's words; "and we re=
fuse
to have anything to do with it or to take notice of it in any way."
During this time
Daylight had several secret meetings with his partners--one with Leon
Guggenhammer, one with John Dowsett, and two with Mr. Howison. Beyond congratulations, they really
amounted to nothing; for, as he was informed, everything was going
satisfactorily.
But on Tuesday
morning a rumor that was disconcerting came to Daylight's ears. It was also published in the Wall =
Street
Journal, and it was to the effect, on apparently straight inside informatio=
n,
that on Thursday, when the directors of Ward Valley met, instead of the cus=
tomary
dividend being declared, an assessment would be levied. It was the first check Daylight had
received. It came to him with=
a
shock that if the thing were so he was a broken man. And it also came to him that all t=
his
colossal operating of his was being done on his own money. Dowsett,
Guggenhammer, and Letton were risking nothing. It was a panic, short-lived, it was
true, but sharp enough while it lasted to make him remember Holdsworthy and=
the
brick-yard, and to impel him to cancel all buying orders while he rushed to=
a
telephone.
"Nothing in
it--only a rumor," came Leon Guggenhammer's throaty voice in the
receiver. "As you know,&=
quot;
said Nathaniel Letton, "I am one of the directors, and I should certai=
nly
be aware of it were such action contemplated." And John Dowsett: "I warned y=
ou
against just such rumors. The=
re is
not an iota of truth in it--certainly not.=
I tell you on my honor as a gentleman."
Heartily ashamed =
of
himself for his temporary loss of nerve, Daylight returned to his task. The cessation of buying had turned=
the
Stock Exchange into a bedlam, and down all the line of stocks the bears wer=
e smashing. Ward Valley, as the ape, received =
the
brunt of the shock, and was already beginning to tumble. Daylight calmly doubled his buying
orders. And all through Tuesd=
ay and
Wednesday, and Thursday morning, he went on buying, while Ward Valley rose
triumphantly higher. Still they sold, and still he bought, exceeding his po=
wer
to buy many times over, when delivery was taken into account. What of that? On this day the double dividend wo=
uld be
declared, he assured himself. The pinch of delivery would be on the
shorts. They would be making =
terms
with him.
And then the
thunderbolt struck. True to t=
he
rumor, Ward Valley levied the assessment.&=
nbsp;
Daylight threw up his arms.
He verified the report and quit.&nb=
sp;
Not alone Ward Valley, but all securities were being hammered down by
the triumphant bears. As for =
Ward
Valley, Daylight did not even trouble to learn if it had fetched bottom or =
was
still tumbling. Not stunned, =
not
even bewildered, while Wall Street went mad, Daylight withdrew from the fie=
ld
to think it over. After a sho=
rt conference
with his brokers, he proceeded to his hotel, on the way picking up the even=
ing
papers and glancing at the head-lines.&nbs=
p;
BURNING DAYLIGHT CLEANED OUT, he read; DAYLIGHT GETS HIS; ANOTHER
WESTERNER FAILS TO FIND EASY MONEY.
As he entered his hotel, a later edition announced the suicide of a
young man, a lamb, who had followed Daylight's play.
What in hell did =
he
want to kill himself for? was
Daylight's muttered comment.
He passed up to h=
is
rooms, ordered a Martini cocktail, took off his shoes, and sat down to
think. After half an hour he =
roused
himself to take the drink, and as he felt the liquor pass warmingly through=
his
body, his features relaxed into a slow, deliberate, yet genuine grin. He was
laughing at himself.
"Buncoed, by
gosh!" he muttered.
Then the grin died
away, and his face grew bleak and serious. Leaving out his interests in the
several Western reclamation projects (which were still assessing heavily), =
he
was a ruined man. But harder =
hit than
this was his pride. He had be=
en so
easy. They had gold-bricked h=
im,
and he had nothing to show for it.
The simplest farmer would have had documents, while he had nothing b=
ut a
gentleman's agreement, and a verbal one at that. Gentleman's agreement. He snorted over it. John Dowsett's voice, just as he h=
ad
heard it in the telephone receiver, sounded in his ears the words, "On=
my
honor as a gentleman." T=
hey
were sneak-thieves and swindlers, that was what they were, and they had giv=
en
him the double-cross. The
newspapers were right. He had=
come
to New York to be trimmed, and Messrs. Dowsett, Letton, and Guggenhammer had
done it. He was a little fish=
, and
they had played with him ten days--ample time in which to swallow him, along
with his eleven millions. Of
course, they had been unloading on him all the time, and now they were buyi=
ng
Ward Valley back for a song ere the market righted itself. Most probably, out of his share of=
the
swag, Nathaniel Letton would erect a couple of new buildings for that
university of his. Leon Gugge=
nhammer
would buy new engines for that yacht, or a whole fleet of yachts. But what the devil Dowsett would d=
o with
his whack, was beyond him--most likely start another string of banks.
And Daylight sat =
and
consumed cocktails and saw back in his life to Alaska, and lived over the g=
rim
years in which he had battled for his eleven millions. For a while murder ate at his hear=
t, and
wild ideas and sketchy plans of killing his betrayers flashed through his m=
ind.
That was what that young man should have done instead of killing himself. He should have gone gunning. Dayli=
ght
unlocked his grip and took out his automatic pistol--a big Colt's .44. He released the safety catch with =
his
thumb, and operating the sliding outer barrel, ran the contents of the clip
through the mechanism. The ei=
ght cartridges
slid out in a stream. He refi=
lled
the clip, threw a cartridge into the chamber, and, with the trigger at full
cock, thrust up the safety ratchet.
He shoved the weapon into the side pocket of his coat, ordered anoth=
er
Martini, and resumed his seat.
He thought steadi=
ly
for an hour, but he grinned no more.
Lines formed in his face, and in those lines were the travail of the
North, the bite of the frost, all that he had achieved and suffered--the lo=
ng,
unending weeks of trail, the bleak tundra shore of Point Barrow, the smashi=
ng ice-jam
of the Yukon, the battles with animals and men, the lean-dragged days of
famine, the long months of stinging hell among the mosquitoes of the Koyoku=
k,
the toil of pick and shovel, the scars and mars of pack-strap and tump-line,
the straight meat diet with the dogs, and all the long procession of twenty
full years of toil and sweat and endeavor.
At ten o'clock he
arose and pored over the city directory.&n=
bsp;
Then he put on his shoes, took a cab, and departed into the night. T=
wice
he changed cabs, and finally fetched up at the night office of a detective
agency. He superintended the thing himself, laid down money in advance in p=
rofuse
quantities, selected the six men he needed, and gave them their instruction=
s. Never, for so simple a task, had t=
hey
been so well paid; for, to each, in addition to office charges, he gave a f=
ive-hundred-dollar
bill, with the promise of another if he succeeded. Some time next day, he w=
as
convinced, if not sooner, his three silent partners would come together.
"Stop at
nothing, boys," were his final instructions. "I must have this information=
. Whatever you do, whatever happens,=
I'll
sure see you through."
Returning to his =
hotel,
he changed cabs as before, went up to his room, and with one more cocktail =
for
a nightcap, went to bed and to sleep. In the morning he dressed and shaved,
ordered breakfast and the newspapers sent up, and waited. But he did not drink. By nine o'clock his telephone bega=
n to
ring and the reports to come in.
Nathaniel Letton was taking the train at Tarrytown. John Dowsett was coming down by the
subway. Leon Guggenhammer had=
not
stirred out yet, though he was assuredly within. And in this fashion, with a map of=
the
city spread out before him, Daylight followed the movements of his three me=
n as
they drew together. Nathaniel
Letton was at his offices in the Mutual-Solander Building. Next arrived Guggenhammer. Dowsett was still in his own
offices. But at eleven came t=
he
word that he also had arrived, and several minutes later Daylight was in a
hired motor-car and speeding for the Mutual-Solander Building.
Nathaniel Letton =
was
talking when the door opened; he ceased, and with his two companions gazed =
with
controlled perturbation at Burning Daylight striding into the room. The free, swinging movements of th=
e trail-traveler
were unconsciously exaggerated in that stride of his. In truth, it seemed to
him that he felt the trail beneath his feet.
"Howdy,
gentlemen, howdy," he remarked, ignoring the unnatural calm with which
they greeted his entrance. He=
shook
hands with them in turn, striding from one to another and gripping their ha=
nds
so heartily that Nathaniel Letton could not forbear to wince. Daylight flung himself into a mass=
ive
chair and sprawled lazily, with an appearance of fatigue. The leather grip he had brought in=
to the
room he dropped carelessly beside him on the floor.
"Goddle migh=
ty,
but I've sure been going some," he sighed. "We sure trimmed them
beautiful. It was real slick.=
And the beauty of the play never d=
awned
on me till the very end. It w=
as
pure and simple knock down and drag out.&n=
bsp;
And the way they fell for it was amazin'."
The geniality in =
his
lazy Western drawl reassured them.
He was not so formidable, after all. Despite the act that he had effect=
ed an entrance
in the face of Letton's instructions to the outer office, he showed no
indication of making a scene or playing rough.
"Well,"
Daylight demanded good-humoredly, "ain't you-all got a good word for y=
our
pardner? Or has his sure enou=
gh
brilliance plumb dazzled you-all?"
Letton made a dry
sound in his throat. Dowsett =
sat
quietly and waited, while Leon Guggenhammer struggled into articulation.
"You have ce=
rtainly
raised Cain," he said.
Daylight's black =
eyes
flashed in a pleased way.
"Didn't I,
though!" he proclaimed jubilantly.&nb=
sp;
"And didn't we fool'em! I was totally surprised. I never dreamed they would be that=
easy.
"And now,&qu=
ot;
he went on, not permitting the pause to grow awkward, "we-all might as
well have an accounting. I'm
pullin' West this afternoon on that blamed Twentieth Century." He tugged at his grip, got it open=
, and
dipped into it with both his hands.
"But don't forget, boys, when you-all want me to hornswoggle Wa=
ll
Street another flutter, all you-all have to do is whisper the word. I'll sure be right there with the
goods."
His hands emerged,
clutching a great mass of stubs, check-books, and broker's receipts. These he deposited in a heap on th=
e big
table, and dipping again, he fished out the stragglers and added them to the
pile. He consulted a slip of paper, drawn from his coat pocket, and read al=
oud:--
"Ten million
twenty-seven thousand and forty-two dollars and sixty-eight cents is my fig=
urin'
on my expenses. Of course
that-all's taken from the winnings before we-all get to figurin' on the
whack-up. Where's your figures? It
must a' been a Goddle mighty big clean-up."
The three men loo=
ked
their bepuzzlement at one another.
The man was a bigger fool than they had imagined, or else he was pla=
ying
a game which they could not divine.
Nathaniel Letton
moistened his lips and spoke up.
"It will take
some hours yet, Mr. Harnish, before the full accounting can be made. Mr. Howison is at work upon it now.
We--ah--as you say, it has been a gratifying clean-up. Suppose we have lunch together and=
talk
it over. I'll have the clerks=
work
through the noon hour, so that you will have ample time to catch your
train."
Dowsett and
Guggenhammer manifested a relief that was almost obvious. The situation was
clearing. It was disconcertin=
g,
under the circumstances, to be pent in the same room with this heavy-muscle=
d, Indian-like
man whom they had robbed. They
remembered unpleasantly the many stories of his strength and recklessness.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> If Letton could only put him off l=
ong
enough for them to escape into the policed world outside the office door, a=
ll
would be well; and Daylight showed all the signs of being put off.
"I'm real gl=
ad
to hear that," he said. "I don't want to miss that tra=
in,
and you-all have done me proud, gentlemen, letting me in on this deal. I just do appreciate it without be=
ing
able to express my feelings. =
But I
am sure almighty curious, and I'd like terrible to know, Mr. Letton, what y=
our
figures of our winning is. Can
you-all give me a rough estimate?"
Nathaniel Letton =
did
not look appealingly at his two friends, but in the brief pause they felt t=
hat
appeal pass out from him. Dowsett, of sterner mould than the others, began =
to
divine that the Klondiker was playing.&nbs=
p;
But the other two were still older the blandishment of his child-like
innocence.
"It is
extremely--er--difficult," Leon Guggenhammer began. "You see, Ward Valley has
fluctuated so, er--"
"That no
estimate can possibly be made in advance," Letton supplemented.
"Approximate=
it,
approximate it," Daylight counselled cheerfully.
"It don't hu=
rt
if you-all are a million or so out one side or the other. The figures'll straighten that up.=
But I'm that curious I'm just itch=
ing
all over. What d'ye say?"=
;
"Why continu=
e to
play at cross purposes?" Dowsett demanded abruptly and coldly. "Let us have the explanation =
here
and now. Mr. Harnish is laboring under a false impression, and he should be=
set
straight. In this deal--"=
;
But Daylight
interrupted. He had played to=
o much
poker to be unaware or unappreciative of the psychological factor, and he
headed Dowsett off in order to play the denouncement of the present game in=
his
own way.
"Speaking of
deals," he said, "reminds me of a poker game I once seen in Reno,
Nevada. It wa'n't what you-all
would call a square game. They-all was tin-horns that sat in. But they was a tenderfoot--short-h=
orns
they-all are called out there. He
stands behind the dealer and sees that same dealer give hisself four aces o=
ffen
the bottom of the deck. The
tenderfoot is sure shocked. H=
e slides
around to the player facin' the dealer across the table. "'Say,' he
whispers, 'I seen the dealer deal hisself four aces.' "'Well, an' =
what
of it?" says the player. "'I'm tryin'=
to
tell you-all because I thought you-all ought to know,' says the
tenderfoot. 'I tell you-all I=
seen
him deal hisself four aces.' "'Say, miste=
r,'
says the player, 'you-all'd better get outa here. You-all don't understand =
the
game. It's his deal, ain't
it?'" The laughter that
greeted his story was hollow and perfunctory, but Daylight appeared not to
notice it. "Your story =
has
some meaning, I suppose," Dowsett said pointedly. Daylight looked at
him innocently and did not reply.
He turned jovially to Nathaniel Letton. "Fire
away," he said. "Gi=
ve us
an approximation of our winning. As I said before, a million out one way or=
the
other won't matter, it's bound to be such an almighty big winning."
"I fear you =
are
under a misapprehension, Mr. Harnish.
There are no winnings to be divided with you. Now don't get excited, I beg of yo=
u. I
have but to press this button..."
Far from excited,
Daylight had all the seeming of being stunned. He felt absently in his vest
pocket for a match, lighted it, and discovered that he had no cigarette.
"Do you-all =
mind
saying that over again?" Daylight said. "Seems to me I ain't got it j=
ust
exactly right. You-all
said...?"
He hung with pain=
ful
expectancy on Nathaniel Letton's utterance.
"I said you =
were
under a misapprehension, Mr. Harnish, that was all. You have been stock
gambling, and you have been hard hit. But neither Ward Valley, nor I, nor my
associates, feel that we owe you anything."
Daylight pointed =
at
the heap of receipts and stubs on the table.
"That-all
represents ten million twenty-seven thousand and forty-two dollars and
sixty-eight cents, hard cash. Ain't
it good for anything here?"
Letton smiled and
shrugged his shoulders.
Daylight looked at
Dowsett and murmured:--
"I guess that
story of mine had some meaning, after all." He laughed in a sickly fashion.
He gazed at the h=
eap
on the table with an air of stupefaction.
"And that-all
ain't worth the paper it's written on. Gol dast it, you-all can sure deal '=
em
'round when you get a chance. Oh, no, I ain't a-kicking. It was your deal, and you-all cert=
ainly
done me, and a man ain't half a man that squeals on another man's deal. And now the hand is played out, an=
d the
cards are on the table, and the deal's over, but..."
His hand, dipping
swiftly into his inside breast pocket, appeared with the big Colt's automat=
ic.
"As I was
saying, the old deal's finished.
Now it's MY deal, and I'm a-going to see if I can hold them four ace=
s--
"Take your h=
and
away, you whited sepulchre!" he cried sharply.
Nathaniel Letton's
hand, creeping toward the push-button on the desk, was abruptly arrested.
"Change
chairs," Daylight commanded.
"Take that chair over there, you gangrene-livered skunk. Jump! By God! or I'll make you lea=
k till
folks'll think your father was a water hydrant and your mother a sprinkling=
-cart. You-all move your chair alongside,
Guggenhammer; and you-all Dowsett, sit right there, while I just irrelevant=
ly
explain the virtues of this here automatic. She's loaded for big game and she =
goes off
eight times. She's a sure hum=
mer
when she gets started.
"Preliminary
remarks being over, I now proceed to deal. Remember, I ain't making no rema=
rks
about your deal. You done your
darndest, and it was all right. But
this is my deal, and it's up to me to do my darndest. In the first place, you-all know
me. I'm Burning Daylight--sav=
vee? Ain't afraid of God, devil, death,=
nor
destruction. Them's my four aces, and they sure copper your bets. Look at that there living skeleton.
Letton, you're sure afraid to die.
Your bones is all rattling together you're that scared. And look at that fat Jew there. Th=
is
little weapon's sure put the fear of God in his heart. He's yellow as a sick
persimmon. Dowsett, you're a =
cool
one. You-all ain't batted an =
eye
nor turned a hair. That's bec=
ause
you're great on arithmetic. A=
nd
that makes you-all dead easy in this deal of mine. You're sitting there and
adding two and two together, and you-all know I sure got you skinned. You know me, and that I ain't afra=
id of nothing. And you-all adds up all your money=
and
knows you ain't a-going to die if you can help it." "I'll see you
hanged," was Dowsett's retort. "Not by a da=
mned
sight. When the fun starts, y=
ou're
the first I plug. I'll hang all right, but you-all won't live to see it.
You-all die here and now while I'll die subject to the law's
delay--savvee? Being dead, wi=
th
grass growing out of your carcasses, you won't know when I hang, but I'll s=
ure
have the pleasure a long time of knowing you-all beat me to it." Daylight paused.<=
o:p> "You surely
wouldn't kill us?" Letton asked in a queer, thin voice. Daylight shook his
head. "It's sure t=
oo
expensive. You-all ain't worth
it. I'd sooner have my chips
back. And I guess you-all'd s=
ooner
give my chips back than go to the dead-house." A long silence
followed. "Well, I've =
done
dealt. It's up to you-all to
play. But while you're delibe=
rating,
I want to give you-all a warning: if that door opens and any one of you cus=
ses
lets on there's anything unusual, right here and then I sure start
plugging. They ain't a soul'l=
l get
out the room except feet first." A long session of
three hours followed. The dec=
iding
factor was not the big automatic pistol, but the certitude that Daylight wo=
uld
use it. Not alone were the three men convinced of this, but Daylight himsel=
f was
convinced. He was firmly reso=
lved
to kill the men if his money was not forthcoming. It was not an easy matter, on the =
spur
of the moment, to raise ten millions in paper currency, and there were
vexatious delays. A dozen tim=
es Mr.
Howison and the head clerk were summoned into the room. On these occasions the pistol lay =
on
Daylight's lap, covered carelessly by a newspaper, while he was usually eng=
aged
in rolling or lighting his brown-paper cigarettes. But in the end, the thing was
accomplished. A suit-case was
brought up by one of the clerks from the waiting motor-car, and Daylight
snapped it shut on the last package of bills. He paused at the door to make his =
final
remarks. "There's thr=
ee
several things I sure want to tell you-all. When I get outside this door, you-=
all'll
be set free to act, and I just want to warn you-all about what to do. In the first place, no warrants fo=
r my arrest--savvee? This money's mine, and I ain't rob=
bed
you of it. If it gets out how=
you gave
me the double-cross and how I done you back again, the laugh'll be on you, =
and
it'll sure be an almighty big laugh. You-all can't afford that laugh. Besid=
es,
having got back my stake that you-all robbed me of, if you arrest me and tr=
y to
rob me a second time, I'll go gunning for you-all, and I'll sure get you. No little fraid-cat shrimps like y=
ou-all
can skin Burning Daylight. If=
you
win you lose, and there'll sure be some several unexpected funerals around =
this
burg.
"Just look m=
e in
the eye, and you-all'll savvee I mean business. Them stubs and receipts on =
the
table is all yourn. Good day.=
"
As the door shut
behind him, Nathaniel Letton sprang for the telephone, and Dowsett intercep=
ted
him.
"What are you
going to do?" Dowsett demanded.
"The police.=
It's downright robbery. I won't stand it. I tell you I won't stand it."=
Dowsett smiled
grimly, but at the same time bore the slender financier back and down into =
his
chair.
"We'll talk =
it
over," he said; and in Leon Guggenhammer he found an anxious ally.
And nothing ever =
came
of it. The thing remained a s=
ecret
with the three men. Nor did
Daylight ever give the secret away, though that afternoon, leaning back in =
his
stateroom on the Twentieth Century, his shoes off, and feet on a chair, he
chuckled long and heartily. N=
ew York
remained forever puzzled over the affair; nor could it hit upon a rational
explanation. By all rights, Burning Daylight should have gone broke, yet it=
was
known that he immediately reappeared in San Francisco possessing an apparen=
tly
unimpaired capital. This was
evidenced by the magnitude of the enterprises he engaged in, such as, for
instance, Panama Mail, by sheer weight of money and fighting power wresting=
the
control away from Shiftily and selling out in two months to the Harriman
interests at a rumored enormous advance.
Back in San
Francisco, Daylight quickly added to his reputation In ways it was not an
enviable reputation. Men were
afraid of him. He became know=
n as a
fighter, a fiend, a tiger. Hi=
s play
was a ripping and smashing one, and no one knew where or how his next blow
would fall. The element of surprise was large. He balked on the unexpected, and, =
fresh
from the wild North, his mind not operating in stereotyped channels, he was
able in unusual degree to devise new tricks and stratagems. And once he won the advantage, he
pressed it remorselessly. &qu=
ot;As
relentless as a Red Indian," was said of him, and it was said truly.
On the other hand=
, he
was known as "square."
His word was as good as his bond, and this despite the fact that he
accepted nobody's word. He al=
ways
shied at propositions based on gentlemen's agreements, and a man who ventur=
ed
his honor as a gentleman, in dealing with Daylight, inevitably was treated =
to
an unpleasant time. Daylight =
never
gave his own word unless he held the whip-hand. It was a case with the other fellow
taking it or nothing.
Legitimate invest=
ment
had no place in Daylight's play. It
tied up his money, and reduced the element of risk. It was the gambling side of busine=
ss
that fascinated him, and to play in his slashing manner required that his m=
oney
must be ready to hand. It was never tied up save for short intervals, for he
was principally engaged in turning it over and over, raiding here, there, a=
nd
everywhere, a veritable pirate of the financial main. A five-per cent safe
investment had no attraction for him; but to risk millions in sharp, harsh
skirmish, standing to lose everything or to win fifty or a hundred per cent,
was the savor of life to him. He
played according to the rules of the game, but he played mercilessly. When he got a man or a corporation=
down
and they squealed, he gouged no less hard.=
Appeals for financial mercy fell on deaf ears. He was a free lance, and had no fr=
iendly
business associations. Such
alliances as were formed from time to time were purely affairs of expedienc=
y,
and he regarded his allies as men who would give him the double-cross or ru=
in
him if a profitable chance presented.
In spite of this point of view, he was faithful to his allies. But he was faithful just as long a=
s they
were and no longer. The treason had to come from them, and then it was 'Ware
Daylight.
The business men =
and
financiers of the Pacific coast never forgot the lesson of Charles Klinkner=
and
the California & Altamont Trust Company. Klinkner was the president.
The reason for his
savageness was that he despised the men with whom he played. He had a conviction that not one i=
n a
hundred of them was intrinsically square; and as for the square ones, he
prophesied that, playing in a crooked game, they were sure to lose and in t=
he
long run go broke. His New Yo=
rk
experience had opened his eyes. He
tore the veils of illusion from the business game, and saw its nakedness. He generalized upon industry and s=
ociety
somewhat as follows:--
Society, as
organized, was a vast bunco game.
There were many hereditary inefficients--men and women who were not =
weak
enough to be confined in feeble-minded homes, but who were not strong enoug=
h to
be ought else than hewers of wood and drawers of water.
Then there were t=
he
fools who took the organized bunco game seriously, honoring and respecting
it. They were easy game for t=
he
others, who saw clearly and knew the bunco game for what it was.
Work, legitimate
work, was the source of all wealth.
That was to say, whether it was a sack of potatoes, a grand piano, o=
r a
seven-passenger touring car, it came into being only by the performance of
work. Where the bunco came in=
was
in the distribution of these things after labor had created them. He failed to see the horny-handed =
sons
of toil enjoying grand pianos or riding in automobiles. How this came about was explained =
by the
bunco. By tens of thousands a=
nd
hundreds of thousands men sat up nights and schemed how they could get betw=
een
the workers and the things the workers produced. These schemers were the business
men. When they got between the
worker and his product, they took a whack out of it for themselves The size=
of
the whack was determined by no rule of equity; but by their own strength an=
d swinishness. It was always a case of "all =
the
traffic can bear." He sa=
w all
men in the business game doing this.
One day, in a mel=
low
mood (induced by a string of cocktails and a hearty lunch), he started a
conversation with Jones, the elevator boy. Jones was a slender, mop-headed,
man-grown, truculent flame of an individual who seemed to go out of his way=
to
insult his passengers. It was this that attracted Daylight's interest, and =
he
was not long in finding out what was the matter with Jones. He was a proletarian, according to=
his
own aggressive classification, and he had wanted to write for a living. Failing to win with the magazines,=
and
compelled to find himself in food and shelter, he had gone to the little va=
lley
of Petacha, not a hundred miles from Los Angeles. Here, toiling in the day-time, he
planned to write and study at night.
But the railroad charged all the traffic would bear. Petacha was a desert valley, and p=
roduced
only three things: cattle, fire-wood, and charcoal. For freight to Los Angeles on a ca=
rload
of cattle the railroad charged eight dollars. This, Jones explained, was due to =
the
fact that the cattle had legs and could be driven to Los Angeles at a cost
equivalent to the charge per car load.&nbs=
p;
But firewood had no legs, and the railroad charged just precisely
twenty-four dollars a carload.
This was a fine
adjustment, for by working hammer-and-tongs through a twelve-hour day, after
freight had been deducted from the selling price of the wood in Los Angeles,
the wood-chopper received one dollar and sixty cents. Jones had thought to get ahead of =
the
game by turning his wood into charcoal.&nb=
sp;
His estimates were satisfactory.&nb=
sp;
But the railroad also made estimates. It issued a rate of forty-two doll=
ars a
car on charcoal. At the end of
three months, Jones went over his figures, and found that he was still maki=
ng
one dollar and sixty cents a day.
"So I
quit," Jones concluded.
"I went hobbling for a year, and I got back at the railroads. Leaving out the little things, I c=
ame
across the Sierras in the summer and touched a match to the snow-sheds. They only had a little
thirty-thousand-dollar fire. I guess that squared up all balances due on
Petacha."
"Son, ain't =
you
afraid to be turning loose such information?" Daylight gravely demande=
d.
"Not on your
life," quoth Jones. &quo=
t;They
can't prove it. You could say=
I
said so, and I could say I didn't say so, and a hell of a lot that evidence
would amount to with a jury."
Daylight went into
his office and meditated awhile.
That was it: all the traffic would bear. From top to bottom, that was the r=
ule of
the game; and what kept the game going was the fact that a sucker was born =
every
minute. If a Jones were born =
every
minute, the game wouldn't last very long.&=
nbsp;
Lucky for the players that the workers weren't Joneses.
But there were ot=
her
and larger phases of the game.
Little business men, shopkeepers, and such ilk took what whack they
could out of the product of the worker; but, after all, it was the large
business men who formed the workers through the little business men. When all was said and done, the la=
tter,
like Jones in Petacha Valley, got no more than wages out of their whack.
Thus, all unread =
in
philosophy, Daylight preempted for himself the position and vocation of a
twentieth-century superman. He
found, with rare and mythical exceptions, that there was no noblesse oblige
among the business and financial supermen.=
As a clever traveler had announced in an after-dinner speech at the
Alta-Pacific, "There was honor amongst thieves, and this was what
distinguished thieves from honest men." That was it. It hit the nail on the head. These modern supermen were a lot of
sordid banditti who had the successful effrontery to preach a code of right=
and
wrong to their victims which they themselves did not practise. With them, a man's word was good j=
ust as
long as he was compelled to keep it.
THOU SHALT NOT STEAL was only applicable to the honest worker. They, the supermen, were above such
commandments. They certainly =
stole
and were honored by their fellows according to the magnitude of their
stealings.
The more Daylight
played the game, the clearer the situation grew. Despite the fact that every
robber was keen to rob every other robber, the band was well organized. It practically controlled the poli=
tical machinery
of society, from the ward politician up to the Senate of the United
States. It passed laws that g=
ave it
privilege to rob. It enforced=
these
laws by means of the police, the marshals, the militia and regular army, and
the courts. And it was a snap=
. A superman's chiefest danger was h=
is
fellow-superman. The great st=
upid
mass of the people did not count.
They were constituted of such inferior clay that the veriest chicane=
ry
fooled them. The superman
manipulated the strings, and when robbery of the workers became too slow or
monotonous, they turned loose and robbed one another.
Daylight was
philosophical, but not a philosopher.
He had never read the books.
He was a hard-headed, practical man, and farthest from him was any
intention of ever reading the books. He had lived life in the simple, where
books were not necessary for an understanding of life, and now life in the
complex appeared just as simple. He
saw through its frauds and fictions, and found it as elemental as on the Yu=
kon.
Men were made of the same stuff.
They had the same passions and desires. Finance was poker on a larger
scale. The men who played wer=
e the
men who had stakes. The worke=
rs
were the fellows toiling for grubstakes.&n=
bsp;
He saw the game played out according to the everlasting rules, and he
played a hand himself. The gi=
gantic
futility of humanity organized and befuddled by the bandits did not shock
him. It was the natural order=
. Practically all human endeavors we=
re
futile. He had seen so much of it.
His partners had starved and died on the Stewart. Hundreds of old-ti=
mers
had failed to locate on Bonanza and Eldorado, while Swedes and chechaquos h=
ad
come in on the moose-pasture and blindly staked millions. It was life, and life was a savage=
proposition
at best. Men in civilization =
robbed
because they were so made. Th=
ey
robbed just as cats scratched, famine pinched, and frost bit.
So it was that
Daylight became a successful financier.&nb=
sp;
He did not go in for swindling the workers. Not only did he not have the heart=
for it,
but it did not strike him as a sporting proposition. The workers were so easy, so stupi=
d. It
was more like slaughtering fat hand-reared pheasants on the English preserv=
es
he had heard about. The sport=
to him,
was in waylaying the successful robbers and taking their spoils from them.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> There was fun and excitement in th=
at,
and sometimes they put up the very devil of a fight. Like Robin Hood of old,
Daylight proceeded to rob the rich; and, in a small way, to distribute to t=
he needy.
But he was charit=
able
after his own fashion. The gr=
eat
mass of human misery meant nothing to him.=
That was part of the everlasting order. He had no patience with the
organized charities and the professional charity mongers. Nor, on the other hand, was what h=
e gave
a conscience dole. He owed no=
man,
and restitution was unthinkable.
What he gave was a largess, a free, spontaneous gift; and it was for
those about him. He never
contributed to an earthquake fund in Japan nor to an open-air fund in New Y=
ork
City. Instead, he financed Jo=
nes,
the elevator boy, for a year that he might write a book. When he learned that the wife of h=
is
waiter at the St. Francis was suffering from tuberculosis, he sent her to
Arizona, and later, when her case was declared hopeless, he sent the husban=
d,
too, to be with her to the end. Likewise, he bought a string of horse-hair
bridles from a convict in a Western penitentiary, who spread the good news
until it seemed to Daylight that half the convicts in that institution were
making bridles for him. He bo=
ught
them all, paying from twenty to fifty dollars each for them. They were beautiful and honest thi=
ngs,
and he decorated all the available wall-space of his bedroom with them.
The grim Yukon li=
fe
had failed to make Daylight hard.
It required civilization to produce this result. In the fierce, savage game he now =
played,
his habitual geniality imperceptibly slipped away from him, as did his lazy
Western drawl. As his speech =
became
sharp and nervous, so did his mental processes. In the swift rush of the game he f=
ound
less and less time to spend on being merely good-natured. The change marked his face itself.=
The lines grew
sterner. Less often appeared =
the
playful curl of his lips, the smile in the wrinkling corners of his eyes. The eyes themselves, black and fla=
shing,
like an Indian's, betrayed glints of cruelty and brutal consciousness of
power. His tremendous vitalit=
y remained,
and radiated from all his being, but it was vitality under the new aspect of
the man-trampling man-conqueror.
His battles with elemental nature had been, in a way, impersonal; his
present battles were wholly with the males of his species, and the hardship=
s of
the trail, the river, and the frost marred him far less than the bitter kee=
nness
of the struggle with his fellows.
He still had
recrudescence of geniality, but they were largely periodical and forced, and
they were usually due to the cocktails he took prior to meal-time. In the North, he had drunk deeply =
and at
irregular intervals; but now his drinking became systematic and disciplined=
. It was an unconscious development,=
but
it was based upon physical and mental condition. The cocktails served as an inhibit=
ion. Without
reasoning or thinking about it, the strain of the office, which was essenti=
ally
due to the daring and audacity of his ventures, required check or cessation;
and he found, through the weeks and months, that the cocktails supplied this
very thing. They constituted a
stone wall. He never drank du=
ring
the morning, nor in office hours; but the instant he left the office he
proceeded to rear this wall of alcoholic inhibition athwart his
consciousness. The office bec=
ame immediately
a closed affair. It ceased to
exist. In the afternoon, after
lunch, it lived again for one or two hours, when, leaving it, he rebuilt the
wall of inhibition. Of course,
there were exceptions to this; and, such was the rigor of his discipline, t=
hat
if he had a dinner or a conference before him in which, in a business way, =
he encountered
enemies or allies and planned or prosecuted campaigns, he abstained from
drinking. But the instant the
business was settled, his everlasting call went out for a Martini, and for a
double-Martini at that, served in a long glass so as not to excite comment.=
Into Daylight's l=
ife
came Dede Mason. She came rat=
her
imperceptibly. He had accepted her impersonally along with the office
furnishing, the office boy, Morrison, the chief, confidential, and only cle=
rk,
and all the rest of the accessories of a superman's gambling place of busin=
ess.
Had he been asked any time during the first months she was in his employ, he
would have been unable to tell the color of her eyes. From the fact that she was a demib=
londe,
there resided dimly in his subconsciousness a conception that she was a
brunette. Likewise he had an =
idea
that she was not thin, while there was an absence in his mind of any idea t=
hat
she was fat. As to how she dr=
essed,
he had no ideas at all. He ha=
d no
trained eye in such matters, nor was he interested. He took it for granted,=
in
the lack of any impression to the contrary, that she was dressed some how.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> He knew her as "Miss Mason,&q=
uot;
and that was all, though he was aware that as a stenographer she seemed qui=
ck and
accurate. This impression, ho=
wever,
was quite vague, for he had had no experience with other stenographers, and
naturally believed that they were all quick and accurate.
One morning, sign=
ing
up letters, he came upon an I shall. Glancing quickly over the page for sim=
ilar
constructions, he found a number of I wills. The I shall was alone. It stood out conspicuously. He pressed the call-bell twice, an=
d a
moment later Dede Mason entered.
"Did I say that, Miss Mason?" he asked, extending the lett=
er
to her and pointing out the criminal phrase. A shade of annoyance crossed her
face. She stood convicted.
"My
mistake," she said. &quo=
t;I am
sorry. But it's not a mistake=
, you know,"
she added quickly.
"How do you =
make
that out?" challenged Daylight.
"It sure don't sound right, in my way of thinking."
She had reached t=
he
door by this time, and now turned the offending letter in her hand. "It's right just the same.&qu=
ot;
"But that wo=
uld
make all those I wills wrong, then," he argued.
"It does,&qu=
ot;
was her audacious answer.
"Shall I change them?"
"I shall be =
over
to look that affair up on Monday."&nb=
sp;
Daylight repeated the sentence from the letter aloud. He did it with a grave, serious ai=
r,
listening intently to the sound of his own voice. He shook his head. "It don't sound right, Miss M=
ason.
It just don't sound right. Why, nobody writes to me that way. They all say I
will--educated men, too, some of them.&nbs=
p;
Ain't that so?"
"Yes," =
she
acknowledged, and passed out to her machine to make the correction.
It chanced that d=
ay
that among the several men with whom he sat at luncheon was a young English=
man,
a mining engineer. Had it hap=
pened any
other time it would have passed unnoticed, but, fresh from the tilt with his
stenographer, Daylight was struck immediately by the Englishman's I shall.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> Several times, in the course of the
meal, the phrase was repeated, and Daylight was certain there was no mistak=
e about
it.
After luncheon he
cornered Macintosh, one of the members whom he knew to have been a college =
man,
because of his football reputation.
"Look here,
Bunny," Daylight demanded, "which is right, I shall be over to lo=
ok
that affair up on Monday, or I will be over to look that affair up on
Monday?"
The ex-football
captain debated painfully for a minute.&nb=
sp;
"Blessed if I know," he confessed. "Which way do I say it?"=
"Oh, I will,=
of
course."
"Then the ot=
her
is right, depend upon it. I a=
lways
was rotten on grammar."
On the way back to
the office, Daylight dropped into a bookstore and bought a grammar; and for=
a
solid hour, his feet up on the desk, he toiled through its pages. "Knock off my head with little
apples if the girl ain't right," he communed aloud at the end of the
session. For the first time it
struck him that there was something about his stenographer. He had accepted her up to then, as=
a female
creature and a bit of office furnishing.&n=
bsp;
But now, having demonstrated that she knew more grammar than did
business men and college graduates, she became an individual. She seemed to
stand out in his consciousness as conspicuously as the I shall had stood ou=
t on
the typed page, and he began to take notice.
He managed to wat=
ch
her leaving that afternoon, and he was aware for the first time that she was
well-formed, and that her manner of dress was satisfying. He knew none of the details of wom=
en's dress,
and he saw none of the details of her neat shirt-waist and well-cut tailor =
suit. He saw only the effect in a genera=
l,
sketchy way. She looked right=
. This was in the absence of anything
wrong or out of the way.
"She's a trim
little good-looker," was his verdict, when the outer office door close=
d on
her.
The next morning,
dictating, he concluded that he liked the way she did her hair, though for =
the
life of him he could have given no description of it. The impression was pleasing, that =
was
all.
She sat between h=
im
and the window, and he noted that her hair was light brown, with hints of
golden bronze. A pale sun, sh=
ining
in, touched the golden bronze into smouldering fires that were very pleasin=
g to
behold. Funny, he thought, th=
at he
had never observed this phenomenon before.
In the midst of t=
he
letter he came to the construction which had caused the trouble the day
before. He remembered his wre=
stle
with the grammar, and dictated.
"I shall meet
you halfway this proposition--"
Miss Mason gave a
quick look up at him. The act=
ion
was purely involuntary, and, in fact, had been half a startle of surprise. =
The next
instant her eyes had dropped again, and she sat waiting to go on with the
dictation. But in that moment=
of
her glance Daylight had noted that her eyes were gray. He was later to learn that at time=
s there
were golden lights in those same gray eyes; but he had seen enough, as it w=
as,
to surprise him, for he became suddenly aware that he had always taken her =
for
a brunette with brown eyes, as a matter of course.
"You were ri=
ght,
after all," he confessed, with a sheepish grin that sat incongruously =
on
his stern, Indian-like features.
Again he was rewa=
rded
by an upward glance and an acknowledging smile, and this time he verified t=
he
fact that her eyes were gray.
"But it don't
sound right, just the same," he complained. At this she laughed outright.
"I beg your
pardon," she hastened to make amends, and then spoiled it by adding,
"but you are so funny."
Daylight began to
feel a slight awkwardness, and the sun would persist in setting her hair
a-smouldering.
"I didn't me=
an
to be funny," he said.
"That was wh=
y I
laughed. But it is right, and
perfectly good grammar."
"All
right," he sighed--"I shall meet you halfway in this proposition-=
-got
that?" And the dictation went on.&nbs=
p;
He discovered that in the intervals, when she had nothing to do, she
read books and magazines, or worked on some sort of feminine fancy work.
Passing her desk,
once, he picked up a volume of Kipling's poems and glanced bepuzzled through
the pages. "You like rea=
ding,
Miss Mason?" he said, laying the book down.
"Oh, yes,&qu=
ot;
was her answer; "very much."
Another time it w=
as a
book of Wells', The Wheels of Change. "What's it all about?" Dayl=
ight
asked.
"Oh, it's ju=
st a
novel, a love-story." She
stopped, but he still stood waiting, and she felt it incumbent to go on.
"It's about a
little Cockney draper's assistant, who takes a vacation on his bicycle, and
falls in with a young girl very much above him. Her mother is a popular wri=
ter
and all that. And the situati=
on is
very curious, and sad, too, and tragic.&nb=
sp;
Would you care to read it?"
"Does he get
her?" Daylight demanded.
"No; that's =
the
point of it. He wasn't--"=
;
"And he does=
n't
get her, and you've read all them pages, hundreds of them, to find that
out?" Daylight muttered in amazement.
Miss Mason was
nettled as well as amused.
"But you read
the mining and financial news by the hour," she retorted.
"But I sure =
get
something out of that. It's
business, and it's different. I get
money out of it. What do you =
get
out of books?"
"Points of v=
iew,
new ideas, life."
"Not worth a
cent cash."
"But life's
worth more than cash," she argued.
"Oh, well,&q=
uot;
he said, with easy masculine tolerance, "so long as you enjoy it. That's what counts, I suppose; and
there's no accounting for taste."
Despite his own
superior point of view, he had an idea that she knew a lot, and he experien=
ced
a fleeting feeling like that of a barbarian face to face with the evidence =
of
some tremendous culture. To
Daylight culture was a worthless thing, and yet, somehow, he was vaguely tr=
oubled
by a sense that there was more in culture than he imagined.
Again, on her des=
k,
in passing, he noticed a book with which he was familiar. This time he did not stop, for he =
had
recognized the cover. It was a magazine correspondent's book on the Klondik=
e,
and he knew that he and his photograph figured in it and he knew, also, of =
a certain
sensational chapter concerned with a woman's suicide, and with one "Too
much Daylight."
After that he did=
not
talk with her again about books. He
imagined what erroneous conclusions she had drawn from that particular chap=
ter,
and it stung him the more in that they were undeserved. Of all unlikely thi=
ngs,
to have the reputation of being a lady-killer,--he, Burning Daylight,--and =
to
have a woman kill herself out of love for him. He felt that he was a most unfortu=
nate
man and wondered by what luck that one book of all the thousands of books
should have fallen into his stenographer's hands. For some days afterward he had an
uncomfortable sensation of guiltiness whenever he was in Miss Mason's prese=
nce;
and once he was positive that he caught her looking at him with a curious, =
intent
gaze, as if studying what manner of man he was.
He pumped Morriso=
n,
the clerk, who had first to vent his personal grievance against Miss Mason
before he could tell what little he knew of her.
"She comes f=
rom
Siskiyou County. She's very n=
ice to
work with in the office, of course, but she's rather stuck on
herself--exclusive, you know."
"How do you =
make
that out?" Daylight queried.
"Well, she
thinks too much of herself to associate with those she works with, in the
office here, for instance. She
won't have anything to do with a fellow, you see. I've asked her out repeatedly, to =
the
theatre and the chutes and such things.&nb=
sp;
But nothing doing. Say=
s she
likes plenty of sleep, and can't stay up late, and has to go all the way to=
Berkeley--that's
where she lives."
This phase of the
report gave Daylight a distinct satisfaction. She was a bit above the ordin=
ary,
and no doubt about it. But
Morrison's next words carried a hurt.
"But that's =
all
hot air. She's running with t=
he
University boys, that's what she's doing.&=
nbsp;
She needs lots of sleep and can't go to the theatre with me, but she=
can
dance all hours with them. I'=
ve
heard it pretty straight that she goes to all their hops and such things. R=
ather
stylish and high-toned for a stenographer, I'd say. And she keeps a horse, too. She rides astride all over those h=
ills
out there. I saw her one Sunday myself.&nb=
sp;
Oh, she's a high-flyer, and I wonder how she does it. Sixty-five a month don't go far. Then she has a sick brother, too.&=
quot;
"Live with h=
er
people?" Daylight asked.
"No; hasn't =
got
any. They were well to do, I'=
ve
heard. They must have been, o=
r that
brother of hers couldn't have gone to the University of California. Her father had a big cattle-ranch,=
but
he got to fooling with mines or something, and went broke before he died. Her mother died long before that.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> Her brother must cost a lot of
money. He was a husky once, p=
layed
football, was great on hunting and being out in the mountains and such thin=
gs.
He got his accident breaking horses, and then rheumatism or something got i=
nto
him. One leg is shorter than =
the other
and withered up some. He has =
to
walk on crutches. I saw her o=
ut with
him once--crossing the ferry. The
doctors have been experimenting on him for years, and he's in the French
Hospital now, I think."
All of which
side-lights on Miss Mason went to increase Daylight's interest in her. Yet, much as he desired, he failed=
to
get acquainted with her. He h=
ad
thoughts of asking her to luncheon, but his was the innate chivalry of the
frontiersman, and the thoughts never came to anything. He knew a self-respecting,
square-dealing man was not supposed to take his stenographer to luncheon. Such things did happen, he knew, f=
or he
heard the chaffing gossip of the club; but he did not think much of such men
and felt sorry for the girls. He
had a strange notion that a man had less rights over those he employed than
over mere acquaintances or strangers.
Thus, had Miss Mason not been his employee, he was confident that he
would have had her to luncheon or the theatre in no time. But he felt that it was an imposit=
ion
for an employer, because he bought the time of an employee in working hours=
, to
presume in any way upon any of the rest of that employee's time. To do so was to act like a bully. =
The
situation was unfair. It was =
taking
advantage of the fact that the employee was dependent on one for a liveliho=
od. The employee might permit the impo=
sition
through fear of angering the employer and not through any personal inclinat=
ion
at all.
In his own case he
felt that such an imposition would be peculiarly obnoxious, for had she not
read that cursed Klondike correspondent's book? A pretty idea she must have of him=
, a
girl that was too high-toned to have anything to do with a good-looking,
gentlemanly fellow like Morrison.
Also, and down under all his other reasons, Daylight was timid. The only thing he had ever been af=
raid
of in his life was woman, and he had been afraid all his life. Nor was that timidity to be put ea=
sily
to flight now that he felt the first glimmering need and desire for woman.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> The specter of the apron-string st=
ill
haunted him, and helped him to find excuses for getting on no forwarder with
Dede Mason.
Not being favored=
by
chance in getting acquainted with Dede Mason, Daylight's interest in her sl=
owly
waned. This was but natural, =
for he
was plunged deep in hazardous operations, and the fascinations of the game =
and
the magnitude of it accounted for all the energy that even his magnificent
organism could generate.
Such was his
absorption that the pretty stenographer slowly and imperceptibly faded from=
the
forefront of his consciousness. Thus, the first faint spur, in the best sen=
se,
of his need for woman ceased to prod.
So far as Dede Mason was concerned, he possessed no more than a comp=
lacent
feeling of satisfaction in that he had a very nice stenographer. And, completely to put the quietus=
on
any last lingering hopes he might have had of her, he was in the thick of h=
is
spectacular and intensely bitter fight with the Coastwise Steam Navigation
Company, and the Hawaiian, Nicaraguan, and Pacific-Mexican Steamship-Compan=
y. He
stirred up a bigger muss than he had anticipated, and even he was astounded=
at
the wide ramifications of the struggle and at the unexpected and incongruous
interests that were drawn into it. Every newspaper in San Francisco turned =
upon
him. It was true, one or two =
of them
had first intimated that they were open to subsidization, but Daylight's
judgment was that the situation did not warrant such expenditure. Up to this time the press had been
amusingly tolerant and good-naturedly sensational about him, but now he was=
to
learn what virulent scrupulousness an antagonized press was capable of. Every episode of his life was
resurrected to serve as foundations for malicious fabrications. Daylight was frankly amazed at the=
new interpretation
put upon all he had accomplished and the deeds he had done. From an Alaskan hero he was
metamorphosed into an Alaskan bully, liar, desperado, and all around "=
bad
Man." Not content with t=
his,
lies upon lies, out of whole cloth, were manufactured about him. He never replied, though once he w=
ent to
the extent of disburdening his mind to half a dozen reporters. "Do your damnedest," he =
told
them. "Burning Daylight's bucked bigger things than your dirty, lying
sheets. And I don't blame you,
boys... that is, not much. You can't help it. You've got to live. There's a mighty lot of women in t=
his
world that make their living in similar fashion to yours, because they're n=
ot
able to do anything better. Somebody's got to do the dirty work, and it mig=
ht as
well be you. You're paid for it, and you ain't got the backbone to rustle
cleaner jobs."
The socialist pre=
ss
of the city jubilantly exploited this utterance, scattering it broadcast ov=
er
San Francisco in tens of thousands of paper dodgers. And the journalists, stung to the =
quick,
retaliated with the only means in their power-printer's ink abuse. The attack became bitterer than
ever. The whole affair sank t=
o the
deeper deeps of rancor and savageness.&nbs=
p;
The poor woman who had killed herself was dragged out of her grave a=
nd
paraded on thousands of reams of paper as a martyr and a victim to Daylight=
's
ferocious brutality. Staid, s=
tatistical
articles were published, proving that he had made his start by robbing poor
miners of their claims, and that the capstone to his fortune had been put in
place by his treacherous violation of faith with the Guggenhammers in the d=
eal
on Ophir. And there were edit=
orials
written in which he was called an enemy of society, possessed of the manners
and culture of a caveman, a fomenter of wasteful business troubles, the
destroyer of the city's prosperity in commerce and trade, an anarchist of d=
ire
menace; and one editorial gravely recommended that hanging would be a lesso=
n to
him and his ilk, and concluded with the fervent hope that some day his big
motor-car would smash up and smash him with it.
He was like a big
bear raiding a bee-hive and, regardless of the stings, he obstinately persi=
sted
in pawing for the honey. He g=
ritted
his teeth and struck back.
Beginning with a raid on two steamship companies, it developed into a
pitched battle with a city, a state, and a continental coastline. Very well; they wanted fight, and =
they
would get it. It was what he
wanted, and he felt justified in having come down from the Klondike, for he=
re
he was gambling at a bigger table than ever the Yukon had supplied. Allied with him, on a splendid sal=
ary, with
princely pickings thrown in, was a lawyer, Larry Hegan, a young Irishman wi=
th a
reputation to make, and whose peculiar genius had been unrecognized until
Daylight picked up with him. =
Hegan
had Celtic imagination and daring, and to such degree that Daylight's cooler
head was necessary as a check on his wilder visions. Hegan's was a Napoleonic legal min=
d,
without balance, and it was just this balance that Daylight supplied. Alone, the Irishman was doomed to
failure, but directed by Daylight, he was on the highroad to fortune and re=
cognition. Also, he was possessed of no more
personal or civic conscience than Napoleon.
It was Hegan who
guided Daylight through the intricacies of modern politics, labor organizat=
ion,
and commercial and corporation law.
It was Hegan, prolific of resource and suggestion, who opened Daylig=
ht's
eyes to undreamed possibilities in twentieth-century warfare; and it was
Daylight, rejecting, accepting, and elaborating, who planned the campaigns =
and
prosecuted them. With the Pac=
ific
coast from Peugeot Sound to Panama, buzzing and humming, and with San Franc=
isco
furiously about his ears, the two big steamship companies had all the
appearance of winning. It loo=
ked as
if Burning Daylight was being beaten slowly to his knees. And then he struck--at the steamsh=
ip
companies, at San Francisco, at the whole Pacific coast.
It was not much o=
f a
blow at first. A Christian En=
deavor
convention being held in San Francisco, a row was started by Express Driver=
s' Union
No. 927 over the handling of a small heap of baggage at the Ferry Building.=
A few heads were broken, a score of
arrests made, and the baggage was delivered. No one would have guessed that beh=
ind
this petty wrangle was the fine Irish hand of Hegan, made potent by the Klo=
ndike
gold of Burning Daylight. It =
was an
insignificant affair at best--or so it seemed. But the Teamsters' Union took up t=
he
quarrel, backed by the whole Water Front Federation. Step by step, the strike became
involved. A refusal of cooks =
and
waiters to serve scab teamsters or teamsters' employers brought out the coo=
ks
and waiters. The butchers and meat-cutters refused to handle meat destined =
for unfair
restaurants. The combined
Employers' Associations put up a solid front, and found facing them the 40,=
000
organized laborers of San Francisco.
The restaurant bakers and the bakery wagon drivers struck, followed =
by
the milkers, milk drivers, and chicken pickers. The building trades asserted its
position in unambiguous terms, and all San Francisco was in turmoil.
But still, it was
only San Francisco. Hegan's
intrigues were masterly, and Daylight's campaign steadily developed. The powerful fighting organization=
known
as the Pacific Slope Seaman's Union refused to work vessels the cargoes of
which were to be handled by scab longshoremen and freight-handlers. The union presented its ultimatum,=
and
then called a strike. This ha=
d been
Daylight's objective all the time. Every incoming coastwise vessel was boar=
ded
by the union officials and its crew sent ashore. And with the Seamen went the firem=
en,
the engineers, and the sea cooks and waiters. Daily the number of idle steamers
increased. It was impossible =
to get
scab crews, for the men of the Seaman's Union were fighters trained in the =
hard
school of the sea, and when they went out it meant blood and death to
scabs. This phase of the stri=
ke
spread up and down the entire Pacific coast, until all the ports were filled
with idle ships, and sea transportation was at a standstill. The days and weeks dragged out, an=
d the
strike held. The Coastwise Steam Navigation Company, and the Hawaiian,
Nicaraguan, and Pacific-Mexican Steamship Company were tied up completely.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> The expenses of combating the stri=
ke
were tremendous, and they were earning nothing, while daily the situation w=
ent
from bad to worse, until "peace at any price" became the cry. And still there was no peace, unti=
l Daylight
and his allies played out their hand, raked in the winnings, and allowed a
goodly portion of a continent to resume business.
It was noted, in
following years, that several leaders of workmen built themselves houses and
blocks of renting flats and took trips to the old countries, while, more
immediately, other leaders and "dark horses" came to political
preferment and the control of the municipal government and the municipal
moneys. In fact, San Francisc=
o's boss-ridden
condition was due in greater degree to Daylight's widespreading battle than
even San Francisco ever dreamed.
For the part he had played, the details of which were practically all
rumor and guesswork, quickly leaked out, and in consequence he became a muc=
h-execrated
and well-hated man. Nor had Daylight himself dreamed that his raid on the
steamship companies would have grown to such colossal proportions.
But he had got wh=
at
he was after. He had played an
exciting hand and won, beating the steamship companies down into the dust a=
nd
mercilessly robbing the stockholders by perfectly legal methods before he l=
et
go. Of course, in addition to the large sums of money he had paid over, his=
allies
had rewarded themselves by gobbling the advantages which later enabled them=
to
loot the city. His alliance w=
ith a
gang of cutthroats had brought about a lot of cutthroating. But his conscience suffered no
twinges. He remembered what h=
e had
once heard an old preacher utter, namely, that they who rose by the sword
perished by the sword. One took his chances when he played with cutting
throats, and his, Daylight's, throat was still intact. That was it! And he had won. It was all gamble and war between =
the
strong men. The fools did not=
count. They were always getting hurt; and=
that
they always had been getting hurt was the conclusion he drew from what litt=
le
he knew of history. San Franc=
isco
had wanted war, and he had given it war.&n=
bsp;
It was the game. All t=
he big
fellows did the same, and they did much worse, too.
"Don't talk =
to
me about morality and civic duty," he replied to a persistent
interviewer. "If you qui=
t your
job tomorrow and went to work on another paper, you would write just what y=
ou
were told to write. It's mora=
lity
and civic duty now with you; on the new job it would be backing up a thievi=
ng
railroad with... morality and civic duty, I suppose. Your price, my son, is just about =
thirty
per week. That's what you sell for.
But your paper would sell for a bit more. Pay its price to-day, and =
it
would shift its present rotten policy to some other rotten policy; but it w=
ould
never let up on morality and civic duty.
"And all bec=
ause
a sucker is born every minute. So
long as the people stand for it, they'll get it good and plenty, my son.
Daylight's coming=
to
civilization had not improved him.
True, he wore better clothes, had learned slightly better manners, a=
nd
spoke better English. As a ga=
mbler
and a man-trampler he had developed remarkable efficiency. Also, he had become used to a high=
er
standard of living, and he had whetted his wits to razor sharpness in the
fierce, complicated struggle of fighting males. But he had hardened, and at=
the
expense of his old-time, whole-souled geniality. Of the essential refinements of
civilization he knew nothing. He
did not know they existed. He=
had
become cynical, bitter, and brutal.
Power had its effect on him that it had on all men. Suspicious of the big exploiters,
despising the fools of the exploited herd, he had faith only in himself.
Even his human
affiliations were descending.
Playing a lone hand, contemptuous of most of the men with whom he
played, lacking in sympathy or understanding of them, and certainly indepen=
dent
of them, he found little in common with those to be encountered, say at the=
Alta-Pacific. In point of fact, when the battle =
with
the steamship companies was at its height and his raid was inflicting
incalculable damage on all business interests, he had been asked to resign =
from
the Alta-Pacific. The idea had been rather to his liking, and he had found =
new
quarters in clubs like the Riverside, organized and practically maintained =
by
the city bosses. He found tha=
t he
really liked such men better. They
were more primitive and simple, and they did not put on airs. They were honest buccaneers, frank=
ly in
the game for what they could get out of it, on the surface more raw and sav=
age,
but at least not glossed over with oily or graceful hypocrisy. The Alta-Pacific had suggested tha=
t his
resignation be kept a private matter, and then had privily informed the
newspapers. The latter had ma=
de
great capital out of the forced resignation, but Daylight had grinned and
silently gone his way, though registering a black mark against more than one
club member who was destined to feel, in the days to come, the crushing wei=
ght
of the Klondiker's financial paw.
The storm-centre =
of a
combined newspaper attack lasting for months, Daylight's character had been
torn to shreds. There was no =
fact
in his history that had not been distorted into a criminality or a vice.
One week-end, fee=
ling
heavy and depressed and tired of the city and its ways, he obeyed the impul=
se
of a whim that was later to play an important part in his life. The desire to get out of the city =
for a whiff
of country air and for a change of scene was the cause. Yet, to himself, he made the excus=
e of
going to Glen Ellen for the purpose of inspecting the brickyard with which
Holdsworthy had goldbricked him.
He spent the nigh=
t in
the little country hotel, and on Sunday morning, astride a saddle-horse ren=
ted
from the Glen Ellen butcher, rode out of the village. The brickyard was close at hand on=
the
flat beside the Sonoma Creek. The
kilns were visible among the trees, when he glanced to the left and caught
sight of a cluster of wooded knolls half a mile away, perched on the rolling
slopes of Sonoma Mountain. The
mountain, itself wooded, towered behind.&n=
bsp;
The trees on the knolls seemed to beckon to him.
The dry, early-su=
mmer
air, shot through with sunshine, was wine to him. Unconsciously he drank it=
in
deep breaths. The prospect of=
the brickyard
was uninviting. He was jaded =
with
all things business, and the wooded knolls were calling to him. A horse was between his legs--a go=
od
horse, he decided; one that sent him back to the cayuses he had ridden duri=
ng
his eastern Oregon boyhood. He had been somewhat of a rider in those early
days, and the champ of bit and creak of saddle-leather sounded good to him =
now.
Resolving to have=
his
fun first, and to look over the brickyard afterward, he rode on up the hill,
prospecting for a way across country to get to the knolls. He left the country road at the fi=
rst
gate he came to and cantered through a hayfield. The grain was waist-high on either=
side
the wagon road, and he sniffed the warm aroma of it with delighted
nostrils. Larks flew up befor=
e him,
and from everywhere came mellow notes.&nbs=
p;
From the appearance of the road it was patent that it had been used =
for
hauling clay to the now idle brickyard.&nb=
sp;
Salving his conscience with the idea that this was part of the
inspection, he rode on to the clay-pit--a huge scar in a hillside. But he did not linger long, swingi=
ng off
again to the left and leaving the road.&nb=
sp;
Not a farm-house was in sight, and the change from the city crowding=
was
essentially satisfying. He ro=
de now
through open woods, across little flower-scattered glades, till he came upo=
n a
spring. Flat on the ground, he
drank deeply of the clear water, and, looking about him, felt with a shock =
the
beauty of the world. It came =
to him
like a discovery; he had never realized it before, he concluded, and also, =
he had
forgotten much. One could not=
sit
in at high finance and keep track of such things. As he drank in the air, the scene,=
and
the distant song of larks, he felt like a poker-player rising from a night-=
long
table and coming forth from the pent atmosphere to taste the freshness of t=
he
morn.
At the base of the
knolls he encountered a tumble-down stake-and-rider fence. From the look of it he judged it m=
ust be
forty years old at least--the work of some first pioneer who had taken up t=
he
land when the days of gold had ended.
The woods were very thick here, yet fairly clear of underbrush, so t=
hat,
while the blue sky was screened by the arched branches, he was able to ride
beneath. He now found himself=
in a
nook of several acres, where the oak and manzanita and madrono gave way to
clusters of stately redwoods.
Against the foot of a steep-sloped knoll he came upon a magnificent
group of redwoods that seemed to have gathered about a tiny gurgling spring=
.
He halted his hor=
se,
for beside the spring uprose a wild California lily. It was a wonderful flower, growing=
there
in the cathedral nave of lofty trees.
At least eight feet in height, its stem rose straight and slender, g=
reen
and bare for two-thirds its length, and then burst into a shower of snow-wh=
ite
waxen bells. There were hundr=
eds of
these blossoms, all from the one stem, delicately poised and ethereally fra=
il. Daylight had never seen anything l=
ike
it. Slowly his gaze wandered =
from
it to all that was about him. He
took off his hat, with almost a vague religious feeling. This was different. No room for contempt and evil here=
. This was clean and fresh and beaut=
iful-something
he could respect. It was like=
a
church. The atmosphere was on=
e of
holy calm. Here man felt the
prompting of nobler things. M=
uch of
this and more was in Daylight's heart as he looked about him. But it was no=
t a
concept of his mind. He merel=
y felt
it without thinking about it at all.
On the steep incl=
ine
above the spring grew tiny maidenhair ferns, while higher up were larger fe=
rns
and brakes. Great, moss-cover=
ed
trunks of fallen trees lay here and there, slowly sinking back and merging =
into
the level of the forest mould. Beyond, in a slightly clearer space, wild gr=
ape
and honeysuckle swung in green riot from gnarled old oak trees. A gray Douglas squirrel crept out =
on a
branch and watched him. From somewhere came the distant knocking of a
woodpecker. This sound did not
disturb the hush and awe of the place.&nbs=
p;
Quiet woods, noises belonged there and made the solitude complete. The tiny bubbling ripple of the sp=
ring
and the gray flash of tree-squirrel were as yardsticks with which to measure
the silence and motionless repose.
"Might be a =
million
miles from anywhere," Daylight whispered to himself.
But ever his gaze
returned to the wonderful lily beside the bubbling spring.
He tethered the h=
orse
and wandered on foot among the knolls. Their tops were crowned with century=
-old
spruce trees, and their sides clothed with oaks and madronos and native
holly. But to the perfect red=
woods belonged
the small but deep canon that threaded its way among the knolls. Here he found no passage out for h=
is
horse, and he returned to the lily beside the spring. On foot, tripping, stumbling, lead=
ing
the animal, he forced his way up the hillside. And ever the ferns carpeted the wa=
y of
his feet, ever the forest climbed with him and arched overhead, and ever the
clean joy and sweetness stole in upon his senses.
On the crest he c=
ame
through an amazing thicket of velvet-trunked young madronos, and emerged on=
an
open hillside that led down into a tiny valley. The sunshine was at first dazzling=
in
its brightness, and he paused and rested, for he was panting from the exert=
ion. Not of old had he known shortness =
of
breath such as this, and muscles that so easily tired at a stiff climb. A tiny stream ran down the tiny va=
lley through
a tiny meadow that was carpeted knee-high with grass and blue and white
nemophila. The hillside was c=
overed
with Mariposa lilies and wild hyacinth, down through which his horse dropped
slowly, with circumspect feet and reluctant gait.
Crossing the stre=
am,
Daylight followed a faint cattle trail over a low, rocky hill and through a
wine-wooded forest of manzanita, and emerged upon another tiny valley, down
which filtered another spring-fed, meadow-bordered streamlet. A jack-rabbit bounded from a bush =
under
his horse's nose, leaped the stream, and vanished up the opposite hillside =
of
scrub-oak. Daylight watched it
admiringly as he rode on to the head of the meadow. Here he startled up a many-pronged=
buck,
that seemed to soar across the meadow, and to soar over the stake-and-rider
fence, and, still soaring, disappeared in a friendly copse beyond.
Daylight's delight
was unbounded. It seemed to h=
im
that he had never been so happy.
His old woods' training was aroused, and he was keenly interested in
everything in the moss on the trees and branches; in the bunches of mistlet=
oe
hanging in the oaks; in the nest of a wood-rat; in the water-cress growing =
in
the sheltered eddies of the little stream; in the butterflies drifting thro=
ugh
the rifted sunshine and shadow; in the blue jays that flashed in splashes of
gorgeous color across the forest aisles; in the tiny birds, like wrens, that
hopped among the bushes and imitated certain minor quail-calls; and in the =
crimson-crested
woodpecker that ceased its knocking and cocked its head on one side to surv=
ey
him. Crossing the stream, he =
struck
faint vestiges of a wood-road, used, evidently, a generation back, when the=
meadow
had been cleared of its oaks. He
found a hawk's nest on the lightning-shattered tipmost top of a six-foot
redwood. And to complete it a=
ll his
horse stumbled upon several large broods of half-grown quail, and the air w=
as
filled with the thrum of their flight.&nbs=
p;
He halted and watched the young ones "petrifying" and
disappearing on the ground before his eyes, and listening to the anxious ca=
lls
of the old ones hidden in the thickets.
"It sure bea=
ts
country places and bungalows at Menlo Park," he communed aloud; "=
and
if ever I get the hankering for country life, it's me for this every
time."
The old wood-road=
led
him to a clearing, where a dozen acres of grapes grew on wine-red soil. A cow-path, more trees and thicket=
s, and
he dropped down a hillside to the southeast exposure. Here, poised above a big forested =
canon,
and looking out upon Sonoma Valley, was a small farm-house. With its barn and outhouses it snu=
ggled
into a nook in the hillside, which protected it from west and north. It was the erosion from this hills=
ide,
he judged, that had formed the little level stretch of vegetable garden.
Forgotten was the
brickyard. Nobody was at home=
, but
Daylight dismounted and ranged the vegetable garden, eating strawberries an=
d green
peas, inspecting the old adobe barn and the rusty plough and harrow, and
rolling and smoking cigarettes while he watched the antics of several brood=
s of
young chickens and the mother hens.
A foottrail that led down the wall of the big canyon invited him, an=
d he
proceeded to follow it. A
water-pipe, usually above ground, paralleled the trail, which he concluded =
led
upstream to the bed of the creek.
The wall of the canon was several hundred feet from top to bottom, a=
nd magnificent
were the untouched trees that the place was plunged in perpetual shade. He measured with his eye spruces f=
ive
and six feet in diameter and redwoods even larger. One such he passed, a twister that=
was
at least ten or eleven feet through. The trail led straight to a small dam
where was the intake for the pipe that watered the vegetable garden. Here, beside the stream, were alde=
rs and
laurel trees, and he walked through fern-brakes higher than his head. Velvety moss was everywhere, out of
which grew maiden-hair and gold-back ferns.
Save for the dam,=
it
was a virgin wild. No ax had
invaded, and the trees died only of old age and stress of winter storm. The huge trunks of those that had =
fallen
lay moss-covered, slowly resolving back into the soil from which they
sprang. Some had lain so long=
that
they were quite gone, though their faint outlines, level with the mould, co=
uld still
be seen. Others bridged the s=
tream,
and from beneath the bulk of one monster half a dozen younger trees, overth=
rown
and crushed by the fall, growing out along the ground, still lived and
prospered, their roots bathed by the stream, their upshooting branches catc=
hing
the sunlight through the gap that had been made in the forest roof.
Back at the
farm-house, Daylight mounted and rode on away from the ranch and into the
wilder canons and steeper steeps beyond. Nothing could satisfy his holiday
spirit now but the ascent of Sonoma Mountain. And here on the crest, three
hours afterward, he emerged, tired and sweaty, garments torn and face and h=
ands
scratched, but with sparkling eyes and an unwonted zestfulness of
expression. He felt the illic=
it pleasure
of a schoolboy playing truant. The
big gambling table of San Francisco seemed very far away. But there was more than illicit pl=
easure
in his mood. It was as though=
he
were going through a sort of cleansing bath. No room here for all the sordidnes=
s,
meanness, and viciousness that filled the dirty pool of city existence. Without pondering in detail upon t=
he
matter at all, his sensations were of purification and uplift. Had he been asked to state how he =
felt,
he would merely have said that he was having a good time; for he was unawar=
e in
his self-consciousness of the potent charm of nature that was percolating
through his city-rotted body and brain--potent, in that he came of an abysm=
al
past of wilderness dwellers, while he was himself coated with but the thinn=
est
rind of crowded civilization.
There were no hou=
ses
in the summit of Sonoma Mountain, and, all alone under the azure California
sky, he reined in on the southern edge of the peak. He saw open pasture country, inter=
sected
with wooded canons, descending to the south and west from his feet, crease =
on
crease and roll on roll, from lower level to lower level, to the floor of
Petaluma Valley, flat as a billiard-table, a cardboard affair, all patches =
and squares
of geometrical regularity where the fat freeholds were farmed. Beyond, to t=
he
west, rose range on range of mountains cuddling purple mists of atmosphere =
in
their valleys; and still beyond, over the last range of all, he saw the sil=
ver
sheen of the Pacific. Swingin=
g his horse,
he surveyed the west and north, from Santa Rosa to St. Helena, and on to the
east, across Sonoma to the chaparral-covered range that shut off the view of
Napa Valley. Here, part way u=
p the
eastern wall of Sonoma Valley, in range of a line intersecting the little
village of Glen Ellen, he made out a scar upon a hillside. His first thought was that it was =
the
dump of a mine tunnel, but remembering that he was not in gold-bearing coun=
try,
he dismissed the scar from his mind and continued the circle of his survey =
to
the southeast, where, across the waters of San Pablo Bay, he could see, sha=
rp
and distant, the twin peaks of Mount Diablo. To the south was Mount Tamalpais, =
and,
yes, he was right, fifty miles away, where the draughty winds of the Pacifi=
c blew
in the Golden Gate, the smoke of San Francisco made a low-lying haze against
the sky.
"I ain't see=
n so
much country all at once in many a day," he thought aloud.
He was loath to
depart, and it was not for an hour that he was able to tear himself away and
take the descent of the mountain. Working out a new route just for the fun =
of
it, late afternoon was upon him when he arrived back at the wooded knolls.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> Here, on the top of one of them, h=
is
keen eyes caught a glimpse of a shade of green sharply differentiated from =
any
he had seen all day. Studying it for a minute, he concluded that it was
composed of three cypress trees, and he knew that nothing else than the han=
d of
man could have planted them there. Impelled by curiosity purely boyish, he =
made
up his mind to investigate. So
densely wooded was the knoll, and so steep, that he had to dismount and go =
up
on foot, at times even on hands and knees struggling hard to force a way
through the thicker underbrush. He
came out abruptly upon the cypresses.
They were enclosed in a small square of ancient fence; the pickets he
could plainly see had been hewn and sharpened by hand. Inside were the mounds of two chil=
dren's
graves. Two wooden headboards, likewise hand-hewn, told the state Little Da=
vid,
born 1855, died 1859; and Little Roy, born 1853, died 1860.
"The poor li=
ttle
kids," Daylight muttered. The
graves showed signs of recent care.
Withered bouquets of wild flowers were on the mounds, and the letter=
ing
on the headboards was freshly painted.&nbs=
p;
Guided by these clews, Daylight cast about for a trail, and found one
leading down the side opposite to his ascent. Circling the base of the knol=
l,
he picked up with his horse and rode on to the farm-house. Smoke was rising from the chimney =
and he
was quickly in conversation with a nervous, slender young man, who, he lear=
ned,
was only a tenant on the ranch. How
large was it? A matter of one
hundred and eighty acres, though it seemed much larger. This was because it was so irregul=
arly
shaped. Yes, it included the clay-pit and all the knolls, and its boundary =
that
ran along the big canon was over a mile long.
"You see,&qu=
ot;
the young man said, "it was so rough and broken that when they began to
farm this country the farmers bought in the good land to the edge of it.
"Oh, yes, he=
and
his wife managed to scratch a living without working too hard. They didn't have to pay much rent.=
Hillard, the owner, depended on the
income from the clay-pit. Hil=
lard
was well off, and had big ranches and vineyards down on the flat of the
valley. The brickyard paid ten
cents a cubic yard for the clay. As
for the rest of the ranch, the land was good in patches, where it was clear=
ed,
like the vegetable garden and the vineyard, but the rest of it was too much=
up-and-down."
"You're not a
farmer," Daylight said. =
The
young man laughed and shook his head.
"No; I'm a telegraph operator.=
But the wife and I decided to take a two years' vacation, and ... he=
re
we are. But the time's about up.
I'm going back into the office this fall after I get the grapes
off."
Yes, there were a=
bout
eleven acres in the vineyard--wine grapes. The price was usually good. He grew most of what they ate. If he owned the place, he'd clear a
patch of land on the side-hill above the vineyard and plant a small home
orchard. The soil was good. There was plenty of pasturage all =
over
the ranch, and there were several cleared patches, amounting to about fifte=
en
acres in all, where he grew as much mountain hay as could be found. It sold for three to five dollars =
more a
ton than the rank-stalked valley hay.
Daylight listened,
there came to him a sudden envy of this young fellow living right in the mi=
dst
of all this which Daylight had travelled through the last few hours.
"What in thu=
nder
are you going back to the telegraph office for?" he demanded.
The young man smi=
led
with a certain wistfulness.
"Because we can't get ahead here..." (he hesitated an
instant), "and because there are added expenses coming. The rent, small as it is, counts; =
and
besides, I'm not strong enough to effectually farm the place. If I owned it, or if I were a real=
husky
like you, I'd ask nothing better.
Nor would the wife."
Again the wistful smile hovered on his face. "You see, we're country born,=
and
after bucking with cities for a few years, we kind of feel we like the coun=
try
best. We've planned to get ah=
ead,
though, and then some day we'll buy a patch of land and stay with it."=
The graves of the
children? Yes, he had relette=
red
them and hoed the weeds out. =
It had
become the custom. Whoever li=
ved on
the ranch did that. For years=
, the
story ran, the father and mother had returned each summer to the graves.
A frail-looking y=
oung
woman came to the door to call the young man to supper. Daylight's first thought was that =
city
living had not agreed with her. And
then he noted the slight tan and healthy glow that seemed added to her face,
and he decided that the country was the place for her. Declining an invitation to supper,=
he
rode on for Glen Ellen sitting slack-kneed in the saddle and softly humming
forgotten songs. He dropped down the rough, winding road through covered
pasture, with here and there thickets of manzanita and vistas of open
glades. He listened greedily =
to the
quail calling, and laughed outright, once, in sheer joy, at a tiny chipmunk
that fled scolding up a bank, slipping on the crumbly surface and falling d=
own,
then dashing across the road under his horse's nose and, still scolding,
scrabbling up a protecting oak.
Daylight could not
persuade himself to keep to the travelled roads that day, and another cut
across country to Glen Ellen brought him upon a canon that so blocked his w=
ay
that he was glad to follow a friendly cow-path. This led him to a small frame
cabin. The doors and windows =
were
open, and a cat was nursing a litter of kittens in the doorway, but no one
seemed at home. He descended =
the
trail that evidently crossed the canon.&nb=
sp;
Part way down, he met an old man coming up through the sunset. In his hand he carried a pail of f=
oamy
milk. He wore no hat, and in =
his
face, framed with snow-white hair and beard, was the ruddy glow and content=
of
the passing summer day. Dayli=
ght
thought that he had never seen so contented-looking a being.
"How old are
you, daddy?" he queried.
"Eighty-four=
,"
was the reply. "Yes, sir=
ree,
eighty-four, and spryer than most."
"You must a'
taken good care of yourself," Daylight suggested.
"I don't know
about that. I ain't loafed
none. I walked across the Pla=
ins
with an ox-team and fit Injuns in '51, and I was a family man then with sev=
en
youngsters. I reckon I was as=
old
then as you are now, or pretty nigh on to it."
"Don't you f=
ind
it lonely here?"
The old man shift=
ed
the pail of milk and reflected.
"That all depends," he said oracularly. "I ain't never been lonely ex=
cept
when the old wife died. Some
fellers are lonely in a crowd, and I'm one of them. That's the only time I'm lonely, i=
s when
I go to 'Frisco. But I don't =
go no
more, thank you 'most to death. This is good enough for me. I've ben right =
here
in this valley since '54--one of the first settlers after the Spaniards.&qu=
ot;
Daylight started =
his
horse, saying:--
"Well, good
night, daddy. Stick with it.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> You got all the young bloods skinn=
ed,
and I guess you've sure buried a mighty sight of them."
The old man chuck=
led,
and Daylight rode on, singularly at peace with himself and all the world. It seemed that the old contentment=
of
trail and camp he had known on the Yukon had come back to him. He could not shake from his eyes t=
he
picture of the old pioneer coming up the trail through the sunset light.
"Well,
anyway," he decided, "when I get old and quit the game, I'll sett=
le
down in a place something like this, and the city can go to hell."
Instead of return=
ing
to the city on Monday, Daylight rented the butcher's horse for another day =
and
crossed the bed of the valley to its eastern hills to look at the mine. It was dryer and rockier here than=
where
he had been the day before, and the ascending slopes supported mainly
chaparral, scrubby and dense and impossible to penetrate on horseback. But in the canyons water was plent=
iful
and also a luxuriant forest growth.
The mine was an abandoned affair, but he enjoyed the half-hour's
scramble around. He had had
experience in quartz-mining before he went to Alaska, and he enjoyed the re=
crudescence
of his old wisdom in such matters.
The story was simple to him: good prospects that warranted the start=
ing
of the tunnel into the sidehill; the three months' work and the getting sho=
rt
of money; the lay-off while the men went away and got jobs; then the return=
and
a new stretch of work, with the "pay" ever luring and ever recedi=
ng
into the mountain, until, after years of hope, the men had given up and van=
ished. Most likely they were dead by now,
Daylight thought, as he turned in the saddle and looked back across the can=
yon
at the ancient dump and dark mouth of the tunnel.
As on the previous
day, just for the joy of it, he followed cattle-trails at haphazard and wor=
ked
his way up toward the summits. Coming out on a wagon road that led upward, =
he
followed it for several miles, emerging in a small, mountain-encircled vall=
ey,
where half a dozen poor ranchers farmed the wine-grapes on the steep slopes=
. Beyond,
the road pitched upward. Dense
chaparral covered the exposed hillsides but in the creases of the canons hu=
ge
spruce trees grew, and wild oats and flowers.
Half an hour late=
r,
sheltering under the summits themselves, he came out on a clearing. Here and there, in irregular patch=
es
where the steep and the soil favored, wine grapes were growing. Daylight co=
uld see
that it had been a stiff struggle, and that wild nature showed fresh signs =
of
winning--chaparral that had invaded the clearings; patches and parts of pat=
ches
of vineyard, unpruned, grassgrown, and abandoned; and everywhere old
stake-and-rider fences vainly striving to remain intact. Here, at a small farm-house surrou=
nded
by large outbuildings, the road ended.&nbs=
p;
Beyond, the chaparral blocked the way.
He came upon an o=
ld
woman forking manure in the barnyard, and reined in by the fence.
"Hello,
mother," was his greeting; "ain't you got any men-folk around to =
do
that for you?"
She leaned on her
pitchfork, hitched her skirt in at the waist, and regarded him cheerfully.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> He saw that her toil-worn,
weather-exposed hands were like a man's, callused, large-knuckled, and gnar=
led,
and that her stockingless feet were thrust into heavy man's brogans.
"Nary a
man," she answered. &quo=
t;And
where be you from, and all the way up here? Won't you stop and hitch and have a
glass of wine?"
Striding clumsily=
but
efficiently, like a laboring-man, she led him into the largest building, wh=
ere
Daylight saw a hand-press and all the paraphernalia on a small scale for the
making of wine. It was too fa=
r and
too bad a road to haul the grapes to the valley wineries, she explained, an=
d so
they were compelled to do it themselves.&n=
bsp;
"They," he learned, were she and her daughter, the latter a
widow of forty-odd. It had been easier before the grandson died and before =
he
went away to fight savages in the Philippines. He had died out there in battle.
Daylight drank a =
full
tumbler of excellent Riesling, talked a few minutes, and accounted for a se=
cond
tumbler. Yes, they just manag=
ed not
to starve. Her husband and sh=
e had
taken up this government land in '57 and cleared it and farmed it ever sinc=
e,
until he died, when she had carried it on.=
It actually didn't pay for the toil, but what were they to do? There was the wine trust, and wine=
was
down. That Riesling? She delivered it to the railroad d=
own in
the valley for twenty-two cents a gallon.&=
nbsp;
And it was a long haul. It
took a day for the round trip. Her
daughter was gone now with a load.
Daylight knew tha=
t in
the hotels, Riesling, not quite so good even, was charged for at from a dol=
lar
and a half to two dollars a quart.
And she got twenty-two cents a gallon. That was the game. She was one of the stupid lowly, s=
he and
her people before her--the ones that did the work, drove their oxen across =
the
Plains, cleared and broke the virgin land, toiled all days and all hours, p=
aid
their taxes, and sent their sons and grandsons out to fight and die for the
flag that gave them such ample protection that they were able to sell their
wine for twenty-two cents. Th=
e same
wine was served to him at the St. Francis for two dollars a quart, or eight
dollars a short gallon. That =
was
it.
Between her and h=
er
hand-press on the mountain clearing and him ordering his wine in the hotel =
was
a difference of seven dollars and seventy-eight cents. A clique of sleek men in the city =
got
between her and him to just about that amount. And, besides them, there was a hor=
de of
others that took their whack. They
called it railroading, high finance, banking, wholesaling, real estate, and
such things, but the point was that they got it, while she got what was lef=
t,--twenty-two
cents. Oh, well, a sucker was=
born
every minute, he sighed to himself, and nobody was to blame; it was all a g=
ame,
and only a few could win, but it was damned hard on the suckers.
"How old are
you, mother?" he asked.
"Seventy-nine
come next January."
"Worked pret=
ty
hard, I suppose?"
"Sense I was
seven. I was bound out in Mic=
higan
state until I was woman-grown. Then
I married, and I reckon the work got harder and harder."
"When are you
going to take a rest?"
She looked at him=
, as
though she chose to think his question facetious, and did not reply.
"Do you beli=
eve
in God?"
She nodded her he=
ad.
"Then you ge=
t it
all back," he assured her; but in his heart he was wondering about God,
that allowed so many suckers to be born and that did not break up the gambl=
ing
game by which they were robbed from the cradle to the grave.
"How much of
that Riesling you got?"
She ran her eyes =
over
the casks and calculated.
"Just short of eight hundred gallons."
He wondered what =
he
could do with all of it, and speculated as to whom he could give it away.
"What would =
you
do if you got a dollar a gallon for it?" he asked.
"Drop dead, I
suppose."
"No; speaking
seriously."
"Get me some
false teeth, shingle the house, and buy a new wagon. The road's mighty hard=
on
wagons."
"And after
that?"
"Buy me a
coffin."
"Well, they'=
re
yours, mother, coffin and all."
She looked her in=
credulity.
"No; I mean
it. And there's fifty to bind=
the
bargain. Never mind the recei=
pt. It's the rich ones that need watch=
ing,
their memories being so infernal short, you know. Here's my address. You've got to d=
eliver
it to the railroad. And now, =
show
me the way out of here. I wan=
t to get
up to the top."
On through the
chaparral he went, following faint cattle trails and working slowly upward =
till
he came out on the divide and gazed down into Napa Valley and back across to
Sonoma Mountain... "A sweet land," he muttered, "an almighty
sweet land."
Circling around to
the right and dropping down along the cattle-trails, he quested for another=
way
back to Sonoma Valley; but the cattle-trails seemed to fade out, and the
chaparral to grow thicker with a deliberate viciousness and even when he won
through in places, the canon and small feeders were too precipitous for his
horse, and turned him back. B=
ut there
was no irritation about it. He
enjoyed it all, for he was back at his old game of bucking nature. Late in the afternoon he broke thr=
ough,
and followed a well-defined trail down a dry canon. Here he got a fresh
thrill. He had heard the bayi=
ng of
the hound some minutes before, and suddenly, across the bare face of the hi=
ll
above him, he saw a large buck in flight.&=
nbsp;
And not far behind came the deer-hound, a magnificent animal. Daylight sat tense in his saddle a=
nd
watched until they disappeared, his breath just a trifle shorter, as if he,
too, were in the chase, his nostrils distended, and in his bones the old
hunting ache and memories of the days before he came to live in cities.
The dry canon gave
place to one with a slender ribbon of running water. The trail ran into a
wood-road, and the wood-road emerged across a small flat upon a slightly
travelled county road. There =
were
no farms in this immediate section, and no houses. The soil was meagre, the bed-rock =
either
close to the surface or constituting the surface itself. Manzanita and scrub-oak, however,
flourished and walled the road on either side with a jungle growth. And out a runway through this grow=
th a
man suddenly scuttled in a way that reminded Daylight of a rabbit.
He was a little m=
an,
in patched overalls; bareheaded, with a cotton shirt open at the throat and
down the chest. The sun was
ruddy-brown in his face, and by it his sandy hair was bleached on the ends =
to peroxide
blond. He signed to Daylight =
to
halt, and held up a letter. "If you're going to town, I'd be obliged if
you mail this."
"I sure
will." Daylight put it into his coat pocket.
"Do you live
hereabouts, stranger?"
But the little man
did not answer. He was gazing=
at
Daylight in a surprised and steadfast fashion.
"I know
you," the little man announced.
"You're Elam Harnish--Burning Daylight, the papers call you.
Daylight nodded.<= o:p>
"But what un=
der
the sun are you doing here in the chaparral?"
Daylight grinned =
as
he answered, "Drumming up trade for a free rural delivery route."=
"Well, I'm g=
lad
I wrote that letter this afternoon," the little man went on, "or =
else
I'd have missed seeing you. I=
've
seen your photo in the papers many a time, and I've a good memory for
faces. I recognized you at
once. My name's Ferguson.&quo=
t;
"Do you live
hereabouts?" Daylight repeated his query.
"Oh, yes. I'=
ve
got a little shack back here in the bush a hundred yards, and a pretty spri=
ng,
and a few fruit trees and berry bushes. Come in and take a look. And that spring is a dandy. You never tasted water like it.
Walking and leadi=
ng
his horse, Daylight followed the quick-stepping eager little man through the
green tunnel and emerged abruptly upon the clearing, if clearing it might be
called, where wild nature and man's earth-scratching were inextricably
blended. It was a tiny nook i=
n the hills,
protected by the steep walls of a canon mouth. Here were several large oaks, evid=
encing
a richer soil. The erosion of=
ages
from the hillside had slowly formed this deposit of fat earth. Under the oaks, almost buried in t=
hem,
stood a rough, unpainted cabin, the wide verandah of which, with chairs and
hammocks, advertised an out-of doors bedchamber. Daylight's keen eyes took in every
thing. The clearing was irreg=
ular,
following the patches of the best soil, and every fruit tree and berry bush,
and even each vegetable plant, had the water personally conducted to it.
Ferguson looked
eagerly into his visitor's face for signs of approbation.
"What do you
think of it, eh?"
"Hand-reared=
and
manicured, every blessed tree," Daylight laughed, but the joy and
satisfaction that shone in his eyes contented the little man.
"Why, d'ye k=
now,
I know every one of those trees as if they were sons of mine. I planted them, nursed them, fed t=
hem,
and brought them up. Come on and peep at the spring."
"It's sure a
hummer," was Daylight's verdict, after due inspection and sampling, as
they turned back for the house.
The interior was a
surprise. The cooking being d=
one in
the small, lean-to kitchen, the whole cabin formed a large living room. A great table in the middle was
comfortably littered with books and magazines. All the available wall space,
from floor to ceiling, was occupied by filled bookshelves. It seemed to Daylight that he had =
never
seen so many books assembled in one place.=
Skins of wildcat, 'coon, and deer lay about on the pine-board floor.=
"Shot them
myself, and tanned them, too," Ferguson proudly asserted.
The crowning feat=
ure
of the room was a huge fireplace of rough stones and boulders.
"Built it
myself," Ferguson proclaimed, "and, by God, she drew! Never a wis=
p of
smoke anywhere save in the pointed channel, and that during the big
southeasters."
Daylight found
himself charmed and made curious by the little man. Why was he hiding away here in the
chaparral, he and his books? =
He was
nobody's fool, anybody could see that.&nbs=
p;
Then why? The whole affair had a tinge of adventure, and Daylight
accepted an invitation to supper, half prepared to find his host a
raw-fruit-and-nut-eater or some similar sort of health faddest. At table, w=
hile
eating rice and jack-rabbit curry (the latter shot by Ferguson), they talke=
d it
over, and Daylight found the little man had no food "views." He ate whatever he liked, and all =
he
wanted, avoiding only such combinations that experience had taught him
disagreed with his digestion.
Next, Daylight
surmised that he might be touched with religion; but, quest about as he wou=
ld,
in a conversation covering the most divergent topics, he could find no hint=
of
queerness or unusualness. So =
it
was, when between them they had washed and wiped the dishes and put them aw=
ay,
and had settled down to a comfortable smoke, that Daylight put his question=
.
"Look here,
Ferguson. Ever since we got
together, I've been casting about to find out what's wrong with you, to loc=
ate
a screw loose somewhere, but I'll be danged if I've succeeded. What are you
doing here, anyway? What made=
you
come here? What were you doin=
g for
a living before you came here? Go
ahead and elucidate yourself."
Ferguson frankly
showed his pleasure at the questions.
"First of
all," he began, "the doctors wound up by losing all hope for me.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> Gave me a few months at best, and =
that,
after a course in sanatoriums and a trip to Europe and another to Hawaii. They tried electricity, and forced
feeding, and fasting. I was a graduate of about everything in the
curriculum. They kept me poor=
with
their bills while I went from bad to worse. The trouble with me was two fol=
d:
first, I was a born weakling; and next, I was living unnaturally--too much
work, and responsibility, and strain.
I was managing editor of the Times-Tribune--"
Daylight gasped
mentally, for the Times-Tribune was the biggest and most influential paper =
in
San Francisco, and always had been so.
"--and I was=
n't
strong enough for the strain. Of
course my body went back on me, and my mind, too, for that matter. It had to be bolstered up with whi=
skey,
which wasn't good for it any more than was the living in clubs and hotels g=
ood
for my stomach and the rest of me.
That was what ailed me; I was living all wrong."
He shrugged his
shoulders and drew at his pipe.
"When the
doctors gave me up, I wound up my affairs and gave the doctors up. That was fifteen years ago. I'd been hunting through here when=
I was
a boy, on vacations from college, and when I was all down and out it seemed=
a
yearning came to me to go back to the country. So I quit, quit everything, absolu=
tely,
and came to live in the Valley of the Moon--that's the Indian name, you kno=
w, for
Sonoma Valley. I lived in the
lean-to the first year; then I built the cabin and sent for my books. I never knew what happiness was be=
fore,
nor health. Look at me now an=
d dare
to tell me that I look forty-seven."
"I wouldn't =
give
a day over forty," Daylight confessed.
"Yet the day=
I
came here I looked nearer sixty, and that was fifteen years ago."
They talked along,
and Daylight looked at the world from new angles. Here was a man, neither
bitter nor cynical, who laughed at the city-dwellers and called them lunati=
cs;
a man who did not care for money, and in whom the lust for power had long s=
ince
died. As for the friendship o=
f the
city-dwellers, his host spoke in no uncertain terms.
"What did th=
ey
do, all the chaps I knew, the chaps in the clubs with whom I'd been cheek by
jowl for heaven knows how long? I
was not beholden to them for anything, and when I slipped out there was not=
one
of them to drop me a line and say, 'How are you, old man? Anything I can do for you?' For se=
veral
weeks it was: 'What's become of Ferguson?' After that I became a reminiscen=
ce
and a memory. Yet every last =
one of
them knew I had nothing but my salary and that I'd always lived a lap ahead=
of
it."
"But what do=
you
do now?" was Daylight's query.
"You must need cash to buy clothes and magazines?"
"A week's wo=
rk
or a month's work, now and again, ploughing in the winter, or picking grape=
s in
the fall, and there's always odd jobs with the farmers through the summer.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> I don't need much, so I don't have=
to work
much. Most of my time I spend
fooling around the place. I c=
ould do
hack work for the magazines and newspapers; but I prefer the ploughing and =
the
grape picking. Just look at me and you can see why. I'm hard as rocks. And I like the work. But I tell you a chap's got to bre=
ak in
to it. It's a great thing when he's learned to pick grapes a whole long day=
and
come home at the end of it with that tired happy feeling, instead of being =
in a
state of physical collapse. T=
hat fireplace--those
big stones--I was soft, then, a little, anemic, alcoholic degenerate, with =
the
spunk of a rabbit and about one per cent as much stamina, and some of those=
big
stones nearly broke my back and my heart.&=
nbsp;
But I persevered, and used my body in the way Nature intended it sho=
uld
be used--not bending over a desk and swilling whiskey... and, well, here I =
am,
a better man for it, and there's the fireplace, fine and dandy, eh?
"And now tel=
l me
about the Klondike, and how you turned San Francisco upside down with that =
last
raid of yours. You're a bonny
fighter, you know, and you touch my imagination, though my cooler reason te=
lls
me that you are a lunatic like the rest.&n=
bsp;
The lust for power! It's a dreadful affliction. Why didn't you stay in your
Klondike? Or why don't you cl=
ear
out and live a natural life, for instance, like mine? You see, I can ask
questions, too. Now you talk =
and
let me listen for a while."
It was not until =
ten
o'clock that Daylight parted from Ferguson. As he rode along through the
starlight, the idea came to him of buying the ranch on the other side of the
valley. There was no thought =
in his
mind of ever intending to live on it.
His game was in San Francisco. But he liked the ranch, and as soon a=
s he
got back to the office he would open up negotiations with Hillard. Besides,=
the
ranch included the clay-pit, and it would give him the whip-hand over
Holdsworthy if he ever tried to cut up any didoes.
The time passed, =
and
Daylight played on at the game. But
the game had entered upon a new phase.&nbs=
p;
The lust for power in the mere gambling and winning was metamorphosi=
ng
into the lust for power in order to revenge. There were many men in San
Francisco against whom he had registered black marks, and now and again, wi=
th
one of his lightning strokes, he erased such a mark. He asked no quarter; he gave no
quarter. Men feared and hated=
him,
and no one loved him, except Larry Hegan, his lawyer, who would have laid d=
own
his life for him. But he was =
the
only man with whom Daylight was really intimate, though he was on terms of =
friendliest
camaraderie with the rough and unprincipled following of the bosses who rul=
ed
the Riverside Club.
On the other hand,
San Francisco's attitude toward Daylight had undergone a change. While he, with his slashing buccan=
eer
methods, was a distinct menace to the more orthodox financial gamblers, he =
was nevertheless
so grave a menace that they were glad enough to leave him alone. He had already taught them the
excellence of letting a sleeping dog lie.&=
nbsp;
Many of the men, who knew that they were in danger of his big bear-p=
aw
when it reached out for the honey vats, even made efforts to placate him, to
get on the friendly side of him.
The Alta-Pacific approached him confidentially with an offer of
reinstatement, which he promptly declined.=
He was after a number of men in that club, and, whenever opportunity
offered, he reached out for them and mangled them. Even the newspapers, with
one or two blackmailing exceptions, ceased abusing him and became
respectful. In short, he was =
looked
upon as a bald-faced grizzly from the Arctic wilds to whom it was considere=
d expedient
to give the trail. At the tim=
e he
raided the steamship companies, they had yapped at him and worried him, the
whole pack of them, only to have him whirl around and whip them in the fier=
cest
pitched battle San Francisco had ever known. Not easily forgotten was the Pacif=
ic
Slope Seaman's strike and the giving over of the municipal government to the
labor bosses and grafters. The
destruction of Charles Klinkner and the California and Altamont Trust Compa=
ny
had been a warning. But it wa=
s an
isolated case; they had been confident in strength in numbers--until he tau=
ght
them better.
Daylight still
engaged in daring speculations, as, for instance, at the impending outbreak=
of
the Japanese-Russian War, when, in the face of the experience and power of =
the
shipping gamblers, he reached out and clutched practically a monopoly of
available steamer-charters. T=
here was
scarcely a battered tramp on the Seven Seas that was not his on time
charter. As usual, his positi=
on
was, "You've got to come and see me"; which they did, and, to use
another of his phrases, they "paid through the nose" for the
privilege. And all his ventur=
ing
and fighting had now but one motive.
Some day, as he confided to Hegan, when he'd made a sufficient stake=
, he
was going back to New York and knock the spots out of Messrs. Dowsett, Lett=
on,
and Guggenhammer. He'd show t=
hem
what an all-around general buzz-saw he was and what a mistake they'd made e=
ver
to monkey with him. But he ne=
ver
lost his head, and he knew that he was not yet strong enough to go into
death-grapples with those three early enemies. In the meantime the black marks ag=
ainst
them remained for a future easement day.
Dede Mason was st=
ill
in the office. He had made no=
more
overtures, discussed no more books and no more grammar. He had no active interest in her, =
and
she was to him a pleasant memory of what had never happened, a joy, which, =
by
his essential nature, he was barred from ever knowing. Yet, while his interest had gone to
sleep and his energy was consumed in the endless battles he waged, he knew
every trick of the light on her hair, every quick denote mannerism of movem=
ent,
every line of her figure as expounded by her tailor-made gowns. Several times, six months or so ap=
art,
he had increased her salary, until now she was receiving ninety dollars a
month. Beyond this he dared n=
ot go,
though he had got around it by making the work easier. This he had accomplished after her
return from a vacation, by retaining her substitute as an assistant. Also, he had changed his office su=
ite,
so that now the two girls had a room by themselves.
His eye had become
quite critical wherever Dede Mason was concerned. He had long since noted h=
er
pride of carriage. It was uno=
btrusive,
yet it was there. He decided,=
from
the way she carried it, that she deemed her body a thing to be proud of, to=
be
cared for as a beautiful and valued possession. In this, and in the way she carrie=
d her
clothes, he compared her with her assistant, with the stenographers he
encountered in other offices, with the women he saw on the sidewalks. "She's sure well put up,"=
; he
communed with himself; "and she sure knows how to dress and carry it o=
ff
without being stuck on herself and without laying it on thick."
The more he saw of
her, and the more he thought he knew of her, the more unapproachable did she
seem to him. But since he had=
no
intention of approaching her, this was anything but an unsatisfactory
fact. He was glad he had her =
in his
office, and hoped she'd stay, and that was about all.
Daylight did not
improve with the passing years. The
life was not good for him. He=
was
growing stout and soft, and there was unwonted flabbiness in his muscles. The more he drank cocktails, the m=
ore he
was compelled to drink in order to get the desired result, the inhibitions =
that
eased him down from the concert pitch of his operations. And with this went wine, too, at m=
eals,
and the long drinks after dinner of Scotch and soda at the Riverside. Then, too, his body suffered from =
lack
of exercise; and, from lack of decent human associations, his moral fibres =
were
weakening. Never a man to hid=
e anything,
some of his escapades became public, such as speeding, and of joy-rides in =
his
big red motor-car down to San Jose with companions distinctly sporty--incid=
ents
that were narrated as good fun and comically in the newspapers.
Nor was there
anything to save him. Religio=
n had
passed him by. "A long time dead" was his epitome of that phase of
speculation. He was not interested in humanity. According to his rough-hewn sociol=
ogy,
it was all a gamble. God was a
whimsical, abstract, mad thing called Luck. As to how one happened to be
born--whether a sucker or a robber--was a gamble to begin with; Luck dealt =
out
the cards, and the little babies picked up the hands allotted them. Protest=
was
vain. Those were their cards and they had to play them, willy-nilly, hunchb=
acked
or straight backed, crippled or clean-limbed, addle-pated or clear-headed.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> There was no fairness in it. The cards most picked up put them =
into
the sucker class; the cards of a few enabled them to become robbers. The playing of the cards was life-=
-the
crowd of players, society.
The table was the
earth, and the earth, in lumps and chunks, from loaves of bread to big red
motor-cars, was the stake. An=
d in
the end, lucky and unlucky, they were all a long time dead.
It was hard on the
stupid lowly, for they were coppered to lose from the start; but the more he
saw of the others, the apparent winners, the less it seemed to him that they
had anything to brag about. T=
hey,
too, were a long time dead, and their living did not amount to much. It was a wild animal fight; the st=
rong
trampled the weak, and the strong, he had already discovered,--men like Dow=
sett,
and Letton, and Guggenhammer,--were not necessarily the best. He remembered his miner comrades o=
f the
Arctic. They were the stupid =
lowly,
they did the hard work and were robbed of the fruit of their toil just as w=
as
the old woman making wine in the Sonoma hills; and yet they had finer quali=
ties
of truth, and loyalty, and square-dealing than did the men who robbed them.=
The winners seemed to be the crook=
ed
ones, the unfaithful ones, the wicked ones. And even they had no say in the
matter. They played the cards=
that
were given them; and Luck, the monstrous, mad-god thing, the owner of the w=
hole
shebang, looked on and grinned. It
was he who stacked the universal card-deck of existence. There was no just=
ice
in the deal. The little men t=
hat
came, the little pulpy babies, were not even asked if they wanted to try a
flutter at the game. They had=
no
choice. Luck jerked them into=
life,
slammed them up against the jostling table, and told them: "Now play, =
damn
you, play!" And they did=
their
best, poor little devils. The=
play
of some led to steam yachts and mansions; of others, to the asylum or the p=
auper's
ward. Some played the one same
card, over and over, and made wine all their days in the chaparral, hoping,=
at
the end, to pull down a set of false teeth and a coffin. Others quit the game early, having=
drawn
cards that called for violent death, or famine in the Barrens, or loathsome=
and
lingering disease. The hands =
of
some called for kingship and irresponsible and numerated power; other hands
called for ambition, for wealth in untold sums, for disgrace and shame, or =
for
women and wine. As for himself, he
had drawn a lucky hand, though he could not see all the cards. Somebody or something might get him
yet. The mad god, Luck, might=
be
tricking him along to some such end.
An unfortunate set of circumstances, and in a month's time the robber
gang might be war-dancing around his financial carcass. This very day a
street-car might run him down, or a sign fall from a building and smash in =
his skull. Or there was disease, ever rampant=
, one
of Luck's grimmest whims. Who=
could
say? To-morrow, or some other day, a ptomaine bug, or some other of a thous=
and
bugs, might jump out upon him and drag him down. There was Doctor Bascom, Lee Basco=
m who
had stood beside him a week ago and talked and argued, a picture of magnifi=
cent
youth, and strength, and health.
And in three days he was dead--pneumonia, rheumatism of the heart, a=
nd
heaven knew what else--at the end screaming in agony that could be heard a
block away. That had been ter=
rible. It was a fresh, raw stroke in Dayl=
ight's
consciousness. And when would=
his
own turn come? Who could say?=
In the meantime t=
here
was nothing to do but play the cards he could see in his hand, and they were
BATTLE, REVENGE, AND COCKTAILS. And
Luck sat over all and grinned. One Sunday, late =
in
the afternoon, found Daylight across the bay in the Piedmont hills back of
Oakland. As usual, he was in =
a big
motor-car, though not his own, the guest of Swiftwater Bill, Luck's own
darling, who had come down to spend the clean-up of the seventh fortune wru=
ng from
the frozen Arctic gravel. A
notorious spender, his latest pile was already on the fair road to follow t=
he
previous six. He it was, in t=
he
first year of Dawson, who had cracked an ocean of champagne at fifty dollar=
s a
quart; who, with the bottom of his gold-sack in sight, had cornered the
egg-market, at twenty-four dollars per dozen, to the tune of one hundred and
ten dozen, in order to pique the lady-love who had jilted him; and he it wa=
s,
paying like a prince for speed, who had chartered special trains and broken=
all
records between San Francisco and New York. And here he was once more, the
"luck-pup of hell," as Daylight called him, throwing his latest
fortune away with the same old-time facility. It was a merry pa=
rty,
and they had made a merry day of it, circling the bay from San Francisco ar=
ound
by San Jose and up to Oakland, having been thrice arrested for speeding, the
third time, however, on the Haywards stretch, running away with their
captor. Fearing that a teleph=
one
message to arrest them had been flashed ahead, they had turned into the
back-road through the hills, and now, rushing in upon Oakland by a new rout=
e,
were boisterously discussing what disposition they should make of the
constable. "We'll come =
out
at Blair Park in ten minutes," one of the men announced. "Look here, Swiftwater, there=
's a
crossroads right ahead, with lots of gates, but it'll take us backcountry c=
lear
into Berkeley. Then we can come back into Oakland from the other side, sneak
across on the ferry, and send the machine back around to-night with the cha=
uffeur." But Swiftwater Bi=
ll
failed to see why he should not go into Oakland by way of Blair Park, and so
decided. The next moment, =
flying
around a bend, the back-road they were not going to take appeared. Inside the gate leaning out from h=
er
saddle and just closing it, was a young woman on a chestnut sorrel. With his first glimpse, Daylight f=
elt
there was something strangely familiar about her. The next moment, straightening up =
in the
saddle with a movement he could not fail to identify, she put the horse int=
o a gallop,
riding away with her back toward them.&nbs=
p;
It was Dede Mason--he remembered what Morrison had told him about her
keeping a riding horse, and he was glad she had not seen him in this riotous
company. Swiftwater Bill stood up, clinging with one hand to the back of th=
e front
seat and waving the other to attract her attention. His lips were pursed for
the piercing whistle for which he was famous and which Daylight knew of old,
when Daylight, with a hook of his leg and a yank on the shoulder, slammed t=
he
startled Bill down into his seat. "You m-m-must
know the lady," Swiftwater Bill spluttered. "I sure
do," Daylight answered, "so shut up." "Well, I
congratulate your good taste, Daylight.&nb=
sp;
She's a peach, and she rides like one, too." Intervening trees=
at
that moment shut her from view, and Swiftwater Bill plunged into the proble=
m of
disposing of their constable, while Daylight, leaning back with closed eyes,
was still seeing Dede Mason gallop off down the country road. Swiftwater Bi=
ll
was right. She certainly could
ride. And, sitting astride, h=
er
seat was perfect. Good for Dede!
That was an added point, her having the courage to ride in the only
natural and logical manner. H=
er
head as screwed on right, that was one thing sure. On Monday morning,
coming in for dictation, he looked at her with new interest, though he gave=
no
sign of it; and the stereotyped business passed off in the stereotyped
way. But the following Sunday=
found
him on a horse himself, across the bay and riding through the Piedmont hill=
s. He made a long day of it, but no g=
limpse
did he catch of Dede Mason, though he even took the back-road of many gates=
and
rode on into Berkeley. Here, =
along
the lines of multitudinous houses, up one street and down another, he wonde=
red
which of them might be occupied by her. Morrison had said long ago that she
lived in Berkeley, and she had been headed that way in the late afternoon of
the previous Sunday--evidently returning home. It had been a
fruitless day, so far as she was concerned; and yet not entirely fruitless,=
for
he had enjoyed the open air and the horse under him to such purpose that, on
Monday, his instructions were out to the dealers to look for the best chest=
nut
sorrel that money could buy. =
At odd
times during the week he examined numbers of chestnut sorrels, tried severa=
l,
and was unsatisfied. It was not till Saturday that he came upon Bob. Daylight knew him for what he want=
ed the
moment he laid eyes on him. A=
large
horse for a riding animal, he was none too large for a big man like
Daylight. In splendid conditi=
on,
Bob's coat in the sunlight was a flame of fire, his arched neck a jeweled
conflagration. "He's a sure
winner," was Daylight's comment; but the dealer was not so sanguine. "Not what yo=
u'd
call a real vicious horse, but a dangerous one. Full of vinegar and all-rou=
nd
cussedness, but without malice. Just as soon kill you as not, but in a play=
ful
sort of way, you understand, without meaning to at all. Personally, I wouldn't think of ri=
ding
him. But he's a stayer. Look at them lungs. And look at th=
em
legs. Not a blemish. He's never been hurt or worked.
He was selling the horse on commis=
sion,
and its owner had insisted on Bob's true character being given. The dealer gave it.
The dealer was
right. Daylight examined the =
mane
and found it finer than any horse's hair he had ever seen. Also, its color was unusual in tha=
t it
was almost auburn. While he r=
an his
fingers through it, Bob turned his head and playfully nuzzled Daylight's
shoulder.
"Saddle him =
up,
and I'll try him," he told the dealer. "I wonder if he's used to spu=
rs. No English saddle, mind. Give me a good Mexican and a curb
bit--not too severe, seeing as he likes to rear."
Daylight
superintended the preparations, adjusting the curb strap and the stirrup
length, and doing the cinching. He
shook his head at the martingale, but yielded to the dealer's advice and
allowed it to go on. And Bob, beyond spirited restlessness and a few playful
attempts, gave no trouble. No=
r in
the hour's ride that followed, save for some permissible curveting and
prancing, did he misbehave.
Daylight was delighted; the purchase was immediately made; and Bob, =
with
riding gear and personal equipment, was despatched across the bay forthwith=
to
take up his quarters in the stables of the Oakland Riding Academy.
The next day being
Sunday, Daylight was away early, crossing on the ferry and taking with him
Wolf, the leader of his sled team, the one dog which he had selected to bri=
ng
with him when he left Alaska. Quest
as he would through the Piedmont hills and along the many-gated back-road to
Berkeley, Daylight saw nothing of Dede Mason and her chestnut sorrel. But he had little time for
disappointment, for his own chestnut sorrel kept him busy. Bob proved a handful of impishness=
and
contrariety, and he tried out his rider as much as his rider tried him
out. All of Daylight's horse
knowledge and horse sense was called into play, while Bob, in turn, worked
every trick in his lexicon. Discovering that his martingale had more slack =
in
it than usual, he proceeded to give an exhibition of rearing and hind-leg
walking. After ten hopeless m=
inutes
of it, Daylight slipped off and tightened the martingale, whereupon Bob gav=
e an
exhibition of angelic goodness.
He fooled Daylight
completely. At the end of hal=
f an
hour of goodness, Daylight, lured into confidence, was riding along at a wa=
lk
and rolling a cigarette, with slack knees and relaxed seat, the reins lying=
on
the animal's neck. Bob whirled
abruptly and with lightning swiftness, pivoting on his hind legs, his fore =
legs
just lifted clear of the ground.
Daylight found himself with his right foot out of the stirrup and his
arms around the animal's neck; and Bob took advantage of the situation to b=
olt
down the road. With a hope th=
at he
should not encounter Dede Mason at that moment, Daylight regained his seat =
and checked
in the horse.
Arrived back at t=
he
same spot, Bob whirled again. This
time Daylight kept his seat, but, beyond a futile rein across the neck, did
nothing to prevent the evolution.
He noted that Bob whirled to the right, and resolved to keep him
straightened out by a spur on the left.&nb=
sp;
But so abrupt and swift was the whirl that warning and accomplishment
were practically simultaneous.
"Well,
Bob," he addressed the animal, at the same time wiping the sweat from =
his
own eyes, "I'm free to confess that you're sure the blamedest all-fired
quickest creature I ever saw. I
guess the way to fix you is to keep the spur just a-touching--ah! you
brute!"
For, the moment t=
he
spur touched him, his left hind leg had reached forward in a kick that stru=
ck
the stirrup a smart blow. Several times, out of curiosity, Daylight attempt=
ed
the spur, and each time Bob's hoof landed the stirrup. Then Daylight, following the horse=
's
example of the unexpected, suddenly drove both spurs into him and reached h=
im underneath
with the quirt.
"You ain't n=
ever
had a real licking before," he muttered as Bob, thus rudely jerked out=
of
the circle of his own impish mental processes, shot ahead.
Half a dozen times
spurs and quirt bit into him, and then Daylight settled down to enjoy the m=
ad
magnificent gallop. No longer
punished, at the end of a half mile Bob eased down into a fast canter. Wolf, toiling in the rear, was cat=
ching
up, and everything was going nicely.
"I'll give y=
ou a
few pointers on this whirling game, my boy," Daylight was saying to hi=
m,
when Bob whirled.
He did it on a
gallop, breaking the gallop off short by fore legs stiffly planted. Daylight fetched up against his st=
eed's
neck with clasped arms, and at the same instant, with fore feet clear of th=
e ground,
Bob whirled around. Only an
excellent rider could have escaped being unhorsed, and as it was, Daylight =
was
nastily near to it. By the ti=
me he
recovered his seat, Bob was in full career, bolting the way he had come, and
making Wolf side-jump to the bushes.
"All right, =
darn
you!" Daylight grunted, driving in spurs and quirt again and again.
When, after a tim=
e,
Bob attempted to ease down the mad pace, spurs and quirt went into him again
with undiminished vim and put him to renewed effort. And when, at last, Daylight decide=
d that
the horse had had enough, he turned him around abruptly and put him into a
gentle canter on the forward track.
After a time he reined him in to a stop to see if he were breathing
painfully.
Standing for a minute, Bob turned his head and nuzzled his rider's stirrup in a roguish, impatient way, as much as to intimate that it was time they were going on.<= o:p>
"Well, I'll =
be
plumb gosh darned!" was Daylight's comment. "No ill-will, no grudge, no
nothing-and after that lambasting! You're sure a hummer, Bob."
Once again Daylig=
ht
was lulled into fancied security.
For an hour Bob was all that could be desired of a spirited mount, w=
hen,
and as usual without warning, he took to whirling and bolting. Daylight put=
a
stop to this with spurs and quirt, running him several punishing miles in t=
he
direction of his bolt. But wh=
en he
turned him around and started forward, Bob proceeded to feign fright at tre=
es,
cows, bushes, Wolf, his own shadow--in short, at every ridiculously conceiv=
able
object. At such times, Wolf l=
ay
down in the shade and looked on, while Daylight wrestled it out.
So the day
passed. Among other things, B=
ob
developed a trick of making believe to whirl and not whirling. This was as exasperating as the re=
al
thing, for each time Daylight was fooled into tightening his leg grip and i=
nto
a general muscular tensing of all his body. And then, after a few make-believe
attempts, Bob actually did whirl and caught Daylight napping again and land=
ed
him in the old position with clasped arms around the neck.
And to the end of=
the
day, Bob continued to be up to one trick or another; after passing a dozen
automobiles on the way into Oakland, suddenly electing to go mad with frigh=
t at
a most ordinary little runabout.
And just before he arrived back at the stable he capped the day with=
a
combined whirling and rearing that broke the martingale and enabled him to =
gain
a perpendicular position on his hind legs.=
At this juncture a rotten stirrup leather parted, and Daylight was a=
ll
but unhorsed.
But he had taken a
liking to the animal, and repented not of his bargain. He realized that Bob was not vicio=
us nor
mean, the trouble being that he was bursting with high spirits and was endo=
wed
with more than the average horse's intelligence. It was the spirits and the intelli=
gence,
combined with inordinate roguishness, that made him what he was. What was required to control him w=
as a
strong hand, with tempered sternness and yet with the requisite touch of br=
utal
dominance.
"It's you or=
me,
Bob," Daylight told him more than once that day.
And to the stable=
man,
that night:--
"My, but ain=
't
he a looker! Ever see anything like him?&n=
bsp;
Best piece of horseflesh I ever straddled, and I've seen a few in my
time."
And to Bob, who h=
ad
turned his head and was up to his playful nuzzling:--
"Good-by, you
little bit of all right. See =
you
again next Sunday A.M., and just you bring along your whole basket of trick=
s, you
old son-of-a-gun."
Throughout the we=
ek
Daylight found himself almost as much interested in Bob as in Dede; and, not
being in the thick of any big deals, he was probably more interested in bot=
h of
them than in the business game. Bob's trick of whirling was of especial mom=
ent
to him. How to overcome it,--=
that
was the thing. Suppose he did=
meet
with Dede out in the hills; and suppose, by some lucky stroke of fate, he
should manage to be riding alongside of her; then that whirl of Bob's would=
be
most disconcerting and embarrassing.
He was not particularly anxious for her to see him thrown forward on
Bob's neck. On the other hand=
, suddenly
to leave her and go dashing down the back-track, plying quirt and spurs,
wouldn't do, either.
What was wanted w=
as a
method wherewith to prevent that lightning whirl. He must stop the animal
before it got around. The rei=
ns
would not do this. Neither wo=
uld
the spurs. Remained the quirt=
.
But how to accomp=
lish
it? Absent-minded moments wer=
e many
that week, when, sitting in his office chair, in fancy he was astride the w=
onderful
chestnut sorrel and trying to prevent an anticipated whirl. One such moment,
toward the end of the week, occurred in the middle of a conference with
Hegan. Hegan, elaborating a n=
ew and
dazzling legal vision, became aware that Daylight was not listening. His eyes had gone lack-lustre, and=
he,
too, was seeing with inner vision.
"Got it"=
; he
cried suddenly. "Hegan,
congratulate me. It's as simp=
le as
rolling off a log. All I've g=
ot to
do is hit him on the nose, and hit him hard."
Then he explained=
to
the startled Hegan, and became a good listener again, though he could not
refrain now and again from making audible chuckles of satisfaction and
delight. That was the scheme.=
Bob always whirled to the right. Very well. He would double the quirt in his h=
and
and, the instant of the whirl, that doubled quirt would rap Bob on the
nose. The horse didn't live, =
after
it had once learned the lesson, that would whirl in the face of the doubled
quirt.
More keenly than
ever, during that week in the office did Daylight realize that he had no
social, nor even human contacts with Dede.=
The situation was such that he could not ask her the simple question=
whether
or not she was going riding next Sunday. It was a hardship of a new sort, t=
his
being the employer of a pretty girl.
He looked at her often, when the routine work of the day was going o=
n,
the question he could not ask her tickling at the founts of speech--Was she
going riding next Sunday? And=
as he
looked, he wondered how old she was, and what love passages she had had, mu=
st
have had, with those college whippersnappers with whom, according to Morris=
on,
she herded and danced. His mi=
nd was
very full of her, those six days between the Sundays, and one thing he came=
to
know thoroughly well; he wanted her. And so much did he want her that his o=
ld
timidity of the apron-string was put to rout. He, who had run away from women mo=
st of
his life, had now grown so courageous as to pursue. Some Sunday, sooner or later, he w=
ould
meet her outside the office, somewhere in the hills, and then, if they did =
not
get acquainted, it would be because she did not care to get acquainted.
Thus he found ano=
ther
card in the hand the mad god had dealt him.
How important that
card was to become he did not dream, yet he decided that it was a pretty go=
od
card. In turn, he doubted. Ma=
ybe it
was a trick of Luck to bring calamity and disaster upon him. Suppose Dede wouldn't have him, and
suppose he went on loving her more and more, harder and harder? All his old generalized terrors of=
love
revived. He remembered the disastrous love affairs of men and women he had
known in the past. There was =
Bertha
Doolittle, old Doolittle's daughter, who had been madly in love with Dartwo=
rthy,
the rich Bonanza fraction owner; and Dartworthy, in turn, not loving Bertha=
at
all, but madly loving Colonel Walthstone's wife and eloping down the Yukon =
with
her; and Colonel Walthstone himself, madly loving his own wife and lighting=
out
in pursuit of the fleeing couple.
And what had been the outcome? Certainly Bertha's love had been
unfortunate and tragic, and so had the love of the other three. Down below
Minook, Colonel Walthstone and Dartworthy had fought it out. Dartworthy had been killed. A bullet through the Colonel's lun=
gs had
so weakened him that he died of pneumonia the following spring. And the Colonel's wife had no one =
left alive
on earth to love.
And then there was
Freda, drowning herself in the running mush-ice because of some man on the
other side of the world, and hating him, Daylight, because he had happened
along and pulled her out of the mush-ice and back to life. And the Virgin.... The old memorie=
s frightened
him. If this love-germ grippe=
d him
good and hard, and if Dede wouldn't have him, it might be almost as bad as
being gouged out of all he had by Dowsett, Letton, and Guggenhammer. Had his nascent desire for Dede be=
en
less, he might well have been frightened out of all thought of her. As it was, he found consolation in=
the
thought that some love affairs did come out right. And for all he knew, maybe Luck had
stacked the cards for him to win.
Some men were born lucky, lived lucky all their days, and died
lucky. Perhaps, too, he was s=
uch a
man, a born luck-pup who could not lose.
Sunday came, and =
Bob,
out in the Piedmont hills, behaved like an angel. His goodness, at times, w=
as
of the spirited prancing order, but otherwise he was a lamb. Daylight, with doubled quirt ready=
in
his right hand, ached for a whirl, just one whirl, which Bob, with an excel=
lence
of conduct that was tantalizing, refused to perform. But no Dede did Daylight encounter=
. He vainly circled about among the =
hill roads
and in the afternoon took the steep grade over the divide of the second ran=
ge
and dropped into Maraga Valley.
Just after passing the foot of the descent, he heard the hoof beats =
of a
cantering horse. It was from =
ahead
and coming toward him. What i=
f it
were Dede? He turned Bob arou=
nd and
started to return at a walk. =
If it
were Dede, he was born to luck, he decided; for the meeting couldn't have
occurred under better circumstances.
Here they were, both going in the same direction, and the canter wou=
ld
bring her up to him just where the stiff grade would compel a walk. There would be nothing else for he=
r to
do than ride with him to the top of the divide; and, once there, the equally
stiff descent on the other side would compel more walking.
The canter came
nearer, but he faced straight ahead until he heard the horse behind check t=
o a
walk. Then he glanced over his
shoulder. It was Dede. The recognition was quick, and, wi=
th
her, accompanied by surprise. What
more natural thing than that, partly turning his horse, he should wait till=
she
caught up with him; and that, when abreast they should continue abreast on =
up
the grade? He could have sigh=
ed
with relief. The thing was
accomplished, and so easily.
Greetings had been exchanged; here they were side by side and going =
in
the same direction with miles and miles ahead of them.
He noted that her=
eye
was first for the horse and next for him.
"Oh, what a
beauty" she had cried at sight of Bob. From the shining light in her eyes=
, and
the face filled with delight, he would scarcely have believed that it belon=
ged
to a young woman he had known in the office, the young woman with the
controlled, subdued office face.
"I didn't kn=
ow
you rode," was one of her first remarks. "I imagined you were wedded to
get-there-quick machines."
"I've just t=
aken
it up lately," was his answer.
"Beginning to get stout; you know, and had to take it off
somehow."
She gave a quick
sidewise glance that embraced him from head to heel, including seat and sad=
dle,
and said:--
"But you've
ridden before."
She certainly had=
an
eye for horses and things connected with horses was his thought, as he
replied:--
"Not for many
years. But I used to think I =
was a
regular rip-snorter when I was a youngster up in Eastern Oregon, sneaking a=
way
from camp to ride with the cattle and break cayuses and that sort of
thing."
Thus, and to his
great relief, were they launched on a topic of mutual interest. He told her about Bob's tricks, an=
d of
the whirl and his scheme to overcome it; and she agreed that horses had to =
be
handled with a certain rational severity, no matter how much one loved them=
. There
was her Mab, which she had for eight years and which she had had break of
stall-kicking. The process ha=
d been
painful for Mab, but it had cured her.
"You've ridd=
en a
lot," Daylight said.
"I really ca=
n't
remember the first time I was on a horse," she told him. "I was born on a ranch, you k=
now,
and they couldn't keep me away from the horses. I must have been born with the lov=
e for
them. I had my first pony, al=
l my
own, when I was six. When I was eight I knew what it was to be all day in t=
he
saddle along with Daddy. By t=
he
time I was eleven he was taking me on my first deer hunts. I'd be lost without a horse. I hate indoors, and without Mab he=
re I
suppose I'd have been sick and dead long ago."
"You like the
country?" he queried, at the same moment catching his first glimpse of=
a
light in her eyes other than gray.
"As much as I detest the city," she answered. "But a woman can't earn a liv=
ing in
the country. So I make the be=
st of
it--along with Mab."
And thereat she t=
old
him more of her ranch life in the days before her father died. And Daylight was hugely pleased wi=
th
himself. They were getting
acquainted. The conversation =
had
not lagged in the full half hour they had been together.
"We come pre=
tty
close from the same part of the country," he said. "I was raised in Eastern Oreg=
on,
and that's none so far from Siskiyou."
The next moment he
could have bitten out his tongue for her quick question was:--
"How did you
know I came from Siskiyou? I'=
m sure
I never mentioned it."
"I don't
know," he floundered temporarily.&nbs=
p;
"I heard somewhere that you were from thereabouts."
Wolf, sliding up =
at
that moment, sleek-footed and like a shadow, caused her horse to shy and pa=
ssed
the awkwardness off, for they talked Alaskan dogs until the conversation
drifted back to horses. And h=
orses it
was, all up the grade and down the other side.
When she talked, =
he
listened and followed her, and yet all the while he was following his own
thoughts and impressions as well. It was a nervy thing for her to do, this
riding astride, and he didn't know, after all, whether he liked it or not.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> His ideas of women were prone to b=
e old-fashioned;
they were the ones he had imbibed in the early-day, frontier life of his yo=
uth,
when no woman was seen on anything but a side-saddle. He had grown up to the tacit ficti=
on
that women on horseback were not bipeds.&n=
bsp;
It came to him with a shock, this sight of her so manlike in her
saddle. But he had to confess=
that
the sight looked good to him just then.
Two other immedia=
te
things about her struck him. =
First,
there were the golden spots in her eyes.&n=
bsp;
Queer that he had never noticed them before. Perhaps the light in the
office had not been right, and perhaps they came and went. No; they were glows of color--a so=
rt of
diffused, golden light. Nor w=
as it
golden, either, but it was nearer that than any color he knew. It certainly was not any shade of
yellow. A lover's thoughts ar=
e ever
colored, and it is to be doubted if any one else in the world would have ca=
lled
Dede's eyes golden. But Dayli=
ght's mood
verged on the tender and melting, and he preferred to think of them as gold=
en,
and therefore they were golden.
And then she was =
so
natural. He had been prepared=
to
find her a most difficult young woman to get acquainted with. Yet here it was proving so simple.=
There was nothing highfalutin abou=
t her
company manners--it was by this homely phrase that he differentiated this D=
ede
on horseback from the Dede with the office manners whom he had always
known. And yet, while he was
delighted with the smoothness with which everything was going, and with the
fact that they had found plenty to talk about, he was aware of an irk under=
it
all. After all, this talk was=
empty
and idle. He was a man of act=
ion,
and he wanted her, Dede Mason, the woman; he wanted her to love him and to =
be
loved by him; and he wanted all this glorious consummation then and there.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> Used to forcing issues used to gri=
pping
men and things and bending them to his will, he felt, now, the same compuls=
ive
prod of mastery. He wanted to tell her that he loved her and that there was
nothing else for her to do but marry him. And yet he did not obey the
prod. Women were fluttery
creatures, and here mere mastery would prove a bungle. He remembered all his hunting guil=
e, the
long patience of shooting meat in famine when a hit or a miss meant life or
death. Truly, though this gir=
l did
not yet mean quite that, nevertheless she meant much to him--more, now, than
ever, as he rode beside her, glancing at her as often as he dared, she in h=
er corduroy
riding-habit, so bravely manlike, yet so essentially and revealingly woman,
smiling, laughing, talking, her eyes sparkling, the flush of a day of sun a=
nd
summer breeze warm in her cheeks.
Another Sunday man and horse and dog roved the Piedmont hills. And again Daylight and Dede rode together. But this time her surprise at meeting him was tinctured with suspicion; or rather, her surpri= se was of another order. The pre= vious Sunday had been quite accidental, but his appearing a second time among her favorite haunts hinted of more than the fortuitous. Daylight was made to feel that she suspected him, and he, remembering that he had seen a big rock quarry near Blair Park, stated offhand that he was thinking of buying it. His one-time investment in a brick= yard had put the idea into his head--an idea that he decided was a good one, for= it enabled him to suggest that she ride along with him to inspect the quarry.<= o:p>
So several hours =
he
spent in her company, in which she was much the same girl as before, natura=
l,
unaffected, lighthearted, smiling and laughing, a good fellow, talking hors=
es
with unflagging enthusiasm, making friends with the crusty-tempered Wolf, a=
nd
expressing the desire to ride Bob, whom she declared she was more in love w=
ith
than ever. At this last Dayli=
ght
demurred. Bob was full of dan=
gerous
tricks, and he wouldn't trust any one on him except his worst enemy.
"You think,
because I'm a girl, that I don't know anything about horses," she flas=
hed
back. "But I've been thr=
own
off and bucked off enough not to be over-confident. And I'm not a fool. I wouldn't get=
on a
bucking horse. I've learned
better. And I'm not afraid of=
any
other kind. And you say yours=
elf
that Bob doesn't buck."
"But you've
never seen him cutting up didoes," Daylight said.
"But you must
remember I've seen a few others, and I've been on several of them myself. I brought Mab here to electric car=
s,
locomotives, and automobiles. She
was a raw range colt when she came to me.&=
nbsp;
Broken to saddle that was all.
Besides, I won't hurt your horse."
Against his better
judgment, Daylight gave in, and, on an unfrequented stretch of road, changed
saddles and bridles.
"Remember, h=
e's
greased lightning," he warned, as he helped her to mount.
She nodded, while=
Bob
pricked up his ears to the knowledge that he had a strange rider on his
back. The fun came quickly
enough--too quickly for Dede, who found herself against Bob's neck as he
pivoted around and bolted the other way.&n=
bsp;
Daylight followed on her horse and watched. He saw her check the animal quickl=
y to a
standstill, and immediately, with rein across neck and a decisive prod of t=
he
left spur, whirl him back the way he had come and almost as swiftly.
"Get ready to
give him the quirt on the nose," Daylight called.
But, too quickly =
for
her, Bob whirled again, though this time, by a severe effort, she saved her=
self
from the undignified position against his neck. His bolt was more determined, but =
she
pulled him into a prancing walk, and turned him roughly back with her spurr=
ed
heel. There was nothing feminine in the way she handled him; her method was=
imperative
and masculine. Had this not b=
een
so, Daylight would have expected her to say she had had enough. But that li=
ttle
preliminary exhibition had taught him something of Dede's quality. And if it had not, a glance at her=
gray
eyes, just perceptibly angry with herself, and at her firm-set mouth, would
have told him the same thing. Daylight did not suggest anything, while he h=
ung
almost gleefully upon her actions in anticipation of what the fractious Bob=
was
going to get. And Bob got it, on his next whirl, or attempt, rather, for he=
was
no more than halfway around when the quirt met him smack on his tender nose=
. There and then, in his bewildermen=
t,
surprise, and pain, his fore feet, just skimming above the road, dropped do=
wn.
"Great!"
Daylight applauded. "A c=
ouple
more will fix him. He's too s=
mart
not to know when he's beaten."
Again Bob tried.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> But this time he was barely quarter
around when the doubled quirt on his nose compelled him to drop his fore fe=
et
to the road. Then, with neith=
er
rein nor spur, but by the mere threat of the quirt, she straightened him ou=
t.
Dede looked
triumphantly at Daylight.
"Let me give=
him
a run?" she asked.
Daylight nodded, =
and
she shot down the road. He wa=
tched
her out of sight around the bend, and watched till she came into sight
returning. She certainly could sit her horse, was his thought, and she was a
sure enough hummer. God, she =
was
the wife for a man! Made most=
of
them look pretty slim. And to=
think
of her hammering all week at a typewriter.=
That was no place for her. She should be a man's wife, taking it eas=
y,
with silks and satins and diamonds (his frontier notion of what befitted a =
wife
beloved), and dogs, and horses, and such things--"And we'll see, Mr.
Burning Daylight, what you and me can do about it," he murmured to
himself! and aloud to her:--
"You'll do, =
Miss
Mason; you'll do. There's not=
hing
too good in horseflesh you don't deserve, a woman who can ride like that. N=
o;
stay with him, and we'll jog along to the quarry." He chuckled. "Say, he actually gave just t=
he
least mite of a groan that last time you fetched him. Did you hear it? And did you see the way he dropped=
his
feet to the road--just like he'd struck a stone wall. And he's got savvee enough to know=
from
now on that that same stone wall will be always there ready for him to lam
into."
When he parted fr=
om
her that afternoon, at the gate of the road that led to Berkeley, he drew o=
ff
to the edge of the intervening clump of trees, where, unobserved, he watched
her out of sight. Then, turning to ride back into Oakland, a thought came to
him that made him grin ruefully as he muttered: "And now it's up to me=
to
make good and buy that blamed quarry.
Nothing less than that can give me an excuse for snooping around the=
se
hills."
But the quarry was
doomed to pass out of his plans for a time, for on the following Sunday he =
rode
alone. No Dede on a chestnut =
sorrel
came across the back-road from Berkeley that day, nor the day a week later.=
Daylight
was beside himself with impatience and apprehension, though in the office he
contained himself. He noted no
change in her, and strove to let none show in himself. The same old monoton=
ous
routine went on, though now it was irritating and maddening. Daylight found a big quarrel on his
hands with a world that wouldn't let a man behave toward his stenographer a=
fter
the way of all men and women. What
was the good of owning millions anyway?&nb=
sp;
he demanded one day of the desk-calendar, as she passed out after
receiving his dictation.
As the third week
drew to a close and another desolate Sunday confronted him, Daylight resolv=
ed
to speak, office or no office. And as was his nature, he went simply and di=
rectly
to the point She had finished her work with him, and was gathering her note=
pad
and pencils together to depart, when he said:--
"Oh, one thi=
ng
more, Miss Mason, and I hope you won't mind my being frank and straight
out. You've struck me right a=
long as
a sensible-minded girl, and I don't think you'll take offence at what I'm g=
oing
to say. You know how long you=
've
been in the office--it's years, now, several of them, anyway; and you know =
I've
always been straight and aboveboard with you. I've never what you call--presumed=
. Because you were in my office I've=
tried
to be more careful than if--if you wasn't in my office--you understand. But just the same, it don't make m=
e any
the less human. I'm a lonely =
sort
of a fellow--don't take that as a bid for kindness. What I mean by it is to try and te=
ll you
just how much those two rides with you have meant. And now I hope you won't mind my j=
ust
asking why you haven't been out riding the last two Sundays?"
He came to a stop=
and
waited, feeling very warm and awkward, the perspiration starting in tiny be=
ads
on his forehead. She did not =
speak immediately,
and he stepped across the room and raised the window higher.
"I have been
riding," she answered; "in other directions."
"But
why...?" He failed someh=
ow to
complete the question. "=
Go
ahead and be frank with me," he urged. "Just as frank as I am with
you. Why didn't you ride in t=
he
Piedmont hills? I hunted for =
you
everywhere.
"And that is
just why." She smiled, a=
nd
looked him straight in the eyes for a moment, then dropped her own. "Surely, you understand, Mr. =
Harnish."
He shook his head
glumly.
"I do, and I
don't. I ain't used to city w=
ays by
a long shot. There's things one mustn't do, which I don't mind as long as I
don't want to do them."
"But when you
do?" she asked quickly.
"Then I do
them." His lips had drawn firmly with this affirmation of will, but the
next instant he was amending the statement "That is, I mostly do. But what gets me is the things you
mustn't do when they're not wrong and they won't hurt anybody--this riding,=
for
instance."
She played nervou=
sly
with a pencil for a time, as if debating her reply, while he waited patient=
ly.
"This
riding," she began; "it's not what they call the right thing. I l=
eave
it to you. You know the world=
. You are Mr. Harnish, the millionai=
re--"
"Gambler,&qu=
ot;
he broke in harshly
She nodded accept=
ance
of his term and went on.
"And I'm a
stenographer in your office--"
"You're a
thousand times better than me--" he attempted to interpolate, but was =
in
turn interrupted.
"It isn't a
question of such things. It's=
a
simple and fairly common situation that must be considered. I work for you. And it isn't what you or I might t=
hink,
but what other persons will think.
And you don't need to be told any more about that. You know yourself."
Her cool, matter-of-fact speech belied her--or so Daylight thought, looking at her perturbed feminineness, at the rounded lines of her figure, the breast that deeply rose and fell, and at the color that was now excited in her cheeks.<= o:p>
"I'm sorry I
frightened you out of your favorite stamping ground," he said rather
aimlessly.
"You didn't
frighten me," she retorted, with a touch of fire. "I'm not a silly
seminary girl. I've taken car=
e of
myself for a long time now, and I've done it without being frightened. We were together two Sundays, and =
I'm
sure I wasn't frightened of Bob, or you.&n=
bsp;
It isn't that. I have =
no
fears of taking care of myself, but the world insists on taking care of one=
as
well. That's the trouble. It'=
s what
the world would have to say about me and my employer meeting regularly and
riding in the hills on Sundays.
It's funny, but it's so. I
could ride with one of the clerks without remark, but with you--no."
"But the wor=
ld
don't know and don't need to know," he cried.
"Which makes=
it
worse, in a way, feeling guilty of nothing and yet sneaking around back-roa=
ds
with all the feeling of doing something wrong. It would be finer and braver for me
publicly..."
"To go to lu=
nch
with me on a week-day," Daylight said, divining the drift of her
uncompleted argument.
She nodded.
"I didn't ha=
ve
that quite in mind, but it will do.
I'd prefer doing the brazen thing and having everybody know it, to d=
oing
the furtive thing and being found out.&nbs=
p;
Not that I'm asking to be invited to lunch," she added, with a
smile; "but I'm sure you understand my position."
"Then why not
ride open and aboveboard with me in the hills?" he urged.
She shook her head
with what he imagined was just the faintest hint of regret, and he went sud=
denly
and almost maddeningly hungry for her.
"Look here, =
Miss
Mason, I know you don't like this talking over of things in the office. Neither do I. It's part of the whole thing, I gu=
ess; a
man ain't supposed to talk anything but business with his stenographer. Will you ride with me next Sunday,=
and
we can talk it over thoroughly then and reach some sort of a conclusion.
Nor did he dream =
that
her low acquiescence was due, as much as anything else, to the beads of swe=
at
on his forehead, his trembling hand, and his all too-evident general distre=
ss.
"Of course,
there's no way of telling what anybody wants from what they say." Daylight rubbed Bob's rebell=
ious
ear with his quirt and pondered with dissatisfaction the words he had just
uttered. They did not say wha=
t he
had meant them to say. "=
What
I'm driving at is that you say flatfooted that you won't meet me again, and=
you
give your reasons, but how am I to know they are your real reasons? Mebbe you just don't want to get
acquainted with me, and won't say so for fear of hurting my feelings. Don't you see? I'm the last man in the world to s=
hove
in where I'm not wanted. And =
if I
thought you didn't care a whoop to see anything more of me, why, I'd clear =
out
so blamed quick you couldn't see me for smoke."
Dede smiled at hi=
m in
acknowledgment of his words, but rode on silently. And that smile, he thought, was th=
e most
sweetly wonderful smile he had ever seen.&=
nbsp;
There was a difference in it, he assured himself, from any smile she=
had
ever given him before.
It was the smile =
of
one who knew him just a little bit, of one who was just the least mite
acquainted with him. Of cours=
e, he
checked himself up the next moment, it was unconscious on her part. It was sure to come in the interco=
urse
of any two persons.
Any stranger, a
business man, a clerk, anybody after a few casual meetings would show simil=
ar
signs of friendliness. It was=
bound
to happen, but in her case it made more impression on him; and, besides, it=
was
such a sweet and wonderful smile.
Other women he had known had never smiled like that; he was sure of =
it.
It had been a happy day. Daylight had met her on the back-r=
oad
from Berkeley, and they had had hours together. It was only now, with the day draw=
ing to
a close and with them approaching the gate of the road to Berkeley, that he=
had
broached the important subject.
She began her ans=
wer
to his last contention, and he listened gratefully.
"But suppose,
just suppose, that the reasons I have given are the only ones?--that there =
is
no question of my not wanting to know you?"
"Then I'd go=
on
urging like Sam Scratch," he said quickly. "Because, you see, I've
always noticed that folks that incline to anything are much more open to
hearing the case stated. But =
if you
did have that other reason up your sleeve, if you didn't want to know me,
if--if, well, if you thought my feelings oughtn't to be hurt just because y=
ou had
a good job with me..." H=
ere,
his calm consideration of a possibility was swamped by the fear that it was=
an
actuality, and he lost the thread of his reasoning. "Well, anyway, all=
you
have to do is to say the word and I'll clear out.
"And with no
hard feelings; it would be just a case of bad luck for me. So be honest, Mi=
ss
Mason, please, and tell me if that's the reason--I almost got a hunch that =
it
is."
She glanced up at
him, her eyes abruptly and slightly moist, half with hurt, half with anger.=
"Oh, but that
isn't fair," she cried.
"You give me the choice of lying to you and hurting you in orde=
r to
protect myself by getting rid of you, or of throwing away my protection by
telling you the truth, for then you, as you said yourself, would stay and
urge."
Her cheeks were
flushed, her lips tremulous, but she continued to look him frankly in the e=
yes.
Daylight smiled
grimly with satisfaction.
"I'm real gl=
ad,
Miss Mason, real glad for those words."
"But they wo=
n't
serve you," she went on hastily.
"They can't serve you.
I refuse to let them. =
This
is our last ride, and... here is the gate."
Ranging her mare
alongside, she bent, slid the catch, and followed the opening gate.
"No; please,
no," she said, as Daylight started to follow.
Humbly acquiescen=
t,
he pulled Bob back, and the gate swung shut between them. But there was more to say, and she=
did
not ride on.
"Listen, Miss
Mason," he said, in a low voice that shook with sincerity; "I wan=
t to
assure you of one thing. I'm =
not
just trying to fool around with you.
I like you, I want you, and I was never more in earnest in my life.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> There's nothing wrong in my intent=
ions
or anything like that. What I=
mean
is strictly honorable--"
But the expressio=
n of
her face made him stop. She w=
as
angry, and she was laughing at the same time.
"The last th=
ing
you should have said," she cried.&nbs=
p;
"It's like a--a matrimonial bureau: intentions strictly honorab=
le;
object, matrimony. But it's no more than I deserved. This is what I suppose you call ur=
ging
like Sam Scratch."
The tan had bleac=
hed
out of Daylight's skin since the time he came to live under city roofs, so =
that
the flush of blood showed readily as it crept up his neck past the collar a=
nd
overspread his face. Nor in h=
is exceeding
discomfort did he dream that she was looking upon him at that moment with m=
ore
kindness than at any time that day.
It was not in her experience to behold big grown-up men who blushed =
like
boys, and already she repented the sharpness into which she had been surpri=
sed.
"Now, look h=
ere,
Miss Mason," he began, slowly and stumblingly at first, but accelerati=
ng
into a rapidity of utterance that was almost incoherent; "I'm a rough =
sort
of a man, I know that, and I know I don't know much of anything. I've never had any training in nice
things. I've never made love before, and I've never been in love before eit=
her--and
I don't know how to go about it any more than a thundering idiot. What you want to do is get behind =
my
tomfool words and get a feel of the man that's behind them. That's me, and I
mean all right, if I don't know how to go about it."
Dede Mason had qu=
ick,
birdlike ways, almost flitting from mood to mood; and she was all contritio=
n on
the instant.
"Forgive me =
for
laughing," she said across the gate.&=
nbsp;
"It wasn't really laughter.&nb=
sp;
I was surprised off my guard, and hurt, too. You see, Mr. Harnish, I=
've
not been..."
She paused, in su=
dden
fear of completing the thought into which her birdlike precipitancy had
betrayed her.
"What you me=
an
is that you've not been used to such sort of proposing," Daylight said;
"a sort of on-the-run, 'Howdy, glad-to-make-your-acquaintance,
won't-you-be-mine' proposition."
She nodded and br=
oke
into laughter, in which he joined, and which served to pass the awkwardness
away. He gathered heart at th=
is,
and went on in greater confidence, with cooler head and tongue.
"There, you =
see,
you prove my case. You've had
experience in such matters. I=
don't
doubt you've had slathers of proposals. Well, I haven't, and I'm like a fish
out of water. Besides, this a=
in't a
proposal. It's a peculiar
situation, that's all, and I'm in a corner. I've got enough plain horse-sen=
se
to know a man ain't supposed to argue marriage with a girl as a reason for
getting acquainted with her. =
And right
there was where I was in the hole.
Number one, I can't get acquainted with you in the office. Number two, you say you won't see =
me out
of the office to give me a chance.
Number three, your reason is that folks will talk because you work f=
or
me. Number four, I just got t=
o get
acquainted with you, and I just got to get you to see that I mean fair and =
all
right. Number five, there you=
are
on one side the gate getting ready to go, and me here on the other side the
gate pretty desperate and bound to say something to make you reconsider.
And, listening to
him, pleasuring in the sight of his earnest, perturbed face and in the simp=
le,
homely phrases that but emphasized his earnestness and marked the difference
between him and the average run of men she had known, she forgot to listen =
and
lost herself in her own thoughts.
The love of a strong man is ever a lure to a normal woman, and never
more strongly did Dede feel the lure than now, looking across the closed ga=
te
at Burning Daylight. Not that=
she
would ever dream of marrying him--she had a score of reasons against it; but
why not at least see more of him?
He was certainly not repulsive to her. On the contrary, she liked hi=
m,
had always liked him from the day she had first seen him and looked upon his
lean Indian face and into his flashing Indian eyes. He was a figure of a man in more w=
ays
than his mere magnificent muscles.
Besides, Romance had gilded him, this doughty, rough-hewn adventurer=
of
the North, this man of many deeds and many millions, who had come down out =
of
the Arctic to wrestle and fight so masterfully with the men of the South.
Savage as a Red
Indian, gambler and profligate, a man without morals, whose vengeance was n=
ever
glutted and who stamped on the faces of all who opposed him--oh, yes, she k=
new
all the hard names he had been called.&nbs=
p;
Yet she was not afraid of him.
There was more than that in the connotation of his name. Burning Daylight called up other t=
hings as
well. They were there in the
newspapers, the magazines, and the books on the Klondike. When all was said, Burning Dayligh=
t had
a mighty connotation--one to touch any woman's imagination, as it touched h=
ers,
the gate between them, listening to the wistful and impassioned simplicity =
of
his speech. Dede was after al=
l a
woman, with a woman's sex-vanity, and it was this vanity that was pleased by
the fact that such a man turned in his need to her.
And there was more
that passed through her mind--sensations of tiredness and loneliness; tramp=
ling
squadrons and shadowy armies of vague feelings and vaguer prompting; and de=
eper
and dimmer whisperings and echoings, the flutterings of forgotten generatio=
ns
crystallized into being and fluttering anew and always, undreamed and
unguessed, subtle and potent, the spirit and essence of life that under a
thousand deceits and masks forever makes for life. It was a strong temptation, just t=
o ride
with this man in the hills. It
would be that only and nothing more, for she was firmly convinced that his =
way
of life could never be her way. On
the other hand, she was vexed by none of the ordinary feminine fears and
timidities. That she could ta=
ke
care of herself under any and all circumstances she never doubted. Then why not? It was such a little thing, after =
all.
She led an ordina=
ry,
humdrum life at best. She ate=
and
slept and worked, and that was about all.&=
nbsp;
As if in review, her anchorite existence passed before her: six days=
of
the week spent in the office and in journeying back and forth on the ferry;=
the
hours stolen before bedtime for snatches of song at the piano, for doing her
own special laundering, for sewing and mending and casting up of meagre
accounts; the two evenings a week of social diversion she permitted herself;
the other stolen hours and Saturday afternoons spent with her brother at the
hospital; and the seventh day, Sunday, her day of solace, on Mab's back, out
among the blessed hills. But =
it was
lonely, this solitary riding.
Nobody of her acquaintance rode.&nb=
sp;
Several girls at the University had been persuaded into trying it, b=
ut
after a Sunday or two on hired livery hacks they had lost interest. There was Madeline, who bought her=
own
horse and rode enthusiastically for several months, only to get married and=
go
away to live in Southern California.
After years of it, one did get tired of this eternal riding alone.
He was such a boy,
this big giant of a millionaire who had half the rich men of San Francisco
afraid of him. Such a boy!
"How do folks
get married?" he was saying.
"Why, number one, they meet; number two, like each other's look=
s;
number three, get acquainted; and number four, get married or not, accordin=
g to
how they like each other after getting acquainted. But how in thunder we're to have a
chance to find out whether we like each other enough is beyond my savvee,
unless we make that chance ourselves.
I'd come to see you, call on you, only I know you're just rooming or
boarding, and that won't do."
Suddenly, with a
change of mood, the situation appeared to Dede ridiculously absurd. She felt a desire to laugh--not an=
grily,
not hysterically, but just jolly.
It was so funny. Herse=
lf,
the stenographer, he, the notorious and powerful gambling millionaire, and =
the
gate between them across which poured his argument of people getting acquai=
nted
and married. Also, it was an
impossible situation. On the face of it, she could not go on with it. This program of furtive meetings i=
n the
hills would have to discontinue.
There would never be another meeting. And if, denied this, he tried to w=
oo her
in the office, she would be compelled to lose a very good position, and that
would be an end of the episode. It
was not nice to contemplate; but the world of men, especially in the cities,
she had not found particularly nice.
She had not worked for her living for years without losing a great m=
any
of her illusions.
"We won't do=
any
sneaking or hiding around about it," Daylight was explaining. "We'll ride around as bold if=
you
please, and if anybody sees us, why, let them. If they talk--well, so long as our
consciences are straight we needn't worry.=
Say the word, and Bob will have on his back the happiest man
alive."
She shook her hea=
d,
pulled in the mare, who was impatient to be off for home, and glanced
significantly at the lengthening shadows.
"It's getting
late now, anyway," Daylight hurried on, "and we've settled nothing
after all. Just one more Sund=
ay,
anyway--that's not asking much--to settle it in."
"We've had a=
ll
day," she said.
"But we star=
ted
to talk it over too late. We'=
ll
tackle it earlier next time. =
This
is a big serious proposition with me, I can tell you. Say next Sunday?"
"Are men ever
fair?" she asked. "=
You
know thoroughly well that by 'next Sunday' you mean many Sundays."
"Then let it=
be
many Sundays," he cried recklessly, while she thought that she had nev=
er
seen him looking handsomer.
"Say the word. On=
ly say
the word. Next Sunday at the
quarry..."
She gathered the
reins into her hand preliminary to starting.
"Good
night," she said, "and--"
"Yes," =
he
whispered, with just the faintest touch of impressiveness.
"Yes," =
she
said, her voice low but distinct.
At the same moment
she put the mare into a canter and went down the road without a backward
glance, intent on an analysis of her own feelings. With her mind made up to say no--a=
nd to
the last instant she had been so resolved--her lips nevertheless had said
yes. Or at least it seemed the
lips. She had not intended to
consent. Then why had she?
Life at the office
went on much the way it had always gone. Never, by word or look, did they
acknowledge that the situation was in any wise different from what it had
always been. Each Sunday saw =
the arrangement
made for the following Sunday's ride; nor was this ever referred to in the
office. Daylight was fastidio=
usly
chivalrous on this point. He =
did
not want to lose her from the office.
The sight of her at her work was to him an undiminishing joy. Nor did he abuse this by lingering=
over
dictation or by devising extra work that would detain her longer before his
eyes. But over and beyond such
sheer selfishness of conduct was his love of fair play. He scorned to utilize the accident=
al
advantages of the situation.
Somewhere within him was a higher appeasement of love than mere
possession. He wanted to be l=
oved for
himself, with a fair field for both sides.
On the other hand,
had he been the most artful of schemers he could not have pursued a wiser
policy. Bird-like in her love=
of
individual freedom, the last woman in the world to be bullied in her
affections, she keenly appreciated the niceness of his attitude. She did this consciously, but deep=
er
than all consciousness, and intangible as gossamer, were the effects of
this. All unrealizable, save =
for
some supreme moment, did the web of Daylight's personality creep out and ar=
ound
her. Filament by filament, th=
ese
secret and undreamable bonds were being established. They it was that could have given =
the
cue to her saying yes when she had meant to say no. And in some such fashion, in some =
future
crisis of greater moment, might she not, in violation of all dictates of so=
ber
judgment, give another unintentional consent?
Among other good things resulting from his growing intimacy with Dede, was Daylight's not ca= ring to drink so much as formerly. There was a lessening in desire for alcohol of which even he at last became aware. In a way she herself was the needed inhibition. The thought of he= r was like a cocktail. Or, at any rate, = she substituted for a certain percentage of cocktails. From the strain of his unnatural city existence and of his intense gambling operations, he had dri= fted on to the cocktail route. A w= all must forever be built to give him easement from the high pitch, and Dede be= came a part of this wall. Her pers= onality, her laughter, the intonations of her voice, the impossible golden glow of h= er eyes, the light on her hair, her form, her dress, her actions on horseback,= her merest physical mannerisms--all, pictured over and over in his mind and dwe= lt upon, served to take the place of many a cocktail or long Scotch and soda.<= o:p>
In spite of their
high resolve, there was a very measurable degree of the furtive in their
meetings. In essence, these
meetings were stolen. They did not ride out brazenly together in the face of
the world. On the contrary, t=
hey
met always unobserved, she riding across the many-gated backroad from Berke=
ley
to meet him halfway. Nor did =
they ride
on any save unfrequented roads, preferring to cross the second range of hil=
ls
and travel among a church-going farmer folk who would scarcely have recogni=
zed
even Daylight from his newspaper photographs.
He found Dede a g=
ood
horsewoman--good not merely in riding but in endurance. There were days when they covered =
sixty,
seventy, and even eighty miles; nor did Dede ever claim any day too long,
nor--another strong recommendation to Daylight--did the hardest day ever th=
e slightest
chafe of the chestnut sorrel's back.
"A sure enough hummer," was Daylight's stereotyped but ever
enthusiastic verdict to himself.
They learned much=
of
each other on these long, uninterrupted rides. They had nothing much to talk
about but themselves, and, while she received a liberal education concerning
Arctic travel and gold-mining, he, in turn, touch by touch, painted an ever
clearer portrait of her. She amplified the ranch life of her girlhood,
prattling on about horses and dogs and persons and things until it was as i=
f he
saw the whole process of her growth and her becoming. All this he was able to trace on t=
hrough
the period of her father's failure and death, when she had been compelled to
leave the university and go into office work. The brother, too, she spoke of, an=
d of
her long struggle to have him cured and of her now fading hopes. Daylight decided that it was easie=
r to come
to an understanding of her than he had anticipated, though he was always aw=
are
that behind and under all he knew of her was the mysterious and baffling wo=
man
and sex. There, he was humble enough to confess to himself, was a chartless,
shoreless sea, about which he knew nothing and which he must nevertheless
somehow navigate.
His lifelong fear=
of
woman had originated out of non-understanding and had also prevented him fr=
om
reaching any understanding. D=
ede on
horseback, Dede gathering poppies on a summer hillside, Dede taking down
dictation in her swift shorthand strokes--all this was comprehensible to
him. But he did not know the =
Dede
who so quickly changed from mood to mood, the Dede who refused steadfastly =
to
ride with him and then suddenly consented, the Dede in whose eyes the golde=
n glow
forever waxed and waned and whispered hints and messages that were not for =
his ears. In all such things he saw the glim=
mering
profundities of sex, acknowledged their lure, and accepted them as incompre=
hensible.
There was another
side of her, too, of which he was consciously ignorant. She knew the books, was possessed =
of
that mysterious and awful thing called "culture." And yet, what continually surprise=
d him was
that this culture was never obtruded on their intercourse. She did not talk books, nor art, n=
or
similar folderols. Homely min=
ded as
he was himself, he found her almost equally homely minded. She liked the simple and the
out-of-doors, the horses and the hills, the sunlight and the flowers. He found himself in a partly new f=
lora,
to which she was the guide, pointing out to him all the varieties of the oa=
ks,
making him acquainted with the madrono and the manzanita, teaching him the =
names,
habits, and habitats of unending series of wild flowers, shrubs, and
ferns. Her keen woods eye was
another delight to him. It ha=
d been
trained in the open, and little escaped it. One day, as a test, they strove to=
see
which could discover the greater number of birds' nests. And he, who had al=
ways
prided himself on his own acutely trained observation, found himself hard p=
ut
to keep his score ahead. At t=
he end
of the day he was but three nests in the lead, one of which she challenged
stoutly and of which even he confessed serious doubt. He complimented her a=
nd
told her that her success must be due to the fact that she was a bird herse=
lf,
with all a bird's keen vision and quick-flashing ways.
The more he knew =
her
the more he became convinced of this birdlike quality in her. That was why she liked to ride, he
argued. It was the nearest ap=
proach
to flying. A field of poppies=
, a
glen of ferns, a row of poplars on a country lane, the tawny brown of a
hillside, the shaft of sunlight on a distant peak--all such were provocativ=
e of
quick joys which seemed to him like so many outbursts of song. Her joys were in little things, an=
d she
seemed always singing. Even in
sterner things it was the same.
When she rode Bob and fought with that magnificent brute for mastery,
the qualities of an eagle were uppermost in her.
These quick little
joys of hers were sources of joy to him.&n=
bsp;
He joyed in her joy, his eyes as excitedly fixed on her as bears wer=
e fixed
on the object of her attention.
Also through her he came to a closer discernment and keener apprecia=
tion
of nature. She showed him colors in the landscape that he would never have
dreamed were there. He had kn=
own
only the primary colors. All =
colors
of red were red. Black was bl=
ack,
and brown was just plain brown until it became yellow, when it was no longer
brown. Purple he had always imagined was red, something like blood, until s=
he
taught him better. Once they =
rode
out on a high hill brow where wind-blown poppies blazed about their horses'
knees, and she was in an ecstasy over the lines of the many distances. Seve=
n, she
counted, and he, who had gazed on landscapes all his life, for the first ti=
me
learned what a "distance" was.&n=
bsp;
After that, and always, he looked upon the face of nature with a more
seeing eye, learning a delight of his own in surveying the serried ranks of=
the
upstanding ranges, and in slow contemplation of the purple summer mists tha=
t haunted
the languid creases of the distant hills.
But through it all
ran the golden thread of love. At
first he had been content just to ride with Dede and to be on comradely ter=
ms
with her; but the desire and the need for her increased. The more he knew of
her, the higher was his appraisal.
Had she been reserved and haughty with him, or been merely a gigglin=
g,
simpering creature of a woman, it would have been different. Instead, she
amazed him with her simplicity and wholesomeness, with her great store of
comradeliness. This latter wa=
s the
unexpected. He had never look=
ed
upon woman in that way. Woman=
, the
toy; woman, the harpy; woman, the necessary wife and mother of the race's
offspring,--all this had been his expectation and understanding of woman. But woman, the comrade and playfel=
low
and joyfellow--this was what Dede had surprised him in. And the more she became worth whil=
e, the
more ardently his love burned, unconsciously shading his voice with caresse=
s,
and with equal unconsciousness flaring up signal fires in his eyes. Nor was she blind to it yet, like =
many
women before her, she thought to play with the pretty fire and escape the
consequent conflagration.
"Winter will
soon be coming on," she said regretfully, and with provocation, one da=
y,
"and then there won't be any more riding."
"But I must =
see
you in the winter just the same," he cried hastily.
She shook her hea=
d.
"We have been
very happy and all that," she said, looking at him with steady
frankness. "I remember y=
our
foolish argument for getting acquainted, too; but it won't lead to anything=
; it
can't. I know myself too well to be mistaken."
Her face was seri=
ous,
even solicitous with desire not to hurt, and her eyes were unwavering, but =
in
them was the light, golden and glowing--the abyss of sex into which he was =
now
unafraid to gaze.
"I've been
pretty good," he declared.
"I leave it to you if I haven't. It's been pretty hard, too, I =
can
tell you. You just think it o=
ver. Not
once have I said a word about love to you, and me loving you all the time.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> That's going some for a man that's=
used
to having his own way. I'm so=
mewhat
of a rusher when it comes to travelling.&n=
bsp;
I reckon I'd rush God Almighty if it came to a race over the ice. I'm not asking you now. Oh, not but what you satisfy me. I sure know you're the wife for me=
. But how about myself? Do you know me well enough know yo=
ur own
mind?" He shrugged his shoulders.&nbs=
p;
"I don't know, and I ain't going to take chances on it now. You've got to know for sure whethe=
r you think
you could get along with me or not, and I'm playing a slow conservative gam=
e. I ain't a-going to lose for overlo=
oking
my hand."
This was love-mak=
ing
of a sort beyond Dede's experience.
Nor had she ever heard of anything like it. Furthermore, its lack of ardor car=
ried with
it a shock which she could overcome only by remembering the way his hand had
trembled in the past, and by remembering the passion she had seen that very=
day
and every day in his eyes, or heard in his voice. Then, too, she recollected what he=
had
said to her weeks before: "Maybe you don't know what patience is,"=
; he
had said, and thereat told her of shooting squirrels with a big rifle the t=
ime
he and Elijah Davis had starved on the Stewart River.
"So you
see," he urged, "just for a square deal we've got to see some mor=
e of
each other this winter. Most =
likely
your mind ain't made up yet--"
"But it
is," she interrupted. &q=
uot;I
wouldn't dare permit myself to care for you. Happiness, for me, would not lie t=
hat
way. I like you, Mr. Harnish,=
and
all that, but it can never be more than that."
"It's because
you don't like my way of living," he charged, thinking in his own mind=
of
the sensational joyrides and general profligacy with which the newspapers h=
ad
credited him--thinking this, and wondering whether or not, in maiden modest=
y,
she would disclaim knowledge of it.
To his surprise, =
her
answer was flat and uncompromising.
"No; I
don't."
"I know I've
been brash on some of those rides that got into the papers," he began =
his
defense, "and that I've been travelling with a lively crowd."
"I don't mean
that," she said, "though I know about it too, and can't say that I
like it. But it is your life =
in
general, your business. There are women in the world who could marry a man =
like
you and be happy, but I couldn't.
And the more I cared for such a man, the more unhappy I should be. You see, my unhappiness, in turn, =
would
tend to make him unhappy. I s=
hould
make a mistake, and he would make an equal mistake, though his would not be=
so
hard on him because he would still have his business."
"Business!&q=
uot;
Daylight gasped. "What's=
wrong
with my business? I play fair=
and
square. There's nothing under=
hand
about it, which can't be said of most businesses, whether of the big
corporations or of the cheating, lying, little corner-grocerymen. I play the straight rules of the g=
ame,
and I don't have to lie or cheat or break my word."
Dede hailed with
relief the change in the conversation and at the same time the opportunity =
to
speak her mind.
"In ancient
Greece," she began pedantically, "a man was judged a good citizen=
who
built houses, planted trees--"
She did not complete the quotation, but drew the conclusion
hurriedly. "How many hou=
ses
have you built? How many tree=
s have
you planted?"
He shook his head
noncommittally, for he had not grasped the drift of the argument.
"Well,"=
she
went on, "two winters ago you cornered coal--"
"Just
locally," he grinned reminiscently, "just locally. And I took advantage of the car sh=
ortage
and the strike in British Columbia."
"But you did=
n't
dig any of that coal yourself. Yet
you forced it up four dollars a ton and made a lot of money. That was your business. You made t=
he
poor people pay more for their coal.
You played fair, as you said, but you put your hands down into all t=
heir
pockets and took their money away from them. I know. I burn a grate fire in my sitting-=
room
at Berkeley. And instead of e=
leven
dollars a ton for Rock Wells, I paid fifteen dollars that winter. You robbed me of four dollars. I could stand it. But there were thousands of the ve=
ry
poor who could not stand it. You might call it legal gambling, but to me it=
was
downright robbery."
Daylight was not
abashed. This was no revelati=
on to
him. He remembered the old wo=
man
who made wine in the Sonoma hills and the millions like her who were made t=
o be
robbed.
"Now look he=
re,
Miss Mason, you've got me there slightly, I grant. But you've seen me in business a l=
ong
time now, and you know I don't make a practice of raiding the poor people.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> I go after the big fellows. They'r=
e my
meat. They rob the poor, and =
I rob
them. That coal deal was an
accident. I wasn't after the =
poor
people in that, but after the big fellows, and I got them, too. The poor people happened to get in=
the
way and got hurt, that was all.
"Don't you
see," he went on, "the whole game is a gamble. Everybody gambles =
in
one way or another. The farmer
gambles against the weather and the market on his crops. So does the United States Steel Co=
rporation. The business of lots of men is str=
aight
robbery of the poor people. B=
ut
I've never made that my business.
You know that. I've always gone after the robbers."
"I missed my
point," she admitted. "Wait a minute."
And for a space t=
hey
rode in silence.
"I see it mo=
re
clearly than I can state it, but it's something like this. There is legitimate work, and ther=
e's
work that--well, that isn't legitimate.&nb=
sp;
The farmer works the soil and produces grain. He's making something that is good=
for
humanity. He actually, in a w=
ay, creates
something, the grain that will fill the mouths of the hungry."
"And then the
railroads and market-riggers and the rest proceed to rob him of that same
grain,"--Daylight broke in Dede smiled and held up her hand.
"Wait a
minute. You'll make me lose m=
y point. It doesn't hurt if they rob him of=
all
of it so that he starves to death.
The point is that the wheat he grew is still in the world. It exists. Don't you see? The farmer created
something, say ten tons of wheat, and those ten tons exist. The railroads haul the wheat to ma=
rket,
to the mouths that will eat it.
This also is legitimate.
It's like some one bringing you a glass of water, or taking a cinder=
out
of your eye. Something has be=
en done,
in a way been created, just like the wheat."
"But the
railroads rob like Sam Scratch," Daylight objected.
"Then the wo=
rk
they do is partly legitimate and partly not. Now we come to you. You don't create anything. Nothing new exists when you're don=
e with
your business. Just like the
coal. You didn't dig it. You didn't haul it to market. You didn't deliver it. Don't you see? that's what I meant by planting the
trees and building the houses. You
haven't planted one tree nor built a single house." "I never gue=
ssed
there was a woman in the world who could talk business like that," he
murmured admiringly. "And
you've got me on that point. But there's a lot to be said on my side just t=
he
same. Now you listen to me. "Fellow like=
me
comes along and sizes up the proposition.&=
nbsp;
I've got two choices. =
I can
herd with the suckers, or I can herd with the robbers. As a sucker, I win
nothing. Even the crusts of b=
read
are snatched out of my mouth by the robbers. I work hard all my days, and die w=
orking.
And I ain't never had a flutter.
I've had nothing but work, work, work. They talk about the dignity of
labor. I tell you there ain't=
no dignity
in that sort of labor. My other choice is to herd with the robbers, and I h=
erd
with them. I play that choice wide open to win. I get the automobiles, and the
porterhouse steaks, and the soft beds. "Number two:
There ain't much difference between playing halfway robber like the railroad
hauling that farmer's wheat to market, and playing all robber and robbing t=
he
robbers like I do. And, besid=
es,
halfway robbery is too slow a game for me to sit in. You don't win quick en=
ough
for me." "But what do=
you
want to win for?" Dede demanded.
"You have millions and millions, already. You can't ride in more than one au=
tomobile
at a time, sleep in more than one bed at a time." "Number three
answers that," he said, "and here it is: Men and things are so made that th=
ey
have different likes. A rabbit
likes a vegetarian diet. A ly=
nx
likes meat. Ducks swim; chick=
ens are
scairt of water. One man coll=
ects
postage stamps, another man collects butterflies. This man goes in for paintings, th=
at man
goes in for yachts, and some other fellow for hunting big game. One man thinks horse-racing is It,=
with
a big I, and another man finds the biggest satisfaction in actresses. They
can't help these likes. They =
have them,
and what are they going to do about it?&nb=
sp;
Now I like gambling. I=
like
to play the game. I want to p=
lay it
big and play it quick. I'm ju=
st
made that way. And I play it.=
" "But why can=
't
you do good with all your money?" Daylight laughed.=
"Doing good =
with
your money! It's like slappin=
g God
in the face, as much as to tell him that he don't know how to run his world=
and
that you'll be much obliged if he'll stand out of the way and give you a ch=
ance. Thinking about God doesn't keep me
sitting up nights, so I've got another way of looking at it. Ain't it funny, to go around with =
brass
knuckles and a big club breaking folks' heads and taking their money away f=
rom
them until I've got a pile, and then, repenting of my ways, going around and
bandaging up the heads the other robbers are breaking? I leave it to you. That's what doing good with money =
amounts
to. Every once in a while some
robber turns soft-hearted and takes to driving an ambulance. That's what Carnegie did. He smashed heads in pitched battle=
s at
Homestead, regular wholesale head-breaker he was, held up the suckers for a=
few
hundred million, and now he goes around dribbling it back to them. Funny? I leave it to you." He rolled a cigar=
ette
and watched her half curiously, half amusedly. His replies and harsh
generalizations of a harsh school were disconcerting, and she came back to =
her
earlier position. "I can't arg=
ue
with you, and you know that. =
No matter
how right a woman is, men have such a way about them well, what they say so=
unds
most convincing, and yet the woman is still certain they are wrong. But the=
re
is one thing--the creative joy.
Call it gambling if you will, but just the same it seems to me more
satisfying to create something, make something, than just to roll dice out =
of a
dice-box all day long. Why,
sometimes, for exercise, or when I've got to pay fifteen dollars for coal, I
curry Mab and give her a whole half hour's brushing. And when I see her coat clean and
shining and satiny, I feel a satisfaction in what I've done. So it must be with the man who bui=
lds a
house or plants a tree. He ca=
n look
at it. He made it. It's his handiwork. Even if somebody like you comes al=
ong
and takes his tree away from him, still it is there, and still did he make =
it.
You can't rob him of that, Mr. Harnish, with all your millions. It's the cr=
eative
joy, and it's a higher joy than mere gambling. Haven't you ever made things
yourself--a log cabin up in the Yukon, or a canoe, or raft, or something? I'm going to talk under three
heads. Number one: We live a =
short
time, the best of us, and we're a long time dead. Life is a big gambling game. Some are born lucky and some are b=
orn
unlucky. Everybody sits in at the table, and everybody tries to rob everybo=
dy else. Most of them get robbed. They're born suckers. And don't you remember how satisfi=
ed you
were, how good you felt, while you were doing it and after you had it
done?"
While she spoke h=
is
memory was busy with the associations she recalled. He saw the deserted fla=
t on
the river bank by the Klondike, and he saw the log cabins and warehouses sp=
ring
up, and all the log structures he had built, and his sawmills working night=
and
day on three shifts.
"Why, dog-go=
ne
it, Miss Mason, you're right--in a way.&nb=
sp;
I've built hundreds of houses up there, and I remember I was proud a=
nd
glad to see them go up. I'm p=
roud
now, when I remember them. And there was Ophir--the most God-forsaken
moose-pasture of a creek you ever laid eyes on. I made that into the big Ophir. Wh=
y, I ran
the water in there from the Rinkabilly, eighty miles away. They all said I couldn't, but I di=
d it,
and I did it by myself. The d=
am and
the flume cost me four million. But
you should have seen that Ophir--power plants, electric lights, and hundred=
s of
men on the pay-roll, working night and day. I guess I do get an inkling of wha=
t you
mean by making a thing. I mad=
e Ophir,
and by God, she was a sure hummer--I beg your pardon. I didn't mean to cuss. But that Ophir!--I sure am proud o=
f her
now, just as the last time I laid eyes on her."
"And you won
something there that was more than mere money," Dede encouraged. "Now do you know what I would=
do if
I had lots of money and simply had to go on playing at business? Take all the southerly and westerl=
y slopes
of these bare hills. I'd buy =
them
in and plant eucalyptus on them.
I'd do it for the joy of doing it anyway; but suppose I had that
gambling twist in me which you talk about, why, I'd do it just the same and
make money out of the trees. =
And
there's my other point again.
Instead of raising the price of coal without adding an ounce of coal=
to
the market supply, I'd be making thousands and thousands of cords of
firewood--making something where nothing was before. And everybody who ever crossed on =
the
ferries would look up at these forested hills and be made glad. Who was made glad by your adding f=
our
dollars a ton to Rock Wells?"
It was Daylight's
turn to be silent for a time while she waited an answer.
"Would you
rather I did things like that?" he asked at last.
"It would be
better for the world, and better for you," she answered noncommittally=
.
All week every on=
e in
the office knew that something new and big was afoot in Daylight's mind.
On Sunday Dede
learned all about it. "I=
've
been thinking a lot of our talk," he began, "and I've got an idea=
I'd
like to give it a flutter. And I've got a proposition to make your hair sta=
nd
up. It's what you call legiti=
mate,
and at the same time it's the gosh-dangdest gamble a man ever went into.
He paused
triumphantly. "And all t=
o make
two minutes grow where one grew before?" Dede queried, at the same time
laughing heartily at his affectation of mystery.
He stared at her
fascinated. She had such a fr=
ank,
boyish way of throwing her head back when she laughed. And her teeth were an unending del=
ight
to him. Not small, yet regula=
r and
firm, without a blemish, he considered then the healthiest, whitest, pretti=
est
teeth he had ever seen. And f=
or
months he had been comparing them with the teeth of every woman he met.
It was not until =
her
laughter was over that he was able to continue.
"The ferry
system between Oakland and San Francisco is the worst one-horse concern in =
the
United States. You cross on it
every day, six days in the week.
That's say, twenty-five days a month, or three hundred a year. Now long does it take you one way?=
Forty
minutes, if you're lucky. I'm=
going
to put you across in twenty minutes.
If that ain't making two minutes grow where one grew before, knock o=
ff
my head with little apples. I=
'll
save you twenty minutes each way.
That's forty minutes a day, times three hundred, equals twelve thous=
and minutes
a year, just for you, just for one person.=
Let's see: that's two hundred whole hours. Suppose I save two hundred
hours a year for thousands of other folks,--that's farming some, ain't
it?"
Dede could only n=
od
breathlessly. She had caught =
the
contagion of his enthusiasm, though she had no clew as to how this great
time-saving was to be accomplished.
"Come on,&qu=
ot;
he said. "Let's ride up =
that
hill, and when I get you out on top where you can see something, I'll talk
sense."
A small footpath
dropped down to the dry bed of the canon, which they crossed before they be=
gan
the climb. The slope was stee=
p and
covered with matted brush and bushes, through which the horses slipped and =
lunged.
Bob, growing disgusted, turne=
d back
suddenly and attempted to pass Mab.
The mare was thrust sidewise into the denser bush, where she nearly
fell. Recovering, she flung h=
er
weight against Bob. Both ride=
rs'
legs were caught in the consequent squeeze, and, as Bob plunged ahead down
hill, Dede was nearly scraped off.
Daylight threw his horse on to its haunches and at the same time dra=
gged
Dede back into the saddle. Showers of twigs and leaves fell upon them, and
predicament followed predicament, until they emerged on the hilltop the wor=
se
for wear but happy and excited.
Here no trees obstructed the view.&=
nbsp;
The particular hill on which they were, out-jutted from the regular =
line
of the range, so that the sweep of their vision extended over three-quarter=
s of
the circle. Below, on the fla=
t land
bordering the bay, lay Oakland, and across the bay was San Francisco. Between the two cities they could =
see
the white ferry-boats on the water.
Around to their right was Berkeley, and to their left the scattered
villages between Oakland and San Leandro.&=
nbsp;
Directly in the foreground was Piedmont, with its desultory dwellings
and patches of farming land, and from Piedmont the land rolled down in
successive waves upon Oakland.
"Look at
it," said Daylight, extending his arm in a sweeping gesture. "A
hundred thousand people there, and no reason there shouldn't be half a
million. There's the chance t=
o make
five people grow where one grows now.
Here's the scheme in a nutshell.&nb=
sp;
Why don't more people live in Oakland? No good service with San Francisco=
, and,
besides, Oakland is asleep. It's a whole lot better place to live in than S=
an
Francisco. Now, suppose I buy in all the street railways of Oakland, Berkel=
ey, Alameda,
San Leandro, and the rest,--bring them under one head with a competent
management? Suppose I cut the=
time
to San Francisco one-half by building a big pier out there almost to Goat
Island and establishing a ferry system with modern up-to-date boats? Why, folks will want to live over =
on
this side. Very good. They'll need land on which to buil=
d. So, first I buy up the land. But the land's cheap now. Why? Because it's in the country, =
no
electric roads, no quick communication, nobody guessing that the electric r=
oads
are coming. I'll build the ro=
ads.
That will make the land jump up.
Then I'll sell the land as fast as the folks will want to buy becaus=
e of
the improved ferry system and transportation facilities.
"You see, I =
give
the value to the land by building the roads. Then I sell the land and get t=
hat
value back, and after that, there's the roads, all carrying folks back and
forth and earning big money. =
Can't lose. And there's all sorts of millions =
in it.
"I'm going to
get my hands on some of that water front and the tide-lands. Take between where I'm going to bu=
ild my
pier and the old pier. It's s=
hallow
water. I can fill and dredge =
and
put in a system of docks that will handle hundreds of ships. San Francisco's water front is
congested. No more room for s=
hips.
With hundreds of ships loading and unloading on this side right into the
freight cars of three big railroads, factories will start up over here inst=
ead
of crossing to San Francisco. That
means factory sites. That mea=
ns me
buying in the factory sites before anybody guesses the cat is going to jump,
much less, which way. Factori=
es
mean tens of thousands of workingmen and their families. That means more houses and more la=
nd,
and that means me, for I'll be there to sell them the land. And tens of thousands of families =
means
tens of thousands of nickels every day for my electric cars. The growing population will mean m=
ore
stores, more banks, more everything.
And that'll mean me, for I'll be right there with business property =
as
well as home property. What d=
o you
think of it?"
Therefore she cou=
ld
answer, he was off again, his mind's eye filled with this new city of his d=
ream
which he builded on the Alameda hills by the gateway to the Orient.
"Do you
know--I've been looking it up--the Firth Of Clyde, where all the steel ships
are built, isn't half as wide as Oakland Creek down there, where all those =
old
hulks lie? Why ain't it a Fir=
th of
Clyde? Because the Oakland City Council spends its time debating about prun=
es and
raisins. What is needed is so=
mebody
to see things, and, after that, organization. That's me. I didn't make Ophir for nothing. And once things begin to hum, outs=
ide
capital will pour in. All I d=
o is start
it going. 'Gentlemen,' I say,
'here's all the natural advantages for a great metropolis. God Almighty put
them advantages here, and he put me here to see them. Do you want to land your tea and s=
ilk
from Asia and ship it straight East?
Here's the docks for your steamers, and here's the railroads. Do you want factories from which y=
ou can
ship direct by land or water?
Here's the site, and here's the modern, up-to-date city, with the la=
test
improvements for yourselves and your workmen, to live in.'"
"Then there's
the water. I'll come pretty c=
lose
to owning the watershed. Why =
not
the waterworks too? There's t=
wo
water companies in Oakland now, fighting like cats and dogs and both about
broke. What a metropolis need=
s is a
good water system. They can't give it.&nbs=
p;
They're stick-in-the-muds.
I'll gobble them up and deliver the right article to the city. There's money there, too--money
everywhere. Everything works =
in
with everything else. Each
improvement makes the value of everything else pump up. It's people that are behind the
value. The bigger the crowd t=
hat
herds in one place, the more valuable is the real estate. And this is the very place for a c=
rowd
to herd. Look at it. Just loo=
k at
it! You could never find a fi=
ner
site for a great city. All it needs is the herd, and I'll stampede a couple=
of
hundred thousand people in here inside two years. And what's more it won't be one of=
these
wild cat land booms. It will =
be
legitimate. Twenty years for =
now
there'll be a million people on this side the bay. Another thing is hotels. There isn't a decent one in the
town. I'll build a couple of
up-to-date ones that'll make them sit up and take notice. I won't care if they don't pay for
years. Their effect will more=
than give
me my money back out of the other holdings. And, oh, yes, I'm going to plant
eucalyptus, millions of them, on these hills."
"But how are=
you
going to do it?" Dede asked.
"You haven't enough money for all that you've planned."
"I've thirty
million, and if I need more I can borrow on the land and other things. Interest on mortgages won't anywhe=
re
near eat up the increase in land values, and I'll be selling land right
along."
In the weeks that
followed, Daylight was a busy man.
He spent most of his time in Oakland, rarely coming to the office. He planned to move the office to
Oakland, but, as he told Dede, the secret preliminary campaign of buying ha=
d to
be put through first. Sunday =
by
Sunday, now from this hilltop and now from that, they looked down upon the =
city
and its farming suburbs, and he pointed out to her his latest acquisitions.=
At
first it was patches and sections of land here and there; but as the weeks
passed it was the unowned portions that became rare, until at last they sto=
od
as islands surrounded by Daylight's land.
It meant quick wo=
rk
on a colossal scale, for Oakland and the adjacent country was not slow to f=
eel
the tremendous buying. But Da=
ylight
had the ready cash, and it had always been his policy to strike quickly. Be=
fore
the others could get the warning of the boom, he quietly accomplished many
things. At the same time that=
his
agents were purchasing corner lots and entire blocks in the heart of the
business section and the waste lands for factory sites, Day was rushing fra=
nchises
through the city council, capturing the two exhausted water companies and t=
he
eight or nine independent street railways, and getting his grip on the Oakl=
and
Creek and the bay tide-lands for his dock system. The tide-lands had been in litigat=
ion
for years, and he took the bull by the horns--buying out the private owners=
and
at the same time leasing from the city fathers.
By the time that
Oakland was aroused by this unprecedented activity in every direction and w=
as
questioning excitedly the meaning of it, Daylight secretly bought the chief
Republican newspaper and the chief Democratic organ, and moved boldly into =
his
new offices. Of necessity, th=
ey
were on a large scale, occupying four floors of the only modern office buil=
ding
in the town--the only building that wouldn't have to be torn down later on,=
as
Daylight put it. There was
department after department, a score of them, and hundreds of clerks and st=
enographers.
As he told Dede: "I've got more companies than you can shake a stick a=
t. There's the Alameda & Contra C=
osta
Land Syndicate, the Consolidated Street Railways, the Yerba Buena Ferry
Company, the United Water Company, the Piedmont Realty Company, the Fairview
and Portola Hotel Company, and half a dozen more that I've got to refer to =
a notebook
to remember. There's the Pied=
mont
Laundry Farm, and Redwood Consolidated Quarries. Starting in with our quarry, I jus=
t kept
a-going till I got them all. =
And
there's the ship-building company I ain't got a name for yet. Seeing as I had to have ferry-boat=
s, I decided
to build them myself. They'll=
be
done by the time the pier is ready for them. Phew! It all sure beats poker. And I've had the fun of gouging the
robber gangs as well. The wat=
er
company bunches are squealing yet.
I sure got them where the hair was short. They were just about all in when I=
came
along and finished them off."
"But why do =
you
hate them so?" Dede asked.
"Because the=
y're
such cowardly skunks."
"But you play
the same game they do."
"Yes; but no=
t in
the same way." Daylight
regarded her thoughtfully. "When I say cowardly skunks, I mean just
that,--cowardly skunks. They =
set up
for a lot of gamblers, and there ain't one in a thousand of them that's got=
the
nerve to be a gambler. They're
four-flushers, if you know what that means. They're a lot of little cottont=
ail
rabbits making believe they're big rip-snorting timber wolves. They set out to everlastingly eat =
up
some proposition but at the first sign of trouble they turn tail and stampe=
de
for the brush. Look how it
works. When the big fellows w=
anted
to unload Little Copper, they sent Jakey Fallow into the New York Stock
Exchange to yell out: 'I'll buy all or any part of Little Copper at fifty
five,' Little Copper being at fifty-four. And in thirty minutes them
cottontails--financiers, some folks call them--bid up Little Copper to sixt=
y.
And an hour after that, stampeding for the brush, they were throwing Little
Copper overboard at forty-five and even forty.
"They're
catspaws for the big fellows.
Almost as fast as they rob the suckers, the big fellows come along a=
nd
hold them up. Or else the big=
fellows
use them in order to rob each other.
That's the way the Chattanooga Coal and Iron Company was swallowed u=
p by
the trust in the last panic. =
The
trust made that panic. It had=
to
break a couple of big banking companies and squeeze half a dozen big fellow=
s,
too, and it did it by stampeding the cottontails. The cottontails did the rest all r=
ight,
and the trust gathered in Chattanooga Coal and Iron. Why, any man, with nerve and savve=
e, can
start them cottontails jumping for the brush. I don't exactly hate them myself, =
but I
haven't any regard for chicken-hearted four-flushers."
For months Daylig=
ht
was buried in work. The outla=
y was
terrific, and there was nothing coming in.=
Beyond a general rise in land values, Oakland had not acknowledged h=
is
irruption on the financial scene.
The city was waiting for him to show what he was going to do, and he
lost no time about it. The be=
st
skilled brains on the market were hired by him for the different branches of
the work. Initial mistakes he=
had
no patience with, and he was determined to start right, as when he engaged =
Wilkinson,
almost doubling his big salary, and brought him out from Chicago to take ch=
arge
of the street railway organization.
Night and day the road gangs toiled on the streets. And night and day the pile-drivers
hammered the big piles down into the mud of San Francisco Bay. The pier was to be three miles lon=
g, and
the Berkeley hills were denuded of whole groves of mature eucalyptus for the
piling.
At the same time =
that
his electric roads were building out through the hills, the hay-fields were
being surveyed and broken up into city squares, with here and there, accord=
ing
to best modern methods, winding boulevards and strips of park. Broad streets, well graded, were m=
ade, with
sewers and water-pipes ready laid, and macadamized from his own quarries. Cement sidewalks were also laid, s=
o that
all the purchaser had to do was to select his lot and architect and start
building. The quick service of
Daylight's new electric roads into Oakland made this big district immediate=
ly
accessible, and long before the ferry system was in operation hundreds of
residences were going up.
The profit on this
land was enormous. In a day, =
his
onslaught of wealth had turned open farming country into one of the best
residential districts of the city.
But this money th=
at
flowed in upon him was immediately poured back into his other investments.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> The need for electric cars was so =
great
that he installed his own shops for building them. And even on the rising land market=
, he
continued to buy choice factory sites and building properties. On the advice of Wilkinson, practi=
cally
every electric road already in operation was rebuilt. The light, old fashioned rails wer=
e torn
out and replaced by the heaviest that were manufactured. Corner lots, on the
sharp turns of narrow streets, were bought and ruthlessly presented to the =
city
in order to make wide curves for his tracks and high speed for his cars.
"What Oakland
wants is a first class theatre," he said, and, after vainly trying to
interest local capital, he started the building of the theatre himself; for=
he
alone had vision for the two hundred thousand new people that were coming to
the town.
But no matter what
pressure was on Daylight, his Sundays he reserved for his riding in the
hills. It was not the winter
weather, however, that brought these rides with Dede to an end. One Saturday
afternoon in the office she told him not to expect to meet her next day, an=
d,
when he pressed for an explanation:
"I've sold
Mab."
Daylight was
speechless for the moment. He=
r act
meant one of so many serious things that he couldn't classify it. It smacked almost of treachery.
It might be her w=
ay
of letting him know she had seen enough of him. Or...
"What's the
matter?" he managed to ask.
"I couldn't afford to keep her with hay forty-five dollars a ton," Dede answered.<= o:p>
"Was that yo=
ur
only reason?" he demanded, looking at her steadily; for he remembered =
her
once telling him how she had brought the mare through one winter, five years
before, when hay had gone as high as sixty dollars a ton.
"No. My brother's expenses have been hi=
gher,
as well, and I was driven to the conclusion that since I could not afford b=
oth,
I'd better let the mare go and keep the brother."
Daylight felt
inexpressibly saddened. He was
suddenly aware of a great emptiness.
What would a Sunday be without Dede? And Sundays without end without
her? He drummed perplexedly o=
n the
desk with his fingers.
"Who bought
her?" he asked. Dede's e=
yes
flashed in the way long since familiar to him when she was angry.
"Don't you d=
are
buy her back for me," she cried.
"And don't deny that that was what you had in mind."
"I won't deny
it. It was my idea to a tee.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> But I wouldn't have done it without
asking you first, and seeing how you feel about it, I won't even ask you. But you thought a heap of that mar=
e, and
it's pretty hard on you to lose her.
I'm sure sorry. And I'm
sorry, too, that you won't be riding with me tomorrow. I'll be plumb lost. I won't know what to do with
myself."
"Neither sha=
ll
I," Dede confessed mournfully, "except that I shall be able to ca=
tch
up with my sewing."
"But I haven=
't
any sewing."
Daylight's tone w=
as
whimsically plaintive, but secretly he was delighted with her confession of
loneliness. It was almost wor=
th the
loss of the mare to get that out of her.&n=
bsp;
At any rate, he meant something to her. He was not utterly unliked.
"I wish you
would reconsider, Miss Mason," he said softly. "Not alone for the mare's sak=
e, but
for my sake. Money don't cut =
any
ice in this. For me to buy that mare wouldn't mean as it does to most men to
send a bouquet of flowers or a box of candy to a young lady. And I've never sent you flowers or
candy." He observed the
warning flash of her eyes, and hurried on to escape refusal. "I'll tell you what we'll do.=
Suppose
I buy the mare and own her myself, and lend her to you when you want to rid=
e.
There's nothing wrong in that.
Anybody borrows a horse from anybody, you know."
Agin he saw refus=
al,
and headed her off.
"Lots of men
take women buggy-riding. Ther=
e's
nothing wrong in that. And the man always furnishes the horse and buggy. We=
ll,
now, what's the difference between my taking you buggy-riding and furnishing
the horse and buggy, and taking you horse-back-riding and furnishing the
horses?"
She shook her hea=
d, and
declined to answer, at the same time looking at the door as if to intimate =
that
it was time for this unbusinesslike conversation to end. He made one more effort.
"Do you know,
Miss Mason, I haven't a friend in the world outside you? I mean a real frie=
nd,
man or woman, the kind you chum with, you know, and that you're glad to be =
with
and sorry to be away from. He=
gan is
the nearest man I get to, and he's a million miles away from me. Outside
business, we don't hitch. He'=
s got
a big library of books, and some crazy kind of culture, and he spends all h=
is
off times reading things in French and German and other outlandish
lingoes--when he ain't writing plays and poetry. There's nobody I feel chum=
my
with except you, and you know how little we've chummed--once a week, if it
didn't rain, on Sunday. I've grown kind of to depend on you. You're a sort of--of--of--"
"A sort of
habit," she said with a smile.
"That's about
it. And that mare, and you as=
tride
of her, coming along the road under the trees or through the sunshine--why,
with both you and the mare missing, there won't be anything worth waiting through the week for. If you'd just let me buy her
back--"
"No, no; I t=
ell
you no." Dede rose
impatiently, but her eyes were moist with the memory of her pet. "Please don't mention her to =
me again. If you think it was easy to part w=
ith
her, you are mistaken. But I've seen the last of her, and I want to forget
her."
Daylight made no
answer, and the door closed behind him.
Half an hour late=
r he
was conferring with Jones, the erstwhile elevator boy and rabid proletarian
whom Daylight long before had grubstaked to literature for a year. The resulting novel had been a fai=
lure. Editors
and publishers would not look at it, and now Daylight was using the disgrun=
tled
author in a little private secret service system he had been compelled to
establish for himself. Jones,=
who
affected to be surprised at nothing after his crushing experience with rail=
road
freight rates on firewood and charcoal, betrayed no surprise now when the t=
ask
was given to him to locate the purchaser of a certain sorrel mare.
"How high sh=
all
I pay for her?" he asked.
"Any price.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> You've got to get her, that's the
point. Drive a sharp bargain =
so as
not to excite suspicion, but buy her.
Then you deliver her to that address up in Sonoma County. The man's the caretaker on a little
ranch I have there. Tell him =
he's
to take whacking good care of her.
And after that forget all about it. Don't tell me the name of the man
you buy her from. Don't tell =
me
anything about it except that you've got her and delivered her. Savvee?&quo=
t;
But the week had =
not
passed, when Daylight noted the flash in Dede's eyes that boded trouble.
"Something's
gone wrong--what is it?" he asked boldly.
"Mab," =
she
said. "The man who bough=
t her
has sold her already. If I thought you had anything to do with it--"
"I don't even
know who you sold her to," was Daylight's answer. "And what's mor=
e,
I'm not bothering my head about her.
She was your mare, and it's none of my business what you did with he=
r.
You haven't got her, that's sure and worse luck. And now, while we're on touchy sub=
jects,
I'm going to open another one with you. And you needn't get touchy about it,
for it's not really your business at all."
She waited in the
pause that followed, eyeing him almost suspiciously.
"It's about =
that
brother of yours. He needs mo=
re
than you can do for him. Sell=
ing
that mare of yours won't send him to Germany. And that's what his own docto=
rs
say he needs--that crack German specialist who rips a man's bones and muscl=
es
into pulp and then molds them all over again. Well, I want to send him to German=
y and
give that crack a flutter, that's all."
"If it were =
only
possible" she said, half breathlessly, and wholly without anger. "Only it isn't, and you know =
it
isn't. I can't accept money f=
rom
you--"
"Hold on,
now," he interrupted.
"Wouldn't you accept a drink of water from one of the Twelve
Apostles if you was dying of thirst? Or would you be afraid of his evil
intentions"--she made a gesture of dissent "--or of what folks mi=
ght
say about it?"
"But that's
different," she began.
"Now look he=
re,
Miss Mason. You've got to get=
some
foolish notions out of your head.
This money notion is one of the funniest things I've seen. Suppose y=
ou
was falling over a cliff, wouldn't it be all right for me to reach out and =
hold
you by the arm? Sure it would=
. But suppose you ended another sort=
of
help--instead of the strength of arm, the strength of my pocket? That would=
be
all and that's what they all say.
But why do they say it.
Because the robber gangs want all the suckers to be honest and respe=
ct
money. If the suckers weren't
honest and didn't respect money, where would the robbers be? Don't you see? The robbers don't d=
eal in
arm-holds; they deal in dollars. Therefore arm-holds are just common and
ordinary, while dollars are sacred--so sacred that you didn't let me lend y=
ou a
hand with a few.
"Or here's
another way," he continued, spurred on by her mute protest. "It's=
all
right for me to give the strength of my arm when you're falling over a
cliff. But if I take that same
strength of arm and use it at pick-and-shovel work for a day and earn two
dollars, you won't have anything to do with the two dollars. Yet it's the same old strength of =
arm in
a new form, that's all. Besid=
es, in
this proposition it won't be a claim on you. It ain't even a loan to you. It's =
an
arm-hold I'm giving your brother--just the same sort of arm-hold as if he w=
as
falling over a cliff. And a n=
ice
one you are, to come running out and yell 'Stop!' at me, and let your broth=
er
go on over the cliff. What he needs to save his legs is that crack in Germa=
ny,
and that's the arm-hold I'm offering.
"Wish you co=
uld
see my rooms. Walls all decor=
ated
with horsehair bridles--scores of them--hundreds of them. They're no use to me, and they cos=
t like
Sam Scratch. But there's a lo=
t of
convicts making them, and I go on buying.&=
nbsp;
Why, I've spent more money in a single night on whiskey than would g=
et
the best specialists and pay all the expenses of a dozen cases like your
brother's. And remember, you'=
ve got
nothing to do with this. If y=
our
brother wants to look on it as a loan, all right. It's up to him, and you've got to =
stand
out of the way while I pull him back from that cliff."
Still Dede refuse=
d,
and Daylight's argument took a more painful turn.
"I can only
guess that you're standing in your brother's way on account of some mistaken
idea in your head that this is my idea of courting. Well, it ain't. You might as well think I'm courti=
ng all
those convicts I buy bridles from.
I haven't asked you to marry me, and if I do I won't come trying to =
buy
you into consenting. And there
won't be anything underhand when I come a-asking."
Dede's face was
flushed and angry. "If y=
ou
knew how ridiculous you are, you'd stop," she blurted out. "You can make me more uncomfo=
rtable
than any man I ever knew. Eve=
ry
little while you give me to understand that you haven't asked me to marry y=
ou
yet. I'm not waiting to be asked, and I warned you from the first that you =
had
no chance. And yet you hold i=
t over
my head that some time, some day, you're going to ask me to marry you. Go ahead and ask me now, and get y=
our
answer and get it over and done with."
He looked at her =
in
honest and pondering admiration. "I want you so bad, Miss Mason=
, that
I don't dast to ask you now," he said, with such whimsicality and
earnestness as to make her throw her head back in a frank boyish laugh. "Besides, as I told you, I'm =
green
at it. I never went a-courting
before, and I don't want to make any mistakes."
"But you're
making them all the time," she cried impulsively. "No man ever
courted a woman by holding a threatened proposal over her head like a
club."
"I won't do =
it
any more," he said humbly.
"And anyway, we're off the argument. My straight talk a minute ago still
holds. You're standing in your
brother's way. No matter what
notions you've got in your head, you've got to get out of the way and give =
him
a chance. Will you let me go =
and
see him and talk it over with him?
I'll make it a hard and fast business proposition. I'll stake him to get well, that's=
all,
and charge him interest."
She visibly
hesitated.
"And just
remember one thing, Miss Mason: it's HIS leg, not yours."
Still she refrain=
ed
from giving her answer, and Daylight went on strengthening his position.
"And remembe=
r, I
go over to see him alone. He'=
s a
man, and I can deal with him better without womenfolks around. I'll go over to-morrow afternoon.&=
quot;
Daylight had been
wholly truthful when he told Dede that he had no real friends. On speaking terms with thousands, =
on
fellowship and drinking terms with hundreds, he was a lonely man. He failed to find the one man, or =
group
of several men, with whom he could be really intimate. Cities did not make =
for
comradeship as did the Alaskan trail.
Besides, the types of men were different. Scornful and contemptuous =
of
business men on the one hand, on the other his relations with the San Franc=
isco
bosses had been more an alliance of expediency than anything else. He had felt more of kinship for the
franker brutality of the bosses and their captains, but they had failed to
claim any deep respect. They =
were
too prone to crookedness. Bon=
ds
were better than men's word in this modern world, and one had to look caref=
ully
to the bonds.
In the old Yukon =
days
it had been different. Bonds =
didn't
go. A man said he had so much=
, and
even in a poker game his appeasement was accepted.
Larry Hegan, who =
rose
ably to the largest demands of Daylight's operations and who had few illusi=
ons
and less hypocrisy, might have proved a chum had it not been for his
temperamental twist. Strange genius that he was, a Napoleon of the law, wit=
h a
power of visioning that far exceeded Daylight's, he had nothing in common w=
ith
Daylight outside the office. =
He
spent his time with books, a thing Daylight could not abide. Also, he devoted himself to the en=
dless
writing of plays which never got beyond manuscript form, and, though Daylig=
ht
only sensed the secret taint of it, was a confirmed but temperate eater of =
hasheesh.
Hegan lived all his life cloistered with books in a world of agitation. With the out-of-door world he had =
no
understanding nor tolerance. =
In
food and drink he was abstemious as a monk, while exercise was a thing
abhorrent. Daylight's friends=
hips,
in lieu of anything closer, were drinking friendships and roistering
friendships. And with the passing of the Sunday rides with Dede, he fell ba=
ck
more and more upon these for diversion.&nb=
sp;
The cocktail wall of inhibition he reared more assiduously than ever=
.
The big red motor=
-car
was out more frequently now, while a stable hand was hired to give Bob
exercise. In his early San
Francisco days, there had been intervals of easement between his deals, but=
in
this present biggest deal of all the strain was unremitting. Not in a month=
, or
two, or three, could his huge land investment be carried to a successful co=
nsummation. And so complete and wide-reaching =
was it
that complications and knotty situations constantly arose. Every day brought its problems, an=
d when
he had solved them in his masterful way, he left the office in his big car,
almost sighing with relief at anticipation of the approaching double
Martini. Rarely was he made t=
ipsy. His constitution was too strong fo=
r that. Instead, he was that direst of all
drinkers, the steady drinker, deliberate and controlled, who averaged a far
higher quantity of alcohol than the irregular and violent drinker. For six weeks hard-running he had =
seen
nothing of Dede except in the office, and there he resolutely refrained fro=
m making
approaches. But by the seventh
Sunday his hunger for her overmastered him. It was a stormy day.
A heavy southeast
gale was blowing, and squall after squall of rain and wind swept over the
city. He could not take his m=
ind
off of her, and a persistent picture came to him of her sitting by a window=
and
sewing feminine fripperies of some sort.&n=
bsp;
When the time came for his first pre-luncheon cocktail to be served =
to
him in his rooms, he did not take it.
Filled with a dar=
ing
determination, he glanced at his note book for Dede's telephone number, and
called for the switch.
At first it was h=
er
landlady's daughter who was raised, but in a minute he heard the voice he h=
ad
been hungry to hear.
"I just want=
ed
to tell you that I'm coming out to see you," he said. "I didn't w=
ant
to break in on you without warning, that was all."
"Has somethi=
ng
happened?" came her voice.
"I'll tell y=
ou
when I get there," he evaded.
He left the red c=
ar
two blocks away and arrived on foot at the pretty, three-storied, shingled
Berkeley house. For an instant
only, he was aware of an inward hesitancy, but the next moment he rang the
bell. He knew that what he was
doing was in direct violation of her wishes, and that he was setting her a
difficult task to receive as a Sunday caller the multimillionaire and notor=
ious
Elam Harnish of newspaper fame. On the
other hand, the one thing he did not expect of her was what he would have
termed "silly female capers."
And in this he was
not disappointed.
She came herself =
to
the door to receive him and shake hands with him. He hung his mackintosh and
hat on the rack in the comfortable square hall and turned to her for direct=
ion.
"They are bu=
sy
in there," she said, indicating the parlor from which came the boister=
ous
voices of young people, and through the open door of which he could see sev=
eral
college youths. "So you =
will
have to come into my rooms."
She led the way
through the door opening out of the hall to the right, and, once inside, he=
stood
awkwardly rooted to the floor, gazing about him and at her and all the time
trying not to gaze. In his perturbation he failed to hear and see her
invitation to a seat. So thes=
e were
her quarters. The intimacy of=
it
and her making no fuss about it was startling, but it was no more than he w=
ould
have expected of her. It was =
almost
two rooms in one, the one he was in evidently the sitting-room, and the one=
he
could see into, the bedroom. =
Beyond
an oaken dressing-table, with an orderly litter of combs and brushes and da=
inty
feminine knickknacks, there was no sign of its being used as a bedroom. The
broad couch, with a cover of old rose and banked high with cushions, he dec=
ided
must be the bed, but it was farthest from any experience of a civilized bed=
he
had ever had.
Not that he saw m=
uch
of detail in that awkward moment of standing. His general impression was one of =
warmth
and comfort and beauty. There=
were
no carpets, and on the hardwood floor he caught a glimpse of several wolf a=
nd
coyote skins. What captured a=
nd
perceptibly held his eye for a moment was a Crouched Venus that stood on a
Steinway upright against a background of mountain-lion skin on the wall.
But it was Dede
herself that smote most sharply upon sense and perception. He had always cherished the idea t=
hat
she was very much a woman--the lines of her figure, her hair, her eyes, her
voice, and birdlike laughing ways had all contributed to this; but here, in=
her
own rooms, clad in some flowing, clinging gown, the emphasis of sex was sta=
rtling. He had been accustomed to her only=
in
trim tailor suits and shirtwaists, or in riding costume of velvet corduroy,=
and
he was not prepared for this new revelation. She seemed so much softer, so much=
more
pliant, and tender, and lissome.
She was a part of this atmosphere of quietude and beauty. She fitted into it just as she had=
fitted
in with the sober office furnishings.
"Won't you s=
it
down?" she repeated.
He felt like an
animal long denied food. His =
hunger
for her welled up in him, and he proceeded to "wolf" the dainty
morsel before him. Here was no
patience, no diplomacy. The
straightest, direct way was none too quick for him and, had he known it, the
least unsuccessful way he could have chosen.
"Look
here," he said, in a voice that shook with passion, "there's one =
thing
I won't do, and that's propose to you in the office. That's why I'm here. Dede Mason, I want you. I just want you."
While he spoke he
advanced upon her, his black eyes burning with bright fire, his aroused blo=
od
swarthy in his cheek.
So precipitate was
he, that she had barely time to cry out her involuntary alarm and to step b=
ack,
at the same time catching one of his hands as he attempted to gather her in=
to
his arms.
In contrast to hi=
m,
the blood had suddenly left her cheeks.&nb=
sp;
The hand that had warded his off and that still held it, was
trembling. She relaxed her fi=
ngers,
and his arm dropped to his side.
She wanted to say something, do something, to pass on from the
awkwardness of the situation, but no intelligent thought nor action came in=
to
her mind. She was aware only of a desire to laugh. This impulse was party hysterical =
and
partly spontaneous humor--the latter growing from instant to instant. Amazing as the affair was, the
ridiculous side of it was not veiled to her. She felt like one who had suff=
ered
the terror of the onslaught of a murderous footpad only to find out that it=
was
an innocent pedestrian asking the time.
Daylight was the
quicker to achieve action.
"Oh, I know I'm a sure enough fool," he said. "I--I guess I'll sit down.
"I'm not
afraid," she answered, with a smile, slipping down herself into a chai=
r,
beside which, on the floor, stood a sewing-basket from which, Daylight note=
d,
some white fluffy thing of lace and muslin overflowed. Again she smiled. "Though I confess you did sta=
rtle
me for the moment."
"It's
funny," Daylight sighed, almost with regret; "here I am, strong e=
nough
to bend you around and tie knots in you.&n=
bsp;
Here I am, used to having my will with man and beast and anything. And here I am sitting in this chai=
r, as
weak and helpless as a little lamb.
You sure take the starch out of me."
Dede vainly cudge=
led
her brains in quest of a reply to these remarks. Instead, her thought dwelt
insistently upon the significance of his stepping aside, in the middle of a
violent proposal, in order to make irrelevant remarks. What struck her was the man's
certitude. So little did he d=
oubt
that he would have her, that he could afford to pause and generalize upon l=
ove
and the effects of love.
She noted his hand
unconsciously slipping in the familiar way into the side coat pocket where =
she
knew he carried his tobacco and brown papers.
"You may smo=
ke,
if you want to," she said. He
withdrew his hand with a jerk, as if something in the pocket had stung him.=
"No, I wasn't
thinking of smoking. I was th=
inking
of you. What's a man to do when he wants a woman but ask her to marry him?<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> That's all that I'm doing. I can't do it in style. I know that. But I can use straight English, and
that's good enough for me. I =
sure
want you mighty bad, Miss Mason.
You're in my mind 'most all the time, now. And what I want to know
is--well, do you want me? Tha=
t's
all."
"I--I wish y=
ou
hadn't asked," she said softly.
"Mebbe it's =
best
you should know a few things before you give me an answer," he went on,
ignoring the fact that the answer had already been given. "I never went after a woman b=
efore
in my life, all reports to the contrary not withstanding. The stuff you read about me in the=
papers
and books, about me being a lady-killer, is all wrong. There's not an iota =
of
truth in it. I guess I've don=
e more
than my share of card-playing and whiskey-drinking, but women I've let
alone. There was a woman that=
killed
herself, but I didn't know she wanted me that bad or else I'd have married
her--not for love, but to keep her from killing herself. She was the best of the boiling, b=
ut I
never gave her any encouragement.
I'm telling you all this because you've read about it, and I want yo=
u to
get it straight from me.
"Lady-killer=
!"
he snorted. "Why, Miss M=
ason,
I don't mind telling you that I've sure been scairt of women all my life.
You're the first one I've not been afraid of. That's the strange thing about it.=
I just plumb worship you, and yet =
I'm
not afraid of you. Mebbe it's
because you're different from the women I know. You've never chased me. Lady-kille=
r! Why, I've been running away from l=
adies
ever since I can remember, and I guess all that saved me was that I was str=
ong
in the wind and that I never fell down and broke a leg or anything.
"I didn't ev=
er
want to get married until after I met you, and until a long time after I met
you. I cottoned to you from t=
he
start; but I never thought it would get as bad as marriage. Why, I can't get to sleep nights,
thinking of you and wanting you."
He came to a stop=
and
waited. She had taken the lac=
e and
muslin from the basket, possibly to settle her nerves and wits, and was sew=
ing
upon it. As she was not looki=
ng at
him, he devoured her with his eyes.
He noted the firm, efficient hands--hands that could control a horse
like Bob, that could run a typewriter almost as fast as a man could talk, t=
hat
could sew on dainty garments, and that, doubtlessly, could play on the piano
over there in the corner. Ano=
ther
ultra-feminine detail he noticed--her slippers. They were small and bronze. He had never imagined she had such=
a
small foot. Street shoes and =
riding
boots were all that he had ever seen on her feet, and they had given no adv=
ertisement
of this. The bronze slippers
fascinated him, and to them his eyes repeatedly turned.
A knock came at t=
he
door, which she answered. Day=
light
could not help hearing the conversation.&n=
bsp;
She was wanted at the telephone.
"Tell him to
call up again in ten minutes," he heard her say, and the masculine pro=
noun
caused in him a flashing twinge of jealousy. Well, he decided, whoever it was,
Burning Daylight would give him a run for his money. The marvel to him was that a girl =
like
Dede hadn't been married long since.
She came back,
smiling to him, and resumed her sewing.&nb=
sp;
His eyes wandered from the efficient hands to the bronze slippers and
back again, and he swore to himself that there were mighty few stenographer=
s like
her in existence. That was be=
cause
she must have come of pretty good stock, and had a pretty good raising. Not=
hing
else could explain these rooms of hers and the clothes she wore and the way=
she
wore them.
"Those ten
minutes are flying," he suggested.
"I can't mar=
ry
you," she said.
"You don't l=
ove
me?"
She shook her hea=
d.
"Do you like
me--the littlest bit?"
This time she nod=
ded,
at the same time allowing the smile of amusement to play on her lips. But it was amusement without
contempt. The humorous side o=
f a
situation rarely appealed in vain to her.
"Well, that's
something to go on," he announced.&nb=
sp;
"You've got to make a start to get started. I just liked you at first, and loo=
k what
it's grown into. You recollec=
t, you
said you didn't like my way of life. Well, I've changed it a heap. I ain't gambling like I used to. I've gone into what you called the
legitimate, making two minutes grow where one grew before, three hundred
thousand folks where only a hundred thousand grew before. And this time next year there'll b=
e two
million eucalyptus growing on the hills.&n=
bsp;
Say do you like me more than the littlest bit?"
She raised her ey=
es
from her work and looked at him as she answered:
"I like you a
great deal, but--"
He waited a moment
for her to complete the sentence, failing which, he went on himself.
"I haven't an
exaggerated opinion of myself, so I know I ain't bragging when I say I'll m=
ake
a pretty good husband. You'd =
find I
was no hand at nagging and fault-finding. I can guess what it must be for a
woman like you to be independent.
Well, you'd be independent as my wife. No strings on you. You could follow your own sweet wi=
ll,
and nothing would be too good for you.&nbs=
p;
I'd give you everything your heart desired--"
"Except
yourself," she interrupted suddenly, almost sharply.
Daylight's
astonishment was momentary.
"I don't know
about that. I'd be straight a=
nd
square, and live true. I don't hanker after divided affections."
"I don't mean
that," she said. "I=
nstead
of giving yourself to your wife, you would give yourself to the three hundr=
ed
thousand people of Oakland, to your street railways and ferry-routes, to the
two million trees on the hills to everything business--and--and to all that
that means."
"I'd see tha=
t I
didn't," he declared stoutly.
"I'd be yours to command."
"You think s=
o,
but it would turn out differently."&n=
bsp;
She suddenly became nervous.
"We must stop this talk.
It is too much like attempting to drive a bargain. 'How much will you give?' 'I'll give so much.' 'I want more,=
' and
all that. I like you, but not
enough to marry you, and I'll never like you enough to marry you."
"How do you =
know
that?" he demanded.
"Because I l=
ike
you less and less."
Daylight sat
dumfounded. The hurt showed i=
tself
plainly in his face.
"Oh, you don=
't
understand," she cried wildly, beginning to lose self-control--"I=
t's
not that way I mean. I do lik=
e you;
the more I've known you the more I've liked you. And at the same time the more I've=
known
you the less would I care to marry you."
This enigmatic
utterance completed Daylight's perplexity.
"Don't you
see?" she hurried on. &q=
uot;I
could have far easier married the Elam Harnish fresh from Klondike, when I
first laid eyes on him long ago, than marry you sitting before me now."=
;
He shook his head
slowly. "That's one too =
many
for me. The more you know and=
like
a man the less you want to marry him. Familiarity breeds contempt--I guess
that's what you mean."
"No, no,&quo=
t;
she cried, but before she could continue, a knock came on the door.
"The ten min=
utes
is up," Daylight said.
His eyes, quick w=
ith
observation like an Indian's, darted about the room while she was out. The impression of warmth and comfo=
rt and
beauty predominated, though he was unable to analyze it; while the simplici=
ty
delighted him--expensive simplicity, he decided, and most of it leftovers f=
rom
the time her father went broke and died.&n=
bsp;
He had never before appreciated a plain hardwood floor with a couple=
of wolfskins;
it sure beat all the carpets in creation.&=
nbsp;
He stared solemnly at a bookcase containing a couple of hundred
books. There was mystery. He could not understand what people
found so much to write about.
Writing things and
reading things were not the same as doing things, and himself primarily a m=
an
of action, doing things was alone comprehensible.
His gaze passed on
from the Crouched Venus to a little tea-table with all its fragile and
exquisite accessories, and to a shining copper kettle and copper
chafing-dish. Chafing dishes =
were
not unknown to him, and he wondered if she concocted suppers on this one for
some of those University young men he had heard whispers about. One or two water-colors on the wal=
l made
him conjecture that she had painted them herself. There were photographs of horses a=
nd of
old masters, and the trailing purple of a Burial of Christ held him for a
time. But ever his gaze retur=
ned to
that Crouched Venus on the piano.
To his homely, frontier-trained mind, it seemed curious that a nice
young woman should have such a bold, if not sinful, object on display in her
own room. But he reconciled himself to it by an act of faith. Since it was Dede, it must be emin=
ently
all right. Evidently such thi=
ngs
went along with culture. Larry
Hegan had similar casts and photographs in his book-cluttered quarters. But then, Larry Hegan was
different. There was that hin=
t of
unhealth about him that Daylight invariably sensed in his presence, while D=
ede,
on the contrary, seemed always so robustly wholesome, radiating an atmosphe=
re
compounded of the sun and wind and dust of the open road. And yet, if such a clean, healthy =
woman
as she went in for naked women crouching on her piano, it must be all right=
. Dede
made it all right. She could =
come
pretty close to making anything all right.=
Besides, he didn't understand culture anyway.
She reentered the
room, and as she crossed it to her chair, he admired the way she walked, wh=
ile
the bronze slippers were maddening.
"I'd like to=
ask
you several questions," he began immediately "Are you thinking of
marrying somebody?"
She laughed merri=
ly
and shook her head.
"Do you like
anybody else more than you like me?--that man at the 'phone just now, for
instance?"
"There isn't
anybody else. I don't know an=
ybody
I like well enough to marry. =
For
that matter, I don't think I am a marrying woman. Office work seems to spoil one for
that."
Daylight ran his =
eyes
over her, from her face to the tip of a bronze slipper, in a way that made =
the
color mantle in her cheeks. A=
t the same
time he shook his head sceptically.
"It strikes =
me
that you're the most marryingest woman that ever made a man sit up and take
notice. And now another quest=
ion.
You see, I've just got to locate the lay of the land. Is there anybody you like as much =
as you
like me?"
But Dede had hers=
elf
well in hand.
"That's
unfair," she said. "=
;And
if you stop and consider, you will find that you are doing the very thing y=
ou
disclaimed--namely, nagging. I refuse to answer any more of your
questions. Let us talk about =
other things.
How is Bob?"
Half an hour late=
r,
whirling along through the rain on Telegraph Avenue toward Oakland, Daylight
smoked one of his brown-paper cigarettes and reviewed what had taken
place. It was not at all bad,=
was
his summing up, though there was much about it that was baffling. There was that liking him the more=
she knew
him and at the same time wanting to marry him less. That was a puzzler.
But the fact that=
she
had refused him carried with it a certain elation. In refusing him she had refused his
thirty million dollars. That was going some for a ninety dollar-a-month
stenographer who had known better ties.&nb=
sp;
She wasn't after money, that was patent. Every woman he had encountered had
seemed willing to swallow him down for the sake of his money. Why, he had doubled his fortune, m=
ade
fifteen millions, since the day she first came to work for him, and behold,=
any
willingness to marry him she might have possessed had diminished as his mon=
ey
had increased.
"Gosh!"=
he
muttered. "If I clean up=
a
hundred million on this land deal she won't even be on speaking terms with =
me."
But he could not
smile the thing away. It rema=
ined
to baffle him, that enigmatic statement of hers that she could more easily =
have
married the Elam Harnish fresh from the Klondike than the present Elam Harn=
ish.
Well, he concluded, the thing to do was for him to become more like that
old-time Daylight who had come down out of the North to try his luck at the
bigger game. But that was
impossible. He could not set =
back
the flight of time. Wishing wouldn't do it, and there was no other way. He might as well wish himself a boy
again.
Another satisfact=
ion
he cuddled to himself from their interview. He had heard of stenographers
before, who refused their employers, and who invariably quit their positions
immediately afterward. But De=
de had
not even hinted at such a thing. No
matter how baffling she was, there was no nonsensical silliness about her.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> She was level headed. But, also, he had been level-heade=
d and
was partly responsible for this. He
hadn't taken advantage of her in the office. True, he had twice overstepped the
bounds, but he had not followed it up and made a practice of it. She knew she could trust him. But in spite of all this he was
confident that most young women would have been silly enough to resign a
position with a man they had turned down.&=
nbsp;
And besides, after he had put it to her in the right light, she had =
not been
silly over his sending her brother to Germany.
"Gee!" =
he
concluded, as the car drew up before his hotel. "If I'd only known it as I do=
now,
I'd have popped the question the first day she came to work. According to her say-so, that woul=
d have
been the proper moment. She l=
ikes
me more and more, and the more she likes me the less she'd care to marry
me! Now what do you think of
that? She sure must be
fooling."
Once again, on a
rainy Sunday, weeks afterward, Daylight proposed to Dede. As on the first time, he restrained
himself until his hunger for her overwhelmed him and swept him away in his =
red
automobile to Berkeley. He le=
ft the
machine several blocks away and proceeded to the house on foot. But Dede was out, the landlady's
daughter told him, and added, on second thought, that she was out walking in
the hills. Furthermore, the young lady directed him where Dede's walk was m=
ost likely
to extend.
Daylight obeyed t=
he
girl's instructions, and soon the street he followed passed the last house =
and
itself ceased where began the first steep slopes of the open hills. The air was damp with the on-comin=
g of rain,
for the storm had not yet burst, though the rising wind proclaimed its
imminence. As far as he could=
see,
there was no sign of Dede on the smooth, grassy hills. To the right, dipping down into a =
hollow
and rising again, was a large, full-grown eucalyptus grove. Here all was no=
ise
and movement, the lofty, slender trunked trees swaying back and forth in the
wind and clashing their branches together.=
In the squalls, above all the minor noises of creaking and groaning,
arose a deep thrumming note as of a mighty harp. Knowing Dede as he did, Daylight w=
as
confident that he would find her somewhere in this grove where the storm
effects were so pronounced. A=
nd
find her he did, across the hollow and on the exposed crest of the opposing=
slope
where the gale smote its fiercest blows.
There was somethi=
ng monotonous,
though not tiresome, about the way Daylight proposed. Guiltless of diplomacy subterfuge,=
he
was as direct and gusty as the gale itself. He had time neither for greeting n=
or apology.
"It's the sa=
me
old thing," he said. &qu=
ot;I
want you and I've come for you. You've just got to have me, Dede, for the m=
ore
I think about it the more certain I am that you've got a Sneaking liking fo=
r me
that's something more than just Ordinary liking. And you don't dast say that it isn=
't;
now dast you?"
He had shaken han=
ds
with her at the moment he began speaking, and he had continued to hold her
hand. Now, when she did not a=
nswer,
she felt a light but firmly insistent pressure as of his drawing her to him=
. Involuntarily,
she half-yielded to him, her desire for the moment stronger than her will.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> Then suddenly she drew herself awa=
y,
though permitting her hand still to remain in his.
"You sure ai=
n't
afraid of me?" he asked, with quick compunction.
"No." She smiled woefully. "Not of you, but of myself.&q=
uot;
"You haven't
taken my dare," he urged under this encouragement.
"Please,
please," she begged. &qu=
ot;We
can never marry, so don't let us discuss it."
"Then I copp=
er
your bet to lose." He was
almost gay, now, for success was coming faster than his fondest imagining.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> She liked him, without a doubt; and
without a doubt she liked him well enough to let him hold her hand, well en=
ough
to be not repelled by the nearness of him.
She shook her
head. "No, it is
impossible. You would lose yo=
ur
bet."
For the first tim=
e a
dark suspicion crossed Daylight's mind--a clew that explained everything.
"Say, you ai=
n't
been let in for some one of these secret marriages have you?"
The consternation=
in
his voice and on his face was too much for her, and her laugh rang out, mer=
ry
and spontaneous as a burst of joy from the throat of a bird.
Daylight knew his
answer, and, vexed with himself decided that action was more efficient than
speech. So he stepped between=
her
and the wind and drew her so that she stood close in the shelter of him. An unusually stiff squall blew abou=
t them
and thrummed overhead in the tree-tops and both paused to listen. A shower of flying leaves enveloped
them, and hard on the heel of the wind came driving drops of rain. He looked down on her and on her h=
air
wind-blown about her face; and because of her closeness to him and of a fre=
sher
and more poignant realization of what she meant to him, he trembled so that=
she
was aware of it in the hand that held hers.
She suddenly lean=
ed
against him, bowing her head until it rested lightly upon his breast. And so they stood while another sq=
uall,
with flying leaves and scattered drops of rain, rattled past. With equal su=
ddenness
she lifted her head and looked at him.
"Do you
know," she said, "I prayed last night about you. I prayed that you would fail, that=
you
would lose everything everything."
Daylight stared h=
is
amazement at this cryptic utterance.
"That sure beats me. I
always said I got out of my depth with women, and you've got me out of my d=
epth
now. Why you want me to lose
everything, seeing as you like me--"
"I never said
so."
"You didn't =
dast
say you didn't. So, as I was
saying: liking me, why you'd want me to go broke is clean beyond my simple
understanding. It's right in line with that other puzzler of yours, the mor=
e-you-like-me-the-less-you-want-to-marry-me
one. Well, you've just got to explain, that's all."
His arms went aro=
und
her and held her closely, and this time she did not resist. Her head was bowed, and he had not=
see
her face, yet he had a premonition that she was crying. He had learned the virtue of silen=
ce,
and he waited her will in the matter.
Things had come to such a pass that she was bound to tell him someth=
ing
now. Of that he was confident=
.
"I am not
romantic," she began, again looking at him as he spoke.
"It might be
better for me if I were. Then=
I
could make a fool of myself and be unhappy for the rest of my life. But my abominable common sense
prevents. And that doesn't ma=
ke me
a bit happier, either."
"I'm still o=
ut
of my depth and swimming feeble," Daylight said, after waiting vainly =
for
her to go on. "You've go=
t to
show me, and you ain't shown me yet.
Your common sense and praying that I'd go broke is all up in the air=
to
me. Little woman, I just love=
you
mighty hard, and I want you to marry me.&n=
bsp;
That's straight and simple and right off the bat. Will you marry me?"
She shook her head
slowly, and then, as she talked, seemed to grow angry, sadly angry; and
Daylight knew that this anger was against him.
"Then let me
explain, and just as straight and simply as you have asked." She paused, as if casting about fo=
r a
beginning. "You are hone=
st and
straightforward. Do you want =
me to
be honest and straightforward as a woman is not supposed to be?--to tell you
things that will hurt you?--to make confessions that ought to shame me? to behave in what many men would t=
hink
was an unwomanly manner?"
The arm around her
shoulder pressed encouragement, but he did not speak.
"I would dea=
rly
like to marry you, but I am afraid.
I am proud and humble at the same time that a man like you should ca=
re
for me. But you have too much
money. There's where my abomi=
nable
common sense steps in. Even i=
f we
did marry, you could never be my man--my lover and my husband. You would be your money's man. I k=
now I
am a foolish woman, but I want my man for myself. You would not be free for me. Your=
money
possesses you, taking your time, your thoughts, your energy, everything,
bidding you go here and go there, do this and do that. Don't you see? Perhaps it's pure silliness, but I=
feel
that I can love much, give much--give all, and in return, though I don't wa=
nt
all, I want much--and I want much more than your money would permit you to =
give
me.
"And your mo=
ney
destroys you; it makes you less and less nice. I am not ashamed to say that=
I
love you, because I shall never marry you.=
And I loved you much when I did not know you at all, when you first =
came
down from Alaska and I first went into the office. You were my hero. You were the Burning Daylight of t=
he
gold-diggings, the daring traveler and miner. And you looked it. I don't see how=
any
woman could have looked at you without loving you--then. But you don't look it now.
"Please, ple=
ase,
forgive me for hurting you. Y=
ou
wanted straight talk, and I am giving it to you. All these last years you have been
living unnaturally. You, a ma=
n of
the open, have been cooping yourself up in the cities with all that that
means. You are not the same m=
an at
all, and your money is destroying you. You are becoming something different=
, something
not so healthy, not so clean, not so nice.=
Your money and your way of life are doing it. You know it. You haven't the same body now that=
you
had then. You are putting on =
flesh,
and it is not healthy flesh. You are kind and genial with me, I know, but y=
ou
are not kind and genial to all the world as you were then. You have become harsh and cruel. And I know. Remember, I have studied you six d=
ays a
week, month after month, year after year; and I know more about the most in=
significant
parts of you than you know of all of me. The cruelty is not only in your he=
art
and thoughts, but it is there in face.&nbs=
p;
It has put its lines there.
I have watched them come and grow.&=
nbsp;
Your money, and the life it compels you to lead have done all this.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> You are being brutalized and
degraded. And this process ca=
n only
go on and on until you are hopelessly destroyed--"
He attempted to
interrupt, but she stopped him, herself breathless and her voice trembling.=
"No, no; let=
me
finish utterly. I have done n=
othing
but think, think, think, all these months, ever since you came riding with =
me,
and now that I have begun to speak I am going to speak all that I have in m=
e. I
do love you, but I cannot marry you and destroy love. You are growing into a thing that =
I must
in the end despise. You can't=
help it. More than you can possibly love me=
, do
you love this business game. =
This
business--and it's all perfectly useless, so far as you are concerned--clai=
ms
all of you. I sometimes think=
it
would be easier to share you equitably with another woman than to share you
with this business. I might h=
ave
half of you, at any rate. But=
this
business would claim, not half of you, but nine-tenths of you, or ninety-ni=
ne hundredths.
"Remember, t=
he
meaning of marriage to me is not to get a man's money to spend. I want the man. You say you want ME. And suppose I consented, but gave =
you
only one-hundredth part of me. Suppose there was something else in my life =
that
took the other ninety-nine parts, and, furthermore, that ruined my figure, =
that
put pouches under my eyes and crows-feet in the corners, that made me
unbeautiful to look upon and that made my spirit unbeautiful. Would you be satisfied with that o=
ne-hundredth
part of me? Yet that is all y=
ou are
offering me of yourself. Do y=
ou
wonder that I won't marry you?--that I can't?"
Daylight waited to
see if she were quite done, and she went on again.
"It isn't th=
at I
am selfish. After all, love is
giving, not receiving. But I see so clearly that all my giving could not do=
you
any good. You are like a sick
man. You don't play business =
like
other men. You play it heart =
and
and all of you. No matter wha=
t you
believed and intended a wife would be only a brief diversion. There is that magnificent Bob, eat=
ing
his head off in the stable. Y=
ou
would buy me a beautiful mansion and leave me in it to yawn my head off, or=
cry
my eyes out because of my helplessness and inability to save you. This disease of business would be
corroding you and marring you all the time. You play it as you have played
everything else, as in Alaska you played the life of the trail. Nobody could be permitted to trave=
l as
fast and as far as you, to work as hard or endure as much. You hold back nothing; you put all
you've got into whatever you are doing."
"Limit is the
sky," he grunted grim affirmation.
"But if you
would only play the lover-husband that way--"
Her voice faltered
and stopped, and a blush showed in her wet cheeks as her eyes fell before h=
is.
"And now I w=
on't
say another word," she added. "I've delivered a whole sermon.&quo=
t;
She rested now,
frankly and fairly, in the shelter of his arms, and both were oblivious to =
the
gale that rushed past them in quicker and stronger blasts. The big downpour of rain had not y=
et
come, but the mist-like squalls were more frequent. Daylight was openly perplexed, and=
he
was still perplexed when he began to speak.
"I'm
stumped. I'm up a tree. I'm clean flabbergasted, Miss Maso=
n--or Dede,
because I love to call you that name.
I'm free to confess there's a mighty big heap in what you say. As I understand it, your conclusio=
n is
that you'd marry me if I hadn't a cent and if I wasn't getting fat. No, no; I'm not joking. I acknowledge the corn, and that's=
just
my way of boiling the matter down and summing it up. If I hadn't a cent, and if I was l=
iving
a healthy life with all the time in the world to love you and be your husba=
nd
instead of being awash to my back teeth in business and all the rest--why,
you'd marry me.
"That's all =
as
clear as print, and you're correcter than I ever guessed before. You've sure opened my eyes a few.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> But I'm stuck. What can I do? My business has sure roped, thrown=
, and
branded me. I'm tied hand and=
foot,
and I can't get up and meander over green pastures. I'm like the man that got the bear=
by
the tail. I can't let go; and=
I
want you, and I've got to let go to get you.
"I don't know
what to do, but something's sure got to happen--I can't lose you. I just can't. And I'm not going to. Why, you're running business a clo=
se
second right now. Business ne=
ver
kept me awake nights.
"You've left=
me
no argument. I know I'm not t=
he
same man that came from Alaska. I
couldn't hit the trail with the dogs as I did in them days. I'm soft in my muscles, and my min=
d's
gone hard. I used to respect
men. I despise them now. You see, I spent all my life in th=
e open,
and I reckon I'm an open-air man. Why, I've got the prettiest little ranch =
you
ever laid eyes on, up in Glen Ellen.
That's where I got stuck for that brick-yard. You recollect handling=
the
correspondence. I only laid e=
yes on
the ranch that one time, and I so fell in love with it that I bought it the=
re
and then. I just rode around =
the
hills, and was happy as a kid out of school. I'd be a better man living in the =
country. The city doesn't make me better. Y=
ou're
plumb right there. I know it.=
But suppose your prayer should be
answered and I'd go clean broke and have to work for day's wages?"
She did not answe=
r,
though all the body of her seemed to urge consent.
"Suppose I h=
ad
nothing left but that little ranch, and was satisfied to grow a few chickens
and scratch a living somehow--would you marry me then, Dede?"
"Why, we'd be
together all the time!" she cried.
"But I'd hav=
e to
be out ploughing once in a while," he warned, "or driving to town=
to
get the grub."
"But there
wouldn't be the office, at any rate, and no man to see, and men to see with=
out
end. But it is all foolish and
impossible, and we'll have to be starting back now if we're to escape the
rain."
Then was the mome=
nt,
among the trees, where they began the descent of the hill, that Daylight mi=
ght
have drawn her closely to him and kissed her once. But he was too perplexed with the =
new
thoughts she had put into his head to take advantage of the situation. He merely caught her by the arm and
helped her over the rougher footing.
"It's darn
pretty country up there at Glen Ellen," he said meditatively. "I wish you could see it.&quo=
t;
At the edge of the
grove he suggested that it might be better for them to part there.
"It's your
neighborhood, and folks is liable to talk."
But she insisted =
that
he accompany her as far as the house.
"I can't ask=
you
in," she said, extending her hand at the foot of the steps.
The wind was humm=
ing
wildly in sharply recurrent gusts, but still the rain held off.
"Do you
know," he said, "taking it by and large, it's the happiest day of=
my
life." He took off his h=
at,
and the wind rippled and twisted his black hair as he went on solemnly,
"And I'm sure grateful to God, or whoever or whatever is responsible f=
or
your being on this earth. For=
you
do like me heaps. It's been m=
y joy
to hear you say so to-day. It's--" He left the thought arrested, and h=
is
face assumed the familiar whimsical expression as he murmured: "Dede,
Dede, we've just got to get married.
It's the only way, and trust to luck for it's coming out all right--=
".
But the tears were
threatening to rise in her eyes again, as she shook her head and turned and
went up the steps.
When the ferry sy=
stem
began to run, and the time between Oakland and San Francisco was demonstrat=
ed
to be cut in half, the tide of Daylight's terrific expenditure started to
turn. Not that it really did =
turn,
for he promptly went into further investments. Thousands of lots in his res=
idence
tracts were sold, and thousands of homes were being built. Factory sites also were selling, a=
nd
business properties in the heart of Oakland. All this tended to a steady apprec=
iation
in value of Daylight's huge holdings.
But, as of old, he had his hunch and was riding it. Already he had b=
egun
borrowing from the banks. The=
magnificent
profits he made on the land he sold were turned into more land, into more
development; and instead of paying off old loans, he contracted new ones. As he had pyramided in Dawson City=
, he
now pyramided in Oakland; but he did it with the knowledge that it was a st=
able
enterprise rather than a risky placer-mining boom.
In a small way, o=
ther
men were following his lead, buying and selling land and profiting by the
improvement work he was doing. But this was to be expected, and the small
fortunes they were making at his expense did not irritate him. There was an exception, however. One Simon Dolliver, with money to =
go in
with, and with cunning and courage to back it up, bade fair to become a sev=
eral
times millionaire at Daylight's expense. Dolliver, too, pyramided, playing
quickly and accurately, and keeping his money turning over and over. More than once Daylight found him =
in the
way, as he himself had got in the way of the Guggenhammers when they first =
set
their eyes on Ophir Creek.
Work on Daylight's
dock system went on apace, yet was one of those enterprises that consumed m=
oney
dreadfully and that could not be accomplished as quickly as a ferry
system. The engineering diffi=
culties
were great, the dredging and filling a cyclopean task. The mere item of pil=
ing
was anything but small. A good average pile, by the time it was delivered on
the ground, cost a twenty-dollar gold piece, and these piles were used in
unending thousands. All acces=
sible groves
of mature eucalyptus were used, and as well, great rafts of pine piles were
towed down the coast from Peugeot Sound.
Not content with
manufacturing the electricity for his street railways in the old-fashioned =
way,
in power-houses, Daylight organized the Sierra and Salvador Power Company.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> This immediately assumed large pro=
portions. Crossing the San Joaquin Valley on=
the
way from the mountains, and plunging through the Contra Costa hills, there =
were
many towns, and even a robust city, that could be supplied with power, also=
with
light; and it became a street- and house-lighting project as well. As soon =
as
the purchase of power sites in the Sierras was rushed through, the survey
parties were out and building operations begun.
And so it went. There were a thousand maws into wh=
ich he
poured unceasing streams of money.
But it was all so sound and legitimate, that Daylight, born gambler =
that
he was, and with his clear, wide vision, could not play softly and safely.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> It was a big opportunity, and to h=
im
there was only one way to play it, and that was the big way. Nor did his one
confidential adviser, Larry Hegan, aid him to caution. On the contrary, it =
was
Daylight who was compelled to veto the wilder visions of that able hasheesh=
dreamer. Not only did Daylight borrow heavi=
ly
from the banks and trust companies, but on several of his corporations he w=
as
compelled to issue stock. He =
did
this grudgingly however, and retained most of his big enterprises of his
own. Among the companies in w=
hich
he reluctantly allowed the investing public to join were the Golden Gate Do=
ck
Company, and Recreation Parks Company, the United Water Company, the Uncial
Shipbuilding Company, and the Sierra and Salvador Power Company. Neverthele=
ss,
between himself and Hegan, he retained the controlling share in each of the=
se
enterprises.
His affair with D=
ede
Mason only seemed to languish.
While delaying to grapple with the strange problem it presented, his
desire for her continued to grow.
In his gambling simile, his conclusion was that Luck had dealt him t=
he
most remarkable card in the deck, and that for years he had overlooked it.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> Love was the card, and it beat the=
m all.
Love was the king card of trumps, the fifth ace, the joker in a game of ten=
derfoot
poker. It was the card of cards, and play it he would, to the limit, when t=
he
opening came. He could not se=
e that
opening yet. The present game would have to play to some sort of a conclusi=
on
first.
Yet he could not
shake from his brain and vision the warm recollection of those bronze slipp=
ers,
that clinging gown, and all the feminine softness and pliancy of Dede in her
pretty Berkeley rooms. Once a=
gain, on
a rainy Sunday, he telephoned that he was coming. And, as has happened ever since man
first looked upon woman and called her good, again he played the blind forc=
e of
male compulsion against the woman's secret weakness to yield. Not that it was Daylight's way abj=
ectly
to beg and entreat. On the
contrary, he was masterful in whatever he did, but he had a trick of whimsi=
cal
wheedling that Dede found harder to resist than the pleas of a suppliant
lover. It was not a happy sce=
ne in
its outcome, for Dede, in the throes of her own desire, desperate with weak=
ness
and at the same time with her better judgment hating her weakness cried out=
:--
"You urge me=
to
try a chance, to marry you now and trust to luck for it to come out right.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> And life is a gamble say. Very well, let us gamble. Take a coin and toss it in the air=
. If it comes heads, I'll marry you.=
If it doesn't, you are forever to =
leave
me alone and never mention marriage again."
A fire of mingled
love and the passion of gambling came into Daylight's eyes. Involuntarily his hand started for=
his
pocket for the coin. Then it stopped, and the light in his eyes was trouble=
d.
"Go on,"
she ordered sharply. "Do=
n't
delay, or I may change my mind, and you will lose the chance."
"Little
woman." His similes were
humorous, but there was no humor in their meaning. His thought was as solemn as his v=
oice.
"Little woman, I'd gamble all the way from Creation to the Day of
Judgment; I'd gamble a golden harp against another man's halo; I'd toss for
pennies on the front steps of the New Jerusalem or set up a faro layout just
outside the Pearly Gates; but I'll be everlastingly damned if I'll gamble o=
n love. Love's too big to me to take a cha=
nce
on. Love's got to be a sure t=
hing,
and between you and me it is a sure thing.=
If the odds was a hundred to one on my winning this flip, just the s=
ame,
nary a flip."
In the spring of =
the
year the Great Panic came on. The
first warning was when the banks began calling in their unprotected loans.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> Daylight promptly paid the first s=
everal
of his personal notes that were presented; then he divined that these deman=
ds
but indicated the way the wind was going to blow, and that one of those
terrific financial storms he had heard about was soon to sweep over the Uni=
ted
States. How terrific this
particular storm was to be he did not anticipate. Nevertheless, he took eve=
ry
precaution in his power, and had no anxiety about his weathering it out.
Money grew
tighter. Beginning with the c=
rash
of several of the greatest Eastern banking houses, the tightness spread, un=
til
every bank in the country was calling in its credits. Daylight was caught, and caught be=
cause
of the fact that for the first time he had been playing the legitimate busi=
ness
game. In the old days, such a
panic, with the accompanying extreme shrinkage of values, would have been a
golden harvest time for him. =
As it
was, he watched the gamblers, who had ridden the wave of prosperity and made
preparation for the slump, getting out from under and safely scurrying to c=
over
or proceeding to reap a double harvest.&nb=
sp;
Nothing remained for him but to stand fast and hold up.
He saw the situat=
ion
clearly. When the banks deman=
ded
that he pay his loans, he knew that the banks were in sore need of the
money. But he was in sorer
need. And he knew that the ba=
nks
did not want his collateral which they held. It would do them no good. In such a tumbling of values was n=
o time
to sell. His collateral was g=
ood,
all of it, eminently sound and worth while; yet it was worthless at such a =
moment,
when the one unceasing cry was money, money, money. Finding him obdurate, the banks de=
manded
more collateral, and as the money pinch tightened they asked for two and ev=
en
three times as much as had been originally accepted. Sometimes Daylight yielded to these
demands, but more often not, and always battling fiercely.
He fought as with
clay behind a crumbling wall. All
portions of the wall were menaced, and he went around constantly strengthen=
ing
the weakest parts with clay. =
This
clay was money, and was applied, a sop here and a sop there, as fast as it =
was
needed, but only when it was directly needed. The strength of his position lay i=
n the
Yerba Buena Ferry Company, the Consolidated Street Railways, and the United
Water Company. Though people were no longer buying residence lots and facto=
ry and
business sites, they were compelled to ride on his cars and ferry-boats and=
to
consume his water. When all t=
he
financial world was clamoring for money and perishing through lack of it, t=
he
first of each month many thousands of dollars poured into his coffers from =
the water-rates,
and each day ten thousand dollars, in dime and nickels, came in from his st=
reet
railways and ferries.
Cash was what was
wanted, and had he had the use of all this steady river of cash, all would =
have
been well with him. As it was=
, he
had to fight continually for a portion of it. Improvement work ceased, and =
only
absolutely essential repairs were made.&nb=
sp;
His fiercest fight was with the operating expenses, and this was a f=
ight
that never ended. There was never any let-up in his turning the thumb-screw=
s of
extended credit and economy. =
From the
big wholesale suppliers down through the salary list to office stationery a=
nd
postage stamps, he kept the thumb-screws turning. When his superintendents and heads=
of departments
performed prodigies of cutting down, he patted them on the back and demanded
more. When they threw down th=
eir
hands in despair, he showed them how more could be accomplished.
"You are get=
ting
eight thousand dollars a year," he told Matthewson. "It's better =
pay
than you ever got in your life before.&nbs=
p;
Your fortune is in the same sack with mine. You've got to stand for some of th=
e strain
and risk. You've got personal
credit in this town. Use it. =
Stand
off butcher and baker and all the rest.&nb=
sp;
Savvee? You're drawing=
down
something like six hundred and sixty dollars a month. I want that cash. From now on, stand everybody off a=
nd
draw down a hundred. I'll pay=
you
interest on the rest till this blows over."
Two weeks later, =
with
the pay-roll before them, it was:--
"Matthewson,
who's this bookkeeper, Rogers? Your
nephew? I thought so. He's pulling down eighty-five a
month. After--this let him dr=
aw thirty-five. The forty can ride with me at
interest."
"Impossible!=
"
Matthewson cried. "He ca=
n't
make ends meet on his salary as it is, and he has a wife and two kids--&quo=
t;
Daylight was upon=
him
with a mighty oath.
"Can't!
Impossible! What in hell do y=
ou
think I'm running? A home for=
feeble-minded? Feeding and dressing and wiping the
little noses of a lot of idiots that can't take care of themselves? Not on your life. I'm hustling, and
now's the time that everybody that works for me has got to hustle. I want no fair-weather birds holdi=
ng
down my office chairs or anything else.&nb=
sp;
This is nasty weather, damn nasty weather, and they've got to buck i=
nto
it just like me. There are ten
thousand men out of work in Oakland right now, and sixty thousand more in S=
an Francisco. Your nephew, and everybody else on=
your
pay-roll, can do as I say right now or quit. Savvee? If any of them get stuck, you go a=
round
yourself and guarantee their credit with the butchers and grocers. And you trim down that pay-roll
accordingly. I've been carryi=
ng a
few thousand folks that'll have to carry themselves for a while now, that's
all."
"You say this
filter's got to be replaced," he told his chief of the water-works.
And to Wilkinson:=
"Take off th=
at
owl boat. Let the public roar=
and
come home early to its wife. =
And
there's that last car that connects with the 12:45 boat at Twenty-second and
Hastings. Cut it out. I can't run it for two or three
passengers. Let them take an
earlier boat home or walk. Th=
is is no
time for philanthropy. And you
might as well take off a few more cars in the rush hours. Let the strap-hangers pay. It's the strap-hangers that'll kee=
p us
from going under."
And to another ch=
ief,
who broke down under the excessive strain of retrenchment:--
"You say I c=
an't
do that and can't do this. I'=
ll
just show you a few of the latest patterns in the can-and-can't line. You'll be compelled to resign? All right, if you think so I never=
saw
the man yet that I was hard up for.
And when any man thinks I can't get along without him, I just show h=
im
the latest pattern in that line of goods and give him his walking-papers.&q=
uot;
And so he fought =
and
drove and bullied and even wheedled his way along. It was fight, fight, fig=
ht,
and no let-up, from the first thing in the morning till nightfall. His private office saw throngs eve=
ry
day. All men came to see him,=
or
were ordered to come. Now it =
was an
optimistic opinion on the panic, a funny story, a serious business talk, or=
a straight
take-it-or-leave-it blow from the shoulder. And there was nobody to relieve
him. It was a case of drive, =
drive,
drive, and he alone could do the driving.&=
nbsp;
And this went on day after day, while the whole business world rocked
around him and house after house crashed to the ground.
"It's all ri=
ght,
old man," he told Hegan every morning; and it was the same cheerful wo=
rd
that he passed out all day long, except at such times when he was in the th=
ick
of fighting to have his will with persons and things.
Eight o'clock saw=
him
at his desk each morning. By =
ten
o'clock, it was into the machine and away for a round of the banks. And usually in the machine with hi=
m was
the ten thousand and more dollars that had been earned by his ferries and
railways the day before. This=
was
for the weakest spot in the financial dike. And with one bank president aft=
er another
similar scenes were enacted. =
They
were paralyzed with fear, and first of all he played his role of the big vi=
tal
optimist. Times were improvin=
g.
Of course they
were. The signs were already =
in the
air. All that anybody had to =
do was
to sit tight a little longer and hold on.&=
nbsp;
That was all. Money was
already more active in the East. Look at the trading on Wall Street of the =
last
twenty-four hours.
That was the straw
that showed the wind. Hadn't =
Ryan
said so and so? and wasn't it reported that Morgan was preparing to do this=
and
that?
As for himself,
weren't the street-railway earnings increasing steadily? In spite of the panic, more and mo=
re
people were coming to Oakland right along.=
Movements were already beginning in real estate. He was dickering ev=
en
then to sell over a thousand of his suburban acres. Of course it was at a sacrifice, b=
ut it
would ease the strain on all of them and bolster up the faint-hearted. That was the trouble--the
faint-hearts. Had there been =
no
faint-hearts there would have been no panic. There was that Eastern syndicate,
negotiating with him now to take the majority of the stock in the Sierra and
Salvador Power Company off his hands.
That showed confidence that better times were at hand.
And if it was not
cheery discourse, but prayer and entreaty or show down and fight on the par=
t of
the banks, Daylight had to counter in kind. If they could bully, he could
bully. If the favor he asked =
were refused,
it became the thing he demanded. And when it came down to raw and naked
fighting, with the last veil of sentiment or illusion torn off, he could ta=
ke
their breaths away.
But he knew, also,
how and when to give in. When=
he
saw the wall shaking and crumbling irretrievably at a particular place, he
patched it up with sops of cash from his three cash-earning companies. If the banks went, he went too.
As he told the
president of the Merchants San Antonio who made the plea of carrying so many
others:--
"They're sma=
ll
fry. Let them smash. I'm the king pin here. You've got =
more
money to make out of me than them.
Of course, you're carrying too much, and you've got to choose, that's
all. It's root hog or die for you or them.=
I'm too strong to smash. You could only embarrass me and get yourself
tangled up. Your way out is t=
o let
the small fry go, and I'll lend you a hand to do it."
And it was Daylig=
ht,
also, in this time of financial anarchy, who sized up Simon Dolliver's affa=
irs
and lent the hand that sent that rival down in utter failure. The Golden Gate National was the
keystone of Dolliver's strength, and to the president of that institution
Daylight said:--
"Here I've b=
een
lending you a hand, and you now in the last ditch, with Dolliver riding on =
you
and me all the time. It don't
go. You hear me, it don't go.=
Dolliver couldn't cough up eleven
dollars to save you. Let him get off and walk, and I'll tell you what I'll
do. I'll give you the railway
nickels for four days--that's forty thousand cash. And on the sixth of the month you =
can
count on twenty thousand more from the Water Company." He shrugged his
shoulders. "Take it or l=
eave
it. Them's my terms."
"It's dog eat
dog, and I ain't overlooking any meat that's floating around," Daylight
proclaimed that afternoon to Hegan; and Simon Dolliver went the way of the
unfortunate in the Great Panic who were caught with plenty of paper and no
money.
Daylight's shifts=
and
devices were amazing. Nothing
however large or small, passed his keen sight unobserved. The strain he was
under was terrific. He no lon=
ger
ate lunch. The days were too =
short,
and his noon hours and his office were as crowded as at any other time. By the end of the day he was exhau=
sted,
and, as never before, he sought relief behind his wall of alcoholic
inhibition. Straight to his h=
otel
he was driven, and straight to his rooms he went, where immediately was mix=
ed for
him the first of a series of double Martinis. By dinner, his brain was well clou=
ded
and the panic forgotten. By
bedtime, with the assistance of Scotch whiskey, he was full--not violently =
nor uproariously
full, nor stupefied, but merely well under the influence of a pleasant and =
mild
anesthetic.
Next morning he a=
woke
with parched lips and mouth, and with sensations of heaviness in his head w=
hich
quickly passed away. By eight o'clock he was at his desk, buckled down to t=
he
fight, by ten o'clock on his personal round of the banks, and after that,
without a moment's cessation, till nightfall, he was handling the knotty
tangles of industry, finance, and human nature that crowded upon him. And with nightfall it was back to =
the
hotel, the double Martinis and the Scotch; and this was his program day aft=
er
day until the days ran into weeks.
Though Daylight
appeared among his fellows hearty voiced, inexhaustible, spilling over with
energy and vitality, deep down he was a very weary man. And sometime under the liquor drug,
snatches of wisdom came to him far more lucidity than in his sober moments,=
as,
for instance, one night, when he sat on the edge of the bed with one shoe in
his hand and meditated on Dede's aphorism to the effect that he could not s=
leep
in more than one bed at a time.
Still holding the shoe, he looked at the array of horsehair bridles =
on
the walls. Then, carrying the=
shoe,
he got up and solemnly counted them, journeying into the two adjoining room=
s to
complete the tale. Then he ca=
me
back to the bed and gravely addressed his shoe:--
"The little
woman's right. Only one bed a=
t a
time. One hundred and forty h=
air
bridles, and nothing doing with ary one of them. One bridle at a time! I can't ride one horse at a time.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> Poor old Bob. I'd better be sending you out to
pasture. Thirty million dolla=
rs,
and a hundred million or nothing in sight, and what have I got to show for =
it? There's lots of things money can't
buy. It can't buy the little =
woman. It can't buy capacity. What's the good of thirty millions=
when I
ain't got room for more than a quart of cocktails a day? If I had a hundred-quart-cocktail
thirst, it'd be different. Bu=
t one
quart--one measly little quart!
Here I am, a thirty times over millionaire, slaving harder every day
than any dozen men that work for me, and all I get is two meals that don't
taste good, one bed, a quart of Martini, and a hundred and forty hair bridl=
es
to look at on the wall."
He stared around =
at
the array disconsolately. &qu=
ot;Mr.
Shoe, I'm sizzled. Good night."
Far worse than the
controlled, steady drinker is the solitary drinker, and it was this that
Daylight was developing into. He
rarely drank sociably any more, but in his own room, by himself. Returning
weary from each day's unremitting effort, he drugged himself to sleep, know=
ing
that on the morrow he would rise up with a dry and burning mouth and repeat=
the
program.
But the country d=
id
not recover with its wonted elasticity. Money did not become freer, though =
the
casual reader of Daylight's newspapers, as well as of all the other owned a=
nd
subsidised newspapers in the country, could only have concluded that the mo=
ney
tightness was over and that the panic was past history. All public utterances were cheery =
and
optimistic, but privately many of the utters were in desperate straits. The scenes enacted in the privacy =
of
Daylight's office, and of the meetings of his boards of directors, would ha=
ve
given the lie to the editorials in his newspapers; as, for instance, when he
addressed the big stockholders in the Sierra and Salvador Power Company, th=
e United
Water Company, and the several other stock companies:--
"You've got =
to
dig. You've got a good thing,=
but
you'll have to sacrifice in order to hold on. There ain't no use spouting hard t=
imes explanations. Don't I know the hard times is on?=
Ain't that what you're here for? As I said before, you've got to di=
g. I
run the majority stock, and it's come to a case of assess. It's that or sma=
sh. If
ever I start going you won't know what struck you, I'll smash that hard.
The big wholesale
supply houses, the caterers for his hotels, and all the crowd that incessan=
tly
demanded to be paid, had their hot half-hours with him. He summoned them to his office and
displayed his latest patterns of can and can't and will and won't.
"By God, you= 've got to carry me!" he told them. "If you think this is a pleasant little game of parlor whist and that you can quit and go home whenever you want, you're plumb wrong. Look here, Watkins, you remarked f= ive minutes ago that you wouldn't stand for it. Now let me tell you a few. You're going to stand for it and k= eep on standin's for it. You're goin= g to continue supplying me and taking my paper until the pinch is over. How you're going to do it is your trouble, not mine. You rememb= er what I did to Klinkner and the Altamont Trust Company? I know the inside of your business better than you do yourself, and if you try to drop me I'll smash you. Even if I'd be going to smash myse= lf, I'd find a minute to turn on you and bring you down with me. It's sink or swim for all of us, a= nd I reckon you'll find it to your interest to keep me on top the puddle."<= o:p>
Perhaps his bitte=
rest
fight was with the stockholders of the United Water Company, for it was
practically the whole of the gross earnings of this company that he voted to
lend to himself and used to bolster up his wide battle front. Yet he never pushed his arbitrary =
rule
too far. Compelling sacrifice from the men whose fortunes were tied up with
his, nevertheless when any one of them was driven to the wall and was in di=
re
need, Daylight was there to help him back into the line. Only a strong man could have saved=
so
complicated a situation in such time of stress, and Daylight was that man.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> He turned and twisted, schemed and=
devised,
bludgeoned and bullied the weaker ones, kept the faint-hearted in the fight,
and had no mercy on the deserter.
And in the end, w=
hen
early summer was on, everything began to mend. Came a day when Daylight did=
the
unprecedented. He left the of=
fice
an hour earlier than usual, and for the reason that for the first time since
the panic there was not an item of work waiting to be done. He dropped into Hegan's private of=
fice,
before leaving, for a chat, and as he stood up to go, he said:--
"Hegan, we're
all hunkadory. We're pulling =
out of
the financial pawnshop in fine shape, and we'll get out without leaving one=
unredeemed
pledge behind. The worst is o=
ver,
and the end is in sight. Just a tight rein for a couple more weeks, just a =
bit
of a pinch or a flurry or so now and then, and we can let go and spit on our
hands."
For once he varied
his program. Instead of going
directly to his hotel, he started on a round of the bars and cafes, drinkin=
g a
cocktail here and a cocktail there, and two or three when he encountered me=
n he
knew. It was after an hour or=
so of
this that he dropped into the bar of the Parthenon for one last drink before
going to dinner. By this time=
all
his being was pleasantly warmed by the alcohol, and he was in the most geni=
al
and best of spirits. At the c=
orner
of the bar several young men were up to the old trick of resting their elbo=
ws
and attempting to force each other's hands down. One broad-shouldered young giant n=
ever
removed his elbow, but put down every hand that came against him. Daylight was interested.
"It's
Slosson," the barkeeper told him, in answer to his query. "He's t=
he
heavy-hammer thrower at the U.C.
Broke all records this year, and the world's record on top of it.
Daylight nodded a=
nd
went over to him, placing his own arm in opposition.
"I'd like to=
go
you a flutter, son, on that proposition," he said.
The young man lau=
ghed
and locked hands with him; and to Daylight's astonishment it was his own ha=
nd
that was forced down on the bar.
"Hold on,&qu=
ot;
he muttered. "Just one m=
ore
flutter. I reckon I wasn't ju=
st
ready that time."
Again the hands
locked. It happened quickly.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> The offensive attack of Daylight's
muscles slipped instantly into defense, and, resisting vainly, his hand was
forced over and down. Dayligh=
t was
dazed. It had been no trick.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> The skill was equal, or, if anythi=
ng,
the superior skill had been his.
Strength, sheer strength, had done it. He called for the drinks, and, sti=
ll
dazed and pondering, held up his own arm, and looked at it as at some new
strange thing. He did not kno=
w this
arm. It certainly was not the=
arm
he had carried around with him all the years. The old arm? Why, it would have been play to tu=
rn
down that young husky's. But =
this
arm--he continued to look at it with such dubious perplexity as to bring a =
roar
of laughter from the young men.
This laughter aro=
used
him. He joined in it at first=
, and
then his face slowly grew grave. He
leaned toward the hammer-thrower.
"Son," =
he
said, "let me whisper a secret.
Get out of here and quit drinking before you begin."
The young fellow
flushed angrily, but Daylight held steadily on.
"You listen =
to
your dad, and let him say a few.
I'm a young man myself, only I ain't. Let me tell you, several years ago=
for
me to turn your hand down would have been like committing assault and batte=
ry on
a kindergarten."
Slosson looked his
incredulity, while the others grinned and clustered around Daylight
encouragingly.
"Son, I ain't
given to preaching. This is t=
he
first time I ever come to the penitent form, and you put me there yourself-=
-hard.
I've seen a few in my time, and I ain't fastidious so as you can notice
it. But let me tell you right=
not
that I'm worth the devil alone knows how many millions, and that I'd sure g=
ive
it all, right here on the bar, to turn down your hand. Which means I'd give the whole sho=
oting
match just to be back where I was before I quit sleeping under the stars and
come into the hen-coops of cities to drink cocktails and lift up my feet an=
d ride.
Son, that's that's the matter with me, and that's the way I feel about it.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> The game ain't worth the candle. You just take care of yourself, an=
d roll
my advice over once in a while.
Good night."
He turned and lur=
ched
out of the place, the moral effect of his utterance largely spoiled by the =
fact
that he was so patently full while he uttered it.
Still in a daze, Daylight made to his hotel, accomplished his dinner, and prepared for bed.<= o:p>
"The damned
young whippersnapper!" he muttered.&n=
bsp;
"Put my hand down easy as you please. My hand!"
He held up the offending member and regarded it with stupid wonder. The hand that had never been beaten! The hand that ha= d made the Circle City giants wince! And a kid from college, with a laugh on his face, had put it down--twice! Dede was right. He was not the same man. The situation would bear more seri= ous looking into than he had ever given it.&nb= sp; But this was not the time. In the morning, after a good sleep, he would give it consideration.<= o:p>
Daylight awoke wi=
th
the familiar parched mouth and lips and throat, took a long drink of water =
from
the pitcher beside his bed, and gathered up the train of thought where he h=
ad
left it the night before. He reviewed the easement of the financial
strain. Things were mending at
last. While the going was sti=
ll
rough, the greatest dangers were already past. As he had told Hegan, a tight rein=
and
careful playing were all that was needed now. Flurries and dangers were bound to=
come,
but not so grave as the ones they had already weathered. He had been hit hard, but he was c=
oming
through without broken bones, which was more than Simon Dolliver and many
another could say. And not on=
e of his
business friends had been ruined.
He had compelled them to stay in line to save himself, and they had =
been
saved as well.
His mind moved on=
to
the incident at the corner of the bar of the Parthenon, when the young athl=
ete
had turned his hand down. He =
was no
longer stunned by the event, but he was shocked and grieved, as only a stro=
ng
man can be, at this passing of his strength. And the issue was too clear for hi=
m to
dodge, even with himself. He =
knew
why his hand had gone down. N=
ot
because he was an old man. He=
was
just in the first flush of his prime, and, by rights, it was the hand of th=
e hammer-thrower
which should have gone down.
Daylight knew that he had taken liberties with himself. He had always looked upon this str=
ength of
his as permanent, and here, for years, it had been steadily oozing from
him. As he had diagnosed it, =
he had
come in from under the stars to roost in the coops of cities. He had almost forgotten how to wal=
k. He
had lifted up his feet and been ridden around in automobiles, cabs and
carriages, and electric cars. He
had not exercised, and he had dry-rotted his muscles with alcohol.
And was it worth
it? What did all his money me=
an
after all? Dede was right. It=
could
buy him no more than one bed at a time, and at the same time it made him the
abjectest of slaves. It tied =
him
fast. He was tied by it right
now. Even if he so desired, he
could not lie abed this very day.
His money called him. =
The
office whistle would soon blow, and he must answer it. The early sunshine w=
as
streaming through his window--a fine day for a ride in the hills on Bob, wi=
th
Dede beside him on her Mab. Yet all his millions could not buy him this one
day. One of those flurries might come along, and he had to be on the spot t=
o meet
it. Thirty millions! And they were powerless to persuad=
e Dede
to ride on Mab--Mab, whom he had bought, and who was unused and growing fat=
on
pasture. What were thirty mil=
lions
when they could not buy a man a ride with the girl he loved? Thirty millions!--that made him co=
me
here and go there, that rode upon him like so many millstones, that destroy=
ed
him while they grew, that put their foot down and prevented him from winning
this girl who worked for ninety dollars a month.
Which was
better? he asked himself. All this was Dede's own thought. I=
t was
what she had meant when she prayed he would go broke. He held up his offending right arm=
. It wasn't the same old arm. Of course she could not love that =
arm
and that body as she had loved the strong, clean arm and body of years
before. He didn't like that a=
rm and
body himself. A young
whippersnapper had been able to take liberties with it. It had gone back on him. He sat up suddenly. No, by God, he had gone back on it=
! He
had gone back on himself. He =
had
gone back on Dede. She was ri=
ght, a
thousand times right, and she had sense enough to know it, sense enough to
refuse to marry a money slave with a whiskey-rotted carcass.
He got out of bed=
and
looked at himself in the long mirror on the wardrobe door. He wasn't pretty. The old-time lean cheeks were gone=
. These
were heavy, seeming to hang down by their own weight. He looked for the lines of cruelty=
Dede
had spoken of, and he found them, and he found the harshness in the eyes as
well, the eyes that were muddy now after all the cocktails of the night bef=
ore,
and of the months and years before.
He looked at the clearly defined pouches that showed under his eyes,=
and
they've shocked him. He rolle=
d up
the sleeve of his pajamas. No
wonder the hammer-thrower had put his hand down. Those weren't muscles. A rising tide of fat had submerged
them. He stripped off the paj=
ama
coat. Again he was shocked, t=
his
time but the bulk of his body. It
wasn't pretty. The lean stoma=
ch had
become a paunch. The ridged m=
uscles
of chest and shoulders and abdomen had broken down into rolls of flesh.
He sat down on the
bed, and through his mind drifted pictures of his youthful excellence, of t=
he
hardships he had endured over other men, of the Indians and dogs he had run=
off
their legs in the heart-breaking days and nights on the Alaskan trail, of t=
he
feats of strength that had made him king over a husky race of frontiersmen.=
And this was
age. Then there drifted acros=
s the
field of vision of his mind's eye the old man he had encountered at Glen El=
len,
corning up the hillside through the fires of sunset, white-headed and
white-bearded, eighty-four, in his hand the pail of foaming milk and in his
face all the warm glow and content of the passing summer day. That had been age. "Yes siree, eighty-four, and =
spryer
than most," he could hear the old man say. "And I ain't loafed none. I w=
alked
across the Plains with an ox-team and fit Injuns in '51, and I was a family=
man
then with seven youngsters."
Next he remembered
the old woman of the chaparral, pressing grapes in her mountain clearing; a=
nd
Ferguson, the little man who had scuttled into the road like a rabbit, the
one-time managing editor of a great newspaper, who was content to live in t=
he
chaparral along with his spring of mountain water and his hand-reared and
manicured fruit trees. Ferguson had solved a problem. A weakling and an alcoholic, he ha=
d run away
from the doctors and the chicken-coop of a city, and soaked up health like a
thirsty sponge. Well, Daylight
pondered, if a sick man whom the doctors had given up could develop into a
healthy farm laborer, what couldn't a merely stout man like himself do under
similar circumstances? He cau=
ght a
vision of his body with all its youthful excellence returned, and thought of
Dede, and sat down suddenly on the bed, startled by the greatness of the id=
ea
that had come to him.
He did not sit
long. His mind, working in its
customary way, like a steel trap, canvassed the idea in all its bearings. It was big--bigger than anything h=
e had
faced before. And he faced it
squarely, picked it up in his two hands and turned it over and around and
looked at it. The simplicity of it delighted him. He chuckled over it, reached his d=
ecision,
and began to dress. Midway in the dressing he stopped in order to use the
telephone.
Dede was the firs=
t he
called up.
"Don't come =
to
the office this morning," he said.&nb=
sp;
"I'm coming out to see you for a moment." He called up others. He ordered his motor-car. To Jones=
he
gave instructions for the forwarding of Bob and Wolf to Glen Ellen. Hegan he surprised by asking him t=
o look
up the deed of the Glen Ellen ranch and make out a new one in Dede Mason's
name. "Who?" Hegan demanded.&nbs=
p;
"Dede Mason," Daylight replied imperturbably the 'phone mu=
st
be indistinct this morning.
"D-e-d-e M-a-s o-n. Got
it?"
Half an hour late=
r he
was flying out to Berkeley. A=
nd for
the first time the big red car halted directly before the house. Dede offer=
ed
to receive him in the parlor, but he shook his head and nodded toward her r=
ooms.
"In there,&q=
uot;
he said. "No other place=
would
suit."
As the door close=
d,
his arms went out and around her.
Then he stood with his hands on her shoulders and looking down into =
her
face.
"Dede, if I =
tell
you, flat and straight, that I'm going up to live on that ranch at Glen Ell=
en,
that I ain't taking a cent with me, that I'm going to scratch for every bit=
e I
eat, and that I ain't going to play ary a card at the business game again, =
will
you come along with me?"
She gave a glad
little cry, and he nestled her in closely.=
But the next moment she had thrust herself out from him to the old
position at arm's length.
"I--I don't
understand," she said breathlessly.
"And you ain=
't
answered my proposition, though I guess no answer is necessary. We're just going to get married ri=
ght
away and start. I've sent Bob=
and
Wolf along already. When will=
you
be ready?"
Dede could not
forbear to smile. "My, w=
hat a
hurricane of a man it is. I'm quite blown away. And you haven't explained a word to
me."
Daylight smiled
responsively.
"Look here,
Dede, this is what card-sharps call a show-down. No more philandering and frills and
long-distance sparring between you and me. We're just going to talk straight
out in meeting--the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. Now you answer some questions for =
me,
and then I'll answer yours."
He paused. "Well, I've got only one ques=
tion
after all: Do you love me enough to marry me?"
"But--"=
she
began.
"No buts,&qu=
ot;
he broke in sharply. "Th=
is is
a show-down. When I say marry=
, I
mean what I told you at first, that we'd go up and live on the ranch. Do you love me enough for that?&qu=
ot;
She looked at him=
for
a moment, then her lids dropped, and all of her seemed to advertise consent=
.
"Come on, th=
en,
let's start." The muscle=
s of
his legs tensed involuntarily as if he were about to lead her to the door.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> "My auto's waiting outside. There's nothing to delay excepting
getting on your hat."
He bent over her.
"I reckon it's allowable," he said, as he kissed her.
It was a long
embrace, and she was the first to speak.
"You haven't
answered my questions. How is=
this
possible? How can you leave y=
our
business? Has anything happen=
ed?"
"No, nothing=
's
happened yet, but it's going to, blame quick. I've taken your preaching to
heart, and I've come to the penitent form.=
You are my Lord God, and I'm sure going to serve you. The rest can go to thunder. You were sure right. I've been the slave to my money, a=
nd since
I can't serve two masters I'm letting the money slide. I'd sooner have you than all the m=
oney
in the world, that's all."
Again he held her closely in his arms. "And I've sure got you, Dede.=
I've sure got you.
"And I want =
to
tell you a few more. I've tak=
en my
last drink. You're marrying a whiskey-soak, but your husband won't be that.
He's going to grow into another man so quick you won't know him. A couple of
months from now, up there in Glen Ellen, you'll wake up some morning and fi=
nd you've
got a perfect stranger in the house with you, and you'll have to get introd=
uced
to him all over again. You'll=
say,
'I'm Mrs. Harnish, who are you?' And I'll say, 'I'm Elam Harnish's younger
brother. I've just arrived fr=
om
Alaska to attend the funeral.' 'What funeral?' you'll say. And I'll say, 'Why, the funeral of=
that
good-for-nothing, gambling, whiskey-drinking Burning Daylight--the man that
died of fatty degeneration of the heart from sitting in night and day at the
business game 'Yes ma'am,' I'll say, 'he's sure a gone 'coon, but I've come=
to take
his place and make you happy. And
now, ma'am, if you'll allow me, I'll just meander down to the pasture and m=
ilk
the cow while you're getting breakfast.'"
Again he caught h=
er
hand and made as if to start with her for the door. When she resisted, he b=
ent
and kissed her again and again.
"I'm sure hu=
ngry
for you, little woman," he murmured "You make thirty millions look
like thirty cents."
"Do sit down=
and
be sensible," she urged, her cheeks flushed, the golden light in her e=
yes
burning more golden than he had ever seen it before.
But Daylight was =
bent
on having his way, and when he sat down it was with her beside him and his =
arm
around her.
"'Yes, ma'am=
,'
I'll say, 'Burning Daylight was a pretty good cuss, but it's better that he=
's
gone. He quit rolling up in h=
is
rabbit-skins and sleeping in the snow, and went to living in a
chicken-coop. He lifted up hi=
s legs
and quit walking and working, and took to existing on Martini cocktails and
Scotch whiskey. He thought he=
loved
you, ma'am, and he did his best, but he loved his cocktails more, and he lo=
ved
his money more, and himself more, and 'most everything else more than he did
you.' And then I'll say, 'Ma'am, you just run your eyes over me and see how
different I am. I ain't got a
cocktail thirst, and all the money I got is a dollar and forty cents and I'=
ve
got to buy a new ax, the last one being plumb wore out, and I can love you =
just
about eleven times as much as your first husband did. You see, ma'am, he went all to fat=
. And there ain't ary ounce of fat o=
n me.'
And I'll roll up my sleeve and show you, and say, 'Mrs. Harnish, after havi=
ng
experience with being married to that old fat money-bags, do you-all mind
marrying a slim young fellow like me?' And you'll just wipe a tear away for
poor old Daylight, and kind of lean toward me with a willing expression in =
your
eye, and then I'll blush maybe some, being a young fellow, and put my arm
around you, like that, and then--why, then I'll up and marry my brother's
widow, and go out and do the chores while she's cooking a bite to eat."=
;
"But you hav=
en't
answered my questions," she reproached him, as she emerged, rosy and
radiant, from the embrace that had accompanied the culmination of his narra=
tive.
"Now just wh=
at
do you want to know?" he asked.
"I want to k=
now
how all this is possible? How=
you
are able to leave your business at a time like this? What you meant by saying that some=
thing
was going to happen quickly?
I--" She hesitated and blushed. "I answered your question,=
you
know."
"Let's go and
get married," he urged, all the whimsicality of his utterance duplicat=
ed
in his eyes. "You know I=
've
got to make way for that husky young brother of mine, and I ain't got long =
to
live." She made an impat=
ient
moue, and he continued seriously.
"You see, it=
's
like this, Dede. I've been wo=
rking
like forty horses ever since this blamed panic set in, and all the time som=
e of
those ideas you'd given me were getting ready to sprout. Well, they sproute=
d this
morning, that's all. I starte=
d to
get up, expecting to go to the office as usual. But I didn't go to the office. All that sprouting took place ther=
e and
then. The sun was shining in =
the
window, and I knew it was a fine day in the hills. And I knew I wanted to ride in the=
hills
with you just about thirty million times more than I wanted to go to the
office. And I knew all the ti=
me it
was impossible. And why? Beca=
use of
the office. The office wouldn=
't let
me. All my money reared right=
up on
its hind legs and got in the way and wouldn't let me. It's a way that blamed money has of
getting in the way. You know that yourself.
"And then I =
made
up my mind that I was to the dividing of the ways. One way led to the
office. The other way led to =
Berkeley.
And I took the Berkeley road. I'm
never going to set foot in the office again. That's all gone, finished, over
and done with, and I'm letting it slide clean to smash and then some. My mind's set on this. You see, I've got religion, and it=
's
sure the old-time religion; it's love and you, and it's older than the olde=
st
religion in the world. It's I=
T,
that's what it is--IT, with a capital I-T."
She looked at him
with a sudden, startled expression.
"You
mean--?" she began.
"I mean just
that. I'm wiping the slate
clean. I'm letting it all go =
to
smash. When them thirty milli=
on
dollars stood up to my face and said I couldn't go out with you in the hills
to-day, I knew the time had come for me to put my foot down. And I'm putting it down. I've got you, and my strength to w=
ork
for you, and that little ranch in Sonoma.&=
nbsp;
That's all I want, and that's all I'm going to save out, along with =
Bob
and Wolf, a suit case and a hundred and forty hair bridles. All the rest go=
es,
and good riddance. It's that =
much
junk."
But Dede was
insistent.
"Then this--=
this
tremendous loss is all unnecessary?" she asked.
"Just what I
haven't been telling you. It =
IS
necessary. If that money thin=
ks it
can stand up right to my face and say I can't go riding with you--"
"No, no; be
serious," Dede broke in.
"I don't mean that, and you know it. What I want to know is, from a
standpoint of business, is this failure necessary?"
He shook his head=
.
"You bet it
isn't necessary. That's the p=
oint
of it. I'm not letting go of =
it because
I'm licked to a standstill by the panic and have got to let go. I'm firing it out when I've licked=
the
panic and am winning, hands down.
That just shows how little I think of it. It's you that counts, little woman=
, and
I make my play accordingly."
But she drew away
from his sheltering arms.
"You are mad,
Elam."
"Call me that
again," he murmured ecstatically.&nbs=
p;
"It's sure sweeter than the chink of millions."
All this she igno=
red.
"It's
madness. You don't know what =
you
are doing--"
"Oh, yes, I
do," he assured her. &qu=
ot;I'm
winning the dearest wish of my heart.
Why, your little finger is worth more--"
"Do be sensi=
ble
for a moment."
"I was never
more sensible in my lie. I kn=
ow
what I want, and I'm going to get it.
I want you and the open air.
I want to get my foot off the paving-stones and my ear away from the
telephone. I want a little ranch-house in one of the prettiest bits of coun=
try
God ever made, and I want to do the chores around that ranch-house--milk co=
ws, and
chop wood, and curry horses, and plough the ground, and all the rest of it;=
and
I want you there in the ranch-house with me. I'm plumb tired of everything else=
, and
clean wore out. And I'm sure =
the luckiest
man alive, for I've got what money can't buy. I've got you, and thirty millions
couldn't buy you, nor three thousand millions, nor thirty cents--"
A knock at the do=
or
interrupted him, and he was left to stare delightedly at the Crouched Venus=
and
on around the room at Dede's dainty possessions, while she answered the tel=
ephone.
"It is Mr.
Hegan," she said, on returning.
"He is holding the line. He says it is important."
Daylight shook his
head and smiled.
"Please tell=
Mr.
Hegan to hang up. I'm done wi=
th the
office and I don't want to hear anything about anything."
A minute later she
was back again.
"He refuses =
to
hang up. He told me to tell y=
ou
that Unwin is in the office now, waiting to see you, and Harrison, too. Mr. Hegan said that Grimshaw and
Hodgkins are in trouble. That=
it
looks as if they are going to break. And he said something about
protection."
It was startling
information. Both Unwin and
Harrison represented big banking corporations, and Daylight knew that if the
house of Grimshaw and Hodgkins went it would precipitate a number of failur=
es
and start a flurry of serious dimensions.&=
nbsp;
But Daylight smiled, and shook his head, and mimicked the stereotyped
office tone of voice as he said:--
"Miss Mason,=
you
will kindly tell Mr. Hegan that there is nothing doing and to hang up."=
;
"But you can=
't
do this," she pleaded.
"Watch me,&q=
uot;
he grimly answered.
"Elam!"=
"Say it
again," he cried. "=
Say it
again, and a dozen Grimshaws and Hodgkins can smash!"
He caught her by =
the
hand and drew her to him.
"You let Heg=
an
hang on to that line till he's tired.
We can't be wasting a second on him on a day like this. He's only in love with books and t=
hings,
but I've got a real live woman in my arms that's loving me all the time she=
's
kicking over the traces."
"But I know
something of the fight you have been making," Dede contended. "If you stop now, all the wor=
k you
have done, everything, will be destroyed.&=
nbsp;
You have no right to do it.
You can't do it."
Daylight was
obdurate. He shook his head a=
nd
smiled tantalizingly.
"Nothing wil=
l be
destroyed, Dede, nothing. You=
don't
understand this business game. It's
done on paper. Don't you see?=
Where's the gold I dug out of
Klondike? Why, it's in
twenty-dollar gold pieces, in gold watches, in wedding rings. No matter what happens to me, the =
twenty-dollar
pieces, the watches, and the wedding rings remain. Suppose I died right
now. It wouldn't affect the g=
old
one iota. It's sure the same =
with
this present situation. All I=
stand
for is paper. I've got the paper for thousands of acres of land. All right. Burn up the paper, and burn me alo=
ng
with it. The land remains, do=
n't
it? The rain falls on it, the=
seeds
sprout in it, the trees grow out of it, the houses stand on it, the electric
cars run over it. It's paper =
that business
is run on. I lose my paper, o=
r I
lose my life, it's all the same; it won't alter one grain of sand in all th=
at
land, or twist one blade of grass around sideways.
"Nothing is
going to be lost--not one pile out of the docks, not one railroad spike, not
one ounce of steam out of the gauge of a ferry-boat. The cars will go on running, wheth=
er I
hold the paper or somebody else holds it.&=
nbsp;
The tide has set toward Oakland.&nb=
sp;
People are beginning to pour in.&nb=
sp;
We're selling building lots again.&=
nbsp;
There is no stopping that tide.&nbs=
p;
No matter what happens to me or the paper, them three hundred thousa=
nd
folks are coming in the same. And
there'll be cars to carry them around, and houses to hold them, and good wa=
ter
for them to drink and electricity to give them light, and all the rest.&quo=
t;
By this time Hegan
had arrived in an automobile. The
honk of it came in through the open window, and they saw, it stop alongside=
the
big red machine. In the car w=
ere
Unwin and Harrison, while Jones sat with the chauffeur.
"I'll see
Hegan," Daylight told Dede.
"There's no need for the rest. They can wait in the machine.&qu=
ot;
"Is he
drunk?" Hegan whispered to Dede at the door.
She shook her head
and showed him in.
"Good mornin=
g,
Larry," was Daylight's greeting.
"Sit down and rest your feet.&=
nbsp;
You sure seem to be in a flutter."
"I am,"=
the
little Irishman snapped back.
"Grimshaw and Hodgkins are going to smash if something isn't do=
ne
quick. Why didn't you come to=
the
office? What are you going to=
do
about it?"
"Nothing,&qu=
ot;
Daylight drawled lazily.
"Except let them smash, I guess--"
"But--"=
"I've had no
dealings with Grimshaw and Hodgkins.
I don't owe them anything.
Besides, I'm going to smash myself.=
Look here, Larry, you know me.
You know when I make up my mind I mean it. Well, I've sure made up my
mind. I'm tired of the whole =
game.
I'm letting go of it as fast as I can, and a smash is the quickest way to l=
et
go."
Hegan stared at h=
is
chief, then passed his horror-stricken gaze on to Dede, who nodded in sympa=
thy.
"So let her
smash, Larry," Daylight went on.
"All you've got to do is to protect yourself and all our
friends. Now you listen to me=
while
I tell you what to do. Everyt=
hing
is in good shape to do it. No=
body must
get hurt. Everybody that stoo=
d by
me must come through without damage.
All the back wages and salaries must be paid pronto. All the money I've switched away f=
rom
the water company, the street cars, and the ferries must be switched back.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> And you won't get hurt yourself no=
ne. Every company you got stock in wil=
l come
through--"
"You are cra=
zy,
Daylight!" the little lawyer cried out. "This is all babbling lunacy.=
What is the matter with you? You haven't been eating a drug or
something?"
"I sure
have!" Daylight smiled reply.
"And I'm now coughing it up. I'm sick of living in a city and p=
laying
business--I'm going off to the sunshine, and the country, and the green
grass. And Dede, here, is goi=
ng
with me. So you've got the ch=
ance
to be the first to congratulate me."
"Congratulate
the--the devil!" Hegan spluttered.&nb=
sp;
"I'm not going to stand for this sort of foolishness."
"Oh, yes, you
are; because if you don't there'll be a bigger smash and some folks will mo=
st
likely get hurt. You're worth=
a
million or more yourself, now, and if you listen to me you come through wit=
h a
whole skin. I want to get hur=
t, and
get hurt to the limit. That's=
what
I'm looking for, and there's no man or bunch of men can get between me and =
what
I'm looking for. Savvee, Hegan?
Savvee?"
"What have y=
ou
done to him?" Hegan snarled at Dede.
"Hold on the=
re,
Larry." For the first ti=
me
Daylight's voice was sharp, while all the old lines of cruelty in his face
stood forth. "Miss Mason=
is
going to be my wife, and while I don't mind your talking to her all you wan=
t,
you've got to use a different tone of voice or you'll be heading for a
hospital, which will sure be an unexpected sort of smash. And let me tell you one other
thing. This-all is my doing. =
She
says I'm crazy, too."
Hegan shook his h=
ead
in speechless sadness and continued to stare.
"There'll be
temporary receiverships, of course," Daylight advised; "but they
won't bother none or last long.
What you must do immediately is to save everybody--the men that have
been letting their wages ride with me, all the creditors, and all the conce=
rns
that have stood by. There's the wad of land that New Jersey crowd has been
dickering for. They'll take all of a couple of thousand acres and will close
now if you give them half a chance.
That Fairmount section is the cream of it, and they'll dig up as hig=
h as
a thousand dollars an acre for a part of it. That'll help out some. That five-hundred acre tract beyon=
d, you'll
be lucky if they pay two hundred an acre."
Dede, who had been
scarcely listening, seemed abruptly to make up her mind, and stepped forward
where she confronted the two men. Her face was pale, but set with
determination, so that Daylight, looking at it, was reminded of the day when
she first rode Bob.
"Wait,"=
she
said. "I want to say
something. Elam, if you do th=
is insane
thing, I won't marry you. I r=
efuse
to marry you."
Hegan, in spite of
his misery, gave her a quick, grateful look.
"I'll take my
chance on that," Daylight began.
"Wait!"=
she
again interrupted. "And =
if you
don't do this thing, I will marry you."
"Let me get =
this
proposition clear." Dayl=
ight
spoke with exasperating slowness and deliberation. "As I understand it, if I keep
right on at the business game, you'll sure marry me? You'll marry me if I k=
eep
on working my head off and drinking Martinis?"
After each questi=
on
he paused, while she nodded an affirmation.
"And you'll
marry me right away?"
"Yes."<= o:p>
"To-day? Now?"
"Yes."<= o:p>
He pondered for a
moment.
"No, little
woman, I won't do it. It won't
work, and you know it yourself. I
want you--all of you; and to get it I'll have to give you all of myself, and
there'll be darn little of myself left over to give if I stay with the busi=
ness
game. Why, Dede, with you on =
the
ranch with me, I'm sure of you--and of myself. I'm sure of you, anyway. You can talk will or won't all you=
want,
but you're sure going to marry me just the same. And now, Larry, you'd better be
going. I'll be at the hotel i=
n a
little while, and since I'm not going a step into the office again, bring a=
ll
papers to sign and the rest over to my rooms. And you can get me on the 'phone t=
here
any time. This smash is going
through. Savvee? I'm quit and
done."
He stood up as a =
sign
for Hegan to go. The latter w=
as
plainly stunned. He also rose to his feet, but stood looking helplessly aro=
und.
"Sheer,
downright, absolute insanity," he muttered.
Daylight put his =
hand
on the other's shoulder.
"Buck up,
Larry. You're always talking =
about
the wonders of human nature, and here I am giving you another sample of it =
and
you ain't appreciating it. I'=
m a
bigger dreamer than you are, that's all, and I'm sure dreaming what's coming
true. It's the biggest, best =
dream
I ever had, and I'm going after it to get it--"
"By losing a=
ll
you've got," Hegan exploded at him.
"Sure--by lo=
sing
all I've got that I don't want. But
I'm hanging on to them hundred and forty hair bridles just the same. Now yo=
u'd
better hustle out to Unwin and Harrison and get on down town. I'll be at the hotel, and you can =
call
me up any time."
He turned to Dede=
as
soon as Hegan was gone, and took her by the hand.
"And now, li=
ttle
woman, you needn't come to the office any more. Consider yourself
discharged. And remember I wa=
s your
employer, so you've got to come to me for recommendation, and if you're not
real good, I won't give you one. In
the meantime, you just rest up and think about what things you want to pack,
because we'll just about have to set up housekeeping on your stuff--leastwa=
ys,
the front part of the house."
"But, Elam, I
won't, I won't! If you do this mad thing I never will marry you."
She attempted to =
take
her hand away, but he closed on it with a protecting, fatherly clasp.
"Will you be
straight and honest? All righ=
t,
here goes. Which would you so=
oner
have--me and the money, or me and the ranch?"
"But--"=
she
began.
"No buts.
She did not answe=
r.
"Me and the
ranch?"
Still she did not
answer, and still he was undisturbed.
"You see, I =
know
your answer, Dede, and there's nothing more to say. Here's where you and I =
quit
and hit the high places for Sonoma.
You make up your mind what you want to pack, and I'll have some men =
out here
in a couple of days to do it for you.
It will be about the last work anybody else ever does for us. You and I will do the unpacking an=
d the
arranging ourselves."
She made a last
attempt.
"Elam, won't=
you
be reasonable? There is time =
to
reconsider. I can telephone d=
own
and catch Mr. Hegan as soon as he reaches the office--"
"Why, I'm the
only reasonable man in the bunch right now," he rejoined. "Look at
me--as calm as you please, and as happy as a king, while they're fluttering
around like a lot of cranky hens whose heads are liable to be cut off."=
;
"I'd cry, if=
I
thought it would do any good," she threatened.
"In which ca=
se I
reckon I'd have to hold you in my arms some more and sort of soothe you dow=
n,"
he threatened back. "And=
now
I'm going to go. It's too bad=
you
got rid of Mab. You could hav=
e sent
her up to the ranch. But see =
you've
got a mare to ride of some sort or other."
As he stood at the
top of the steps, leaving, she said:--
"You needn't
send those men. There will be=
no
packing, because I am not going to marry you."
"I'm not a b=
it
scared," he answered, and went down the steps.
Three days later,
Daylight rode to Berkeley in his red car.&=
nbsp;
It was for the last time, for on the morrow the big machine passed i=
nto
another's possession. It had =
been a
strenuous three days, for his smash had been the biggest the panic had
precipitated in California. T=
he
papers had been filled with it, and a great cry of indignation had gone up =
from
the very men who later found that Daylight had fully protected their intere=
sts. It was these facts, coming slowly =
to
light, that gave rise to the widely repeated charge that Daylight had gone
insane. It was the unanimous
conviction among business men that no sane man could possibly behave in such
fashion. On the other hand, n=
either
his prolonged steady drinking nor his affair with Dede became public, so the
only conclusion attainable was that the wild financier from Alaska had gone
lunatic. And Daylight had gri=
nned
and confirmed the suspicion by refusing to see the reporters.
He halted the
automobile before Dede's door, and met her with his same rushing tactics,
enclosing her in his arms before a word could be uttered. Not until afterward, when she had
recovered herself from him and got him seated, did he begin to speak.
"I've done
it," he announced.
"You've seen the newspapers, of course. I'm plumb cleaned out, =
and
I've just called around to find out what day you feel like starting for Gle=
n Ellen. It'll have to be soon, for it's re=
al
expensive living in Oakland these days.&nb=
sp;
My board at the hotel is only paid to the end of the week, and I can=
't
afford to stay after that. And
beginning with to-morrow I've got to use the street cars, and they sure eat=
up
the nickels."
He paused, and
waited, and looked at her.
Indecision and trouble showed on her face. Then the smile he knew so well beg=
an to
grow on her lips and in her eyes, until she threw back her head and laughed=
in the
old forthright boyish way.
"When are th=
ose
men coming to pack for me?" she asked.
And again she lau=
ghed
and simulated a vain attempt to escape his bearlike arms.
"Dear
Elam," she whispered; "dear Elam." And of herself, for the first time=
, she
kissed him.
She ran her hand
caressingly through his hair.
"Your eyes a=
re
all gold right now," he said.
"I can look in them and tell just how much you love me."
"They have b=
een
all gold for you, Elam, for a long time.&n=
bsp;
I think, on our little ranch, they will always be all gold."
"Your hair h=
as
gold in it, too, a sort of fiery gold." He turned her face suddenly and he=
ld it
between his hands and looked long into her eyes. "And your eyes were full of g=
old
only the other day, when you said you wouldn't marry me."
She nodded and la=
ughed.
"You would h=
ave
your will," she confessed.
"But I couldn't be a party to such madness. All that money was yours, not mine=
. But I was loving you all the time,=
Elam,
for the great big boy you are, breaking the thirty-million toy with which y=
ou
had grown tired of playing. A=
nd
when I said no, I knew all the time it was yes. And I am sure that my eyes were go=
lden
all the time. I had only one =
fear,
and that was that you would fail to lose everything. Because, dear, I knew I should mar=
ry you
anyway, and I did so want just you and the ranch and Bob and Wolf and those
horse-hair bridles. Shall I t=
ell
you a secret? As soon as you =
left,
I telephoned the man to whom I sold Mab."
She hid her face
against his breast for an instant, and then looked at him again, gladly
radiant.
"You see, El=
am,
in spite of what my lips said, my mind was made up then. I--I simply had to marry you. But I was praying you would succee=
d in
losing everything. And so I t=
ried
to find what had become of Mab. But
the man had sold her and did not know what had become of her. You see, I wanted to ride with you=
over
the Glen Ellen hills, on Mab and you on Bob, just as I had ridden with you
through the Piedmont hills."
The disclosure of
Mab's whereabouts trembled on Daylight's lips, but he forbore.
"I'll promise
you a mare that you'll like just as much as Mab," he said.
But Dede shook her
head, and on that one point refused to be comforted.
"Now, I've g=
ot
an idea," Daylight said, hastening to get the conversation on less
perilous ground. "We're
running away from cities, and you have no kith nor kin, so it don't seem
exactly right that we should start off by getting married in a city. So here's the idea: I'll run up to=
the
ranch and get things in shape around the house and give the caretaker his
walking-papers. You follow me=
in a
couple of days, coming on the morning train. I'll have the preacher fixed and w=
aiting. And here's another idea. You bring=
your
riding togs in a suit case. A=
nd as
soon as the ceremony's over, you can go to the hotel and change. Then out you come, and you find me
waiting with a couple of horses, and we'll ride over the landscape so as you
can see the prettiest parts of the ranch the first thing. And she's sure pretty, that ranch.=
And now that it's settled, I'll be
waiting for you at the morning train day after to-morrow."
Dede blushed as s=
he
spoke.
"You are suc=
h a
hurricane."
"Well, ma'am," he drawled, "I sure hate to burn daylight. And you and I = have burned a heap of daylight. We= 've been scandalously extravagant. We might have been married years ago."<= o:p>
Two days later,
Daylight stood waiting outside the little Glen Ellen hotel. The ceremony was over, and he had =
left
Dede to go inside and change into her riding-habit while he brought the
horses. He held them now, Bob=
and
Mab, and in the shadow of the watering-trough Wolf lay and looked on. Already two days of ardent Califor=
nia
sun had touched with new fires the ancient bronze in Daylight's face. But warmer still was the glow that=
came
into his cheeks and burned in his eyes as he saw Dede coming out the door,
riding-whip in hand, clad in the familiar corduroy skirt and leggings of the
old Piedmont days. There was =
warmth
and glow in her own face as she answered his gaze and glanced on past him t=
o the
horses. Then she saw Mab. But her gaze leaped back to the ma=
n.
"Oh, Elam!&q=
uot;
she breathed.
It was almost a
prayer, but a prayer that included a thousand meanings Daylight strove to f=
eign
sheepishness, but his heart was singing too wild a song for mere playfulnes=
s. All things had been in the naming =
of his
name--reproach, refined away by gratitude, and all compounded of joy and lo=
ve.
She stepped forwa=
rd
and caressed the mare, and again turned and looked at the man, and breathed=
:--
"Oh, Elam!&q=
uot;
And all that was =
in
her voice was in her eyes, and in them Daylight glimpsed a profundity deeper
and wider than any speech or thought--the whole vast inarticulate mystery a=
nd
wonder of sex and love.
Again he strove f=
or
playfulness of speech, but it was too great a moment for even love
fractiousness to enter in. Ne=
ither
spoke. She gathered the reins, and, bending, Daylight received her foot in =
his hand. She sprang, as he lifted and gaine=
d the
saddle. The next moment he was mounted and beside her, and, with Wolf slidi=
ng
along ahead in his typical wolf-trot, they went up the hill that led out of
town--two lovers on two chestnut sorrel steeds, riding out and away to
honeymoon through the warm summer day.&nbs=
p;
Daylight felt himself drunken as with wine. He was at the topmost pinnacle of
life. Higher than this no man=
could
climb nor had ever climbed. I=
t was
his day of days, his love-time and his mating-time, and all crowned by this
virginal possession of a mate who had said "Oh, Elam," as she had
said it, and looked at him out of her soul as she had looked.
They cleared the
crest of the hill, and he watched the joy mount in her face as she gazed on=
the
sweet, fresh land. He pointed=
out
the group of heavily wooded knolls across the rolling stretches of ripe gra=
in.
"They're
ours," he said. "And
they're only a sample of the ranch. Wait till you see the big canon. There are 'coons down there, and b=
ack
here on the Sonoma
there are mink. And deer!--wh=
y,
that mountain's sure thick with them, and I reckon we can scare up a mounta=
in-lion
if we want to real hard. And,=
say,
there's a little meadow--well, I ain't going to tell you another word. You wait and see for yourself.&quo=
t;
They turned in at=
the
gate, where the road to the clay-pit crossed the fields, and both sniffed w=
ith delight
as the warm aroma of the ripe hay rose in their nostrils. As on his first visit, the larks w=
ere
uttering their rich notes and fluttering up before the horses until the woo=
ds and
the flower-scattered glades were reached, when the larks gave way to blue j=
ays
and woodpeckers.
"We're on our
land now," he said, as they left the hayfield behind. "It runs ri=
ght
across country over the roughest parts. Just you wait and see."
As on the first d=
ay,
he turned aside from the clay-pit and worked through the woods to the left,
passing the first spring and jumping the horses over the ruined remnants of=
the
stake-and-rider fence. From h=
ere
on, Dede was in an unending ecstasy.
By the spring that gurgled among the redwoods grew another great wild
lily, bearing on its slender stalk the prodigious outburst of white waxen
bells. This time he did not
dismount, but led the way to the deep canon where the stream had cut a pass=
age
among the knolls. He had been=
at
work here, and a steep and slippery horse trail now crossed the creek, so t=
hey
rode up beyond, through the somber redwood twilight, and, farther on, throu=
gh a
tangled wood of oak and madrono.
They came to a small clearing of several acres, where the grain stood
waist high.
"Ours,"
Daylight said.
She bent in her
saddle, plucked a stalk of the ripe grain, and nibbled it between her teeth=
.
"Sweet mount=
ain
hay," she cried. "T=
he
kind Mab likes."
And throughout the
ride she continued to utter cries and ejaculations of surprise and delight.=
"And you nev=
er
told me all this!" she reproached him, as they looked across the little
clearing and over the descending slopes of woods to the great curving sweep=
of
Sonoma Valley.
"Come,"=
he
said; and they turned and went back through the forest shade, crossed the
stream and came to the lily by the spring.
Here, also, where=
the
way led up the tangle of the steep hill, he had cut a rough horse trail.
Below them, as th=
ey
mounted, they glimpsed great gnarled trunks and branches of ancient trees, =
and
above them were similar great gnarled branches.
Dede stopped her
horse and sighed with the beauty of it all.
"It is as if=
we
are swimmers," she said, "rising out of a deep pool of green
tranquillity. Up above is the=
sky
and the sun, but this is a pool, and we are fathoms deep."
They started their
horses, but a dog-tooth violet, shouldering amongst the maidenhair, caught =
her
eye and made her rein in again.
They cleared the
crest and emerged from the pool as if into another world, for now they were=
in
the thicket of velvet-trunked young madronos and looking down the open,
sun-washed hillside, across the nodding grasses, to the drifts of blue and
white nemophilae that carpeted the tiny meadow on either side the tiny
stream. Dede clapped her hand=
s.
"It's sure
prettier than office furniture," Daylight remarked.
"It sure
is," she answered.
And Daylight, who
knew his weakness in the use of the particular word sure, knew that she had
repeated it deliberately and with love.
They crossed the
stream and took the cattle track over the low rocky hill and through the sc=
rub
forest of manzanita, till they emerged on the next tiny valley with its
meadow-bordered streamlet.
"If we don't=
run
into some quail pretty soon, I'll be surprised some," Daylight said.
And as the words =
left
his lips there was a wild series of explosive thrumming as the old quail ar=
ose
from all about Wolf, while the young ones scuttled for safety and disappear=
ed
miraculously before the spectators' very eyes.
He showed her the
hawk's nest he had found in the lightning-shattered top of the redwood, and=
she
discovered a wood-rat's nest which he had not seen before. Next they took the old wood-road a=
nd
came out on the dozen acres of clearing where the wine grapes grew in the
wine-colored volcanic soil. T=
hen
they followed the cow-path through more woods and thickets and scattered
glades, and dropped down the hillside to where the farm-house, poised on the
lip of the big canon, came into view only when they were right upon it.
Dede stood on the
wide porch that ran the length of the house while Daylight tied the
horses. To Dede it was very
quiet. It was the dry, warm,
breathless calm of California midday.
All the world seemed dozing.
From somewhere pigeons were cooing lazily. With a deep sigh of satis=
faction,
Wolf, who had drunk his fill at all the streams along the way, dropped down=
in
the cool shadow of the porch. She
heard the footsteps of Daylight returning, and caught her breath with a qui=
ck intake. He took her hand in his, and, as he
turned the door-knob, felt her hesitate.&n=
bsp;
Then he put his arm around her; the door swung open, and together th=
ey
passed in.
Many persons,
themselves city-bred and city-reared, have fled to the soil and succeeded in
winning great happiness. In s=
uch
cases they have succeeded only by going through a process of savage
disillusionment. But with Dede and Daylight it was different. They had both
been born on the soil, and they knew its naked simplicities and rawer
ways. They were like two pers=
ons,
after far wandering, who had merely come home again. There was less of the unexpected in
their dealings with nature, while theirs was all the delight of
reminiscence. What might appe=
ar sordid
and squalid to the fastidiously reared, was to them eminently wholesome and
natural. The commerce of natu=
re was
to them no unknown and untried trade.
They made fewer mistakes.
They already knew, and it was a joy to remember what they had forgot=
ten.
And another thing
they learned was that it was easier for one who has gorged at the flesh-pot=
s to
content himself with the meagerness of a crust, than for one who has known =
only
the crust.
Not that their li=
fe
was meagre. It was that they =
found
keener delights and deeper satisfactions in little things. Daylight, who had played the game =
in its
biggest and most fantastic aspects, found that here, on the slopes of Sonoma
Mountain, it was still the same old game.&=
nbsp;
Man had still work to perform, forces to combat, obstacles to
overcome. When he experimente=
d in a
small way at raising a few pigeons for market, he found no less zest in cal=
culating
in squabs than formerly when he had calculated in millions. Achievement was no less achievemen=
t,
while the process of it seemed more rational and received the sanction of h=
is reason.
The domestic cat =
that
had gone wild and that preyed on his pigeons, he found, by the comparative
standard, to be of no less paramount menace than a Charles Klinkner in the
field of finance, trying to raid him for several millions. The hawks and weasels and 'coons w=
ere so
many Dowsetts, Lettons, and Guggenhammers that struck at him secretly. The sea of wild vegetation that to=
ssed
its surf against the boundaries of all his clearings and that sometimes cre=
pt
in and flooded in a single week was no mean enemy to contend with and
subdue. His fat-soiled vegeta=
ble-garden
in the nook of hills that failed of its best was a problem of engrossing
importance, and when he had solved it by putting in drain-tile, the joy of =
the
achievement was ever with him. He
never worked in it and found the soil unpacked and tractable without experi=
encing
the thrill of accomplishment.
There was the mat=
ter
of the plumbing. He was enabl=
ed to
purchase the materials through a lucky sale of a number of his hair
bridles. The work he did hims=
elf,
though more than once he was forced to call in Dede to hold tight with a
pipe-wrench. And in the end, =
when
the bath-tub and the stationary tubs were installed and in working order, he
could scarcely tear himself away from the contemplation of what his hands h=
ad
wrought. The first evening, m=
issing
him, Dede sought and found him, lamp in hand, staring with silent glee at t=
he
tubs. He rubbed his hand over=
their
smooth wooden lips and laughed aloud, and was as shamefaced as any boy when=
she
caught him thus secretly exulting in his own prowess.
It was this adven=
ture
in wood-working and plumbing that brought about the building of the little
workshop, where he slowly gathered a collection of loved tools. And he, who in the old days, out o=
f his millions,
could purchase immediately whatever he might desire, learned the new joy of=
the
possession that follows upon rigid economy and desire long delayed. He waited three months before dari=
ng the
extravagance of a Yankee screw-driver, and his glee in the marvelous little
mechanism was so keen that Dede conceived forthright a great idea. For six months she saved her egg-m=
oney,
which was hers by right of allotment, and on his birthday presented him wit=
h a
turning-lathe of wonderful simplicity and multifarious efficiencies. And their mutual delight in the to=
ol,
which was his, was only equalled by their delight in Mab's first foal, which
was Dede's special private property.
It was not until =
the
second summer that Daylight built the huge fireplace that outrivalled
Ferguson's across the valley. For
all these things took time, and Dede and Daylight were not in a hurry. Theirs was not the mistake of the
average city-dweller who flees in ultra-modern innocence to the soil. They did not essay too much. Neith=
er did
they have a mortgage to clear, nor did they desire wealth. They wanted litt=
le
in the way of food, and they had no rent to pay. So they planned unambiguously, res=
erving
their lives for each other and for the compensations of country-dwelling fr=
om
which the average country-dweller is barred. From Ferguson's example, too, they
profited much. Here was a man=
who
asked for but the plainest fare; who ministered to his own simple needs with
his own hands; who worked out as a laborer only when he needed money to buy
books and magazines; and who saw to it that the major portion of his waking
time was for enjoyment. He lo=
ved to
loaf long afternoons in the shade with his books or to be up with the dawn =
and
away over the hills.
On occasion he
accompanied Dede and Daylight on deer hunts through the wild canons and over
the rugged steeps of Hood Mountain, though more often Dede and Daylight were
out alone. This riding was one of their chief joys. Every wrinkle and crease in the hi=
lls
they explored, and they came to know every secret spring and hidden dell in=
the
whole surrounding wall of the valley.
They learned all the trails and cow-paths; but nothing delighted them
more than to essay the roughest and most impossible rides, where they were =
glad
to crouch and crawl along the narrowest deer-runs, Bob and Mab struggling a=
nd
forcing their way along behind.
Back from their rides they brought the seeds and bulbs of wild flowe=
rs
to plant in favoring nooks on the ranch.&n=
bsp;
Along the foot trail which led down the side of the big canon to the
intake of the water-pipe, they established their fernery. It was not a formal affair, and the
ferns were left to themselves. Dede
and Daylight merely introduced new ones from time to time, changing them fr=
om
one wild habitat to another. =
It was
the same with the wild lilac, which Daylight had sent to him from Mendocino
County. It became part of the=
wildness
of the ranch, and, after being helped for a season, was left to its own dev=
ices
they used to gather the seeds of the California poppy and scatter them over
their own acres, so that the orange-colored blossoms spangled the fields of
mountain hay and prospered in flaming drifts in the fence corners and along=
the
edges of the clearings.
Dede, who had a
fondness for cattails, established a fringe of them along the meadow stream,
where they were left to fight it out with the water-cress. And when the latter was threatened=
with
extinction, Daylight developed one of the shaded springs into his water-cre=
ss garden
and declared war upon any invading cattail. On her wedding day Dede had discov=
ered a
long dog-tooth violet by the zigzag trail above the redwood spring, and here
she continued to plant more and more.
The open hillside above the tiny meadow became a colony of Mariposa
lilies. This was due mainly to her efforts, while Daylight, who rode with a=
short-handled
ax on his saddle-bow, cleared the little manzanita wood on the rocky hill of
all its dead and dying and overcrowded weaklings.
They did not labo=
r at
these tasks. Nor were they
tasks. Merely in passing, they
paused, from time to time, and lent a hand to nature. These flowers and shr=
ubs
grew of themselves, and their presence was no violation of the natural
environment. The man and the =
woman
made no effort to introduce a flower or shrub that did not of its own right=
belong. Nor did they protect them from the=
ir
enemies. The horses and the c=
olts
and the cows and the calves ran at pasture among them or over them, and flo=
wer
or shrub had to take its chance.
But the beasts were not noticeably destructive, for they were few in
number and the ranch was large.
On the other hand,
Daylight could have taken in fully a dozen horses to pasture, which would h=
ave
earned him a dollar and a half per head per month. But this he refused to do, because=
of
the devastation such close pasturing would produce.
Ferguson came ove=
r to
celebrate the housewarming that followed the achievement of the great stone
fireplace. Daylight had ridden
across the valley more than once to confer with him about the undertaking, =
and he
was the only other present at the sacred function of lighting the first
fire. By removing a partition,
Daylight had thrown two rooms into one, and this was the big living-room wh=
ere
Dede's treasures were placed--her books, and paintings and photographs, her
piano, the Crouched Venus, the chafing-dish and all its glittering accessor=
ies.
Already, in addition to her own wild-animal skins, were those of deer and
coyote and one mountain-lion which Daylight had killed. The tanning he had done himself, s=
lowly
and laboriously, in frontier fashion.
He handed the mat=
ch
to Dede, who struck it and lighted the fire. The crisp manzanita wood crack=
led
as the flames leaped up and assailed the dry bark of the larger logs. Then she leaned in the shelter of =
her husband's
arm, and the three stood and looked in breathless suspense. When Ferguson g=
ave
judgment, it was with beaming face and extended hand.
"She draws!<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> By crickey, she draws!" he cr=
ied.
He shook Daylight=
's
hand ecstatically, and Daylight shook his with equal fervor, and, bending,
kissed Dede on the lips. They=
were
as exultant over the success of their simple handiwork as any great captain=
at
astonishing victory. In Fergu=
son's
eyes was actually a suspicious moisture while the woman pressed even more
closely against the man whose achievement it was. He caught her up suddenly in his a=
rms
and whirled her away to the piano, crying out: "Come on, Dede! The Glo=
ria!
The Gloria!"
And while the fla=
mes
in the fireplace that worked, the triumphant strains of the Twelfth Mass ro=
lled
forth.
Daylight had made=
no
assertion of total abstinence though he had not taken a drink for months af=
ter
the day he resolved to let his business go to smash. Soon he proved himself strong enou=
gh to
dare to take a drink without taking a second. On the other hand, with his coming=
to live
in the country, had passed all desire and need for drink. He felt no yearning for it, and ev=
en
forgot that it existed. Yet he
refused to be afraid of it, and in town, on occasion, when invited by the s=
torekeeper,
would reply: "All right, son.
If my taking a drink will make you happy here goes. Whiskey for
mine."
But such a drink
began no desire for a second. It
made no impression. He was too profoundly strong to be affected by a
thimbleful. As he had prophes=
ied to
Dede, Burning Daylight, the city financier, had died a quick death on the
ranch, and his younger brother, the Daylight from Alaska, had taken his pla=
ce.
The threatened inundation of fat had subsided, and all his old-time Indian
leanness and of muscle had returned.
So, likewise, did the old slight hollows in his cheeks come back. For
him they indicated the pink of physical condition. He became the acknowledged strong =
man of
Sonoma Valley, the heaviest lifter and hardest winded among a husky race of
farmer folk. And once a year =
he celebrated
his birthday in the old-fashioned frontier way, challenging all the valley =
to
come up the hill to the ranch and be put on its back. And a fair portion of=
the
valley responded, brought the women-folk and children along, and picnicked =
for
the day.
At first, when in
need of ready cash, he had followed Ferguson's example of working at day's
labor; but he was not long in gravitating to a form of work that was more
stimulating and more satisfying, and that allowed him even more time for De=
de
and the ranch and the perpetual riding through the hills. Having been challenged by the blac=
ksmith,
in a spirit of banter, to attempt the breaking of a certain incorrigible co=
lt,
he succeeded so signally as to earn quite a reputation as a horse-breaker.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> And soon he was able to earn whate=
ver money
he desired at this, to him, agreeable work.
A sugar king, who=
se
breeding farm and training stables were at Caliente, three miles away, sent=
for
him in time of need, and, before the year was out, offered him the manageme=
nt
of the stables. But Daylight =
smiled
and shook his head. Furthermo=
re, he
refused to undertake the breaking of as many animals as were offered. "I'm sure not going to die fr=
om
overwork," he assured Dede; and he accepted such work only when he had=
to
have money. Later, he fenced off a small run in the pasture, where, from ti=
me
to time, he took in a limited number of incorrigibles.
"We've got t=
he
ranch and each other," he told his wife, "and I'd sooner ride with
you to Hood Mountain any day than earn forty dollars. You can't buy sunsets, and loving =
wives,
and cool spring water, and such folderols, with forty dollars; and forty
million dollars can't buy back for me one day that I didn't ride with you to
Hood Mountain."
His life was
eminently wholesome and natural.
Early to bed, he slept like an infant and was up with the dawn. Always with something to do, and w=
ith a
thousand little things that enticed but did not clamor, he was himself never
overdone. Nevertheless, there=
were
times when both he and Dede were not above confessing tiredness at bedtime
after seventy or eighty miles in the saddle.
Sometimes, when he
had accumulated a little money, and when the season favored, they would mou=
nt
their horses, with saddle-bags behind, and ride away over the wall of the
valley and down into the other valleys. When night fell, they put up at the
first convenient farm or village, and on the morrow they would ride on, wit=
hout
definite plan, merely continuing to ride on, day after day, until their mon=
ey
gave out and they were compelled to return. On such trips they would be gone a=
nywhere
from a week to ten days or two weeks, and once they managed a three weeks'
trip.
They even planned
ambitiously some day when they were disgracefully prosperous, to ride all t=
he
way up to Daylight's boyhood home in Eastern Oregon, stopping on the way at
Dede's girlhood home in Siskiyou.
And all the joys of anticipation were theirs a thousand times as they
contemplated the detailed delights of this grand adventure.
One day, stopping=
to
mail a letter at the Glen Ellen post office, they were hailed by the
blacksmith.
"Say,
Daylight," he said, "a young fellow named Slosson sends you his r=
egards. He came through in an auto, on the=
way
to Santa Rosa. He wanted to k=
now if
you didn't live hereabouts, but the crowd with him was in a hurry. So he sent you his regards and sai=
d to
tell you he'd taken your advice and was still going on breaking his own
record."
Daylight had long
since told Dede of the incident.
"Slosson?&qu=
ot;
he meditated, "Slosson? =
That
must be the hammer-thrower. He put my hand down twice, the young scamp.&quo=
t;
He turned suddenly to Dede.
"Say, it's only twelve miles to Santa Rosa, and the horses are =
fresh."
She divined what =
was
in his mind, of which his twinkling eyes and sheepish, boyish grin gave
sufficient advertisement, and she smiled and nodded acquiescence.
"We'll cut
across by Bennett Valley," he said.&n=
bsp;
"It's nearer that way."
There was little
difficulty, once in Santa Rosa, of finding Slosson. He and his party had re=
gistered
at the Oberlin Hotel, and Daylight encountered the young hammer-thrower him=
self
in the office.
"Look here,
son," Daylight announced, as soon as he had introduced Dede, "I've
come to go you another flutter at that hand game. Here's a likely place."
Slosson smiled and
accepted. The two men faced e=
ach
other, the elbows of their right arms on the counter, the hands clasped.
Slosson's hand quickly forced backward and down.
"You're the
first man that ever succeeded in doing it," he said. "Let's try it
again."
"Sure,"
Daylight answered. "And =
don't
forget, son, that you're the first man that put mine down. That's why I lit out after you
to-day."
Again they clasped
hands, and again Slosson's hand went down.=
He was a broad-shouldered, heavy-muscled young giant, at least half a
head taller than Daylight, and he frankly expressed his chagrin and asked f=
or a
third trial. This time he ste=
eled
himself to the effort, and for a moment the issue was in doubt. With flushed face and set teeth he=
met
the other's strength till his crackling muscles failed him. The air exploded sharply from his =
tensed
lungs, as he relaxed in surrender, and the hand dropped limply down.
"You're too =
many
for me," he confessed. &=
quot;I
only hope you'll keep out of the hammer-throwing game."
Daylight laughed =
and
shook his head.
"We might
compromise, and each stay in his own class. You stick to hammer-throwing, and =
I'll
go on turning down hands."
But Slosson refus=
ed
to accept defeat.
"Say," =
he
called out, as Daylight and Dede, astride their horses, were preparing to
depart. "Say--do you min=
d if I
look you up next year? I'd like to tackle you again."
"Sure, son.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> You're welcome to a flutter any
time. Though I give you fair
warning that you'll have to go some.
You'll have to train up, for I'm ploughing and chopping wood and
breaking colts these days."
Now and again, on=
the
way home, Dede could hear her big boy-husband chuckling gleefully. As they halted their horses on the=
top
of the divide out of Bennett Valley, in order to watch the sunset, he range=
d alongside
and slipped his arm around her waist.
"Little
woman," he said, "you're sure responsible for it all. And I leave=
it
to you, if all the money in creation is worth as much as one arm like that =
when
it's got a sweet little woman like this to go around."
For of all his
delights in the new life, Dede was his greatest. As he explained to her more
than once, he had been afraid of love all his life only in the end to come =
to
find it the greatest thing in the world.&n=
bsp;
Not alone were the two well mated, but in coming to live on the ranch
they had selected the best soil in which their love would prosper. In spite of her books and music, t=
here
was in her a wholesome simplicity and love of the open and natural, while
Daylight, in every fiber of him, was essentially an open-air man.
Of one thing in D=
ede,
Daylight never got over marveling about, and that was her efficient hands--=
the
hands that he had first seen taking down flying shorthand notes and ticking
away at the typewriter; the hands that were firm to hold a magnificent brute
like Bob, that wonderfully flashed over the keys of the piano, that were
unhesitant in household tasks, and that were twin miracles to caress and to=
run
rippling fingers through his hair. But Daylight was not unduly uxorious.
In this connectio=
n,
using his man's judgment and putting his man's foot down, he refused to all=
ow
her to be burdened with the entertaining of guests. For guests they had, especially in=
the
warm, long summers, and usually they were her friends from the city, who we=
re
put to camp in tents which they cared for themselves, and where, like true
campers, they had also to cook for themselves. Perhaps only in California, where
everybody knows camp life, would such a program have been possible. But Daylight's steadfast contentio=
n was
that his wife should not become cook, waitress, and chambermaid because she=
did
not happen to possess a household of servants. On the other hand, chafing-dish su=
ppers
in the big living-room for their camping guests were a common happening, at
which times Daylight allotted them their chores and saw that they were
performed. For one who stoppe=
d only
for the night it was different.
Likewise it was different with her brother, back from Germany, and a=
gain
able to sit a horse. On his
vacations he became the third in the family, and to him was given the build=
ing
of the fires, the sweeping, and the washing of the dishes.
Daylight devoted
himself to the lightening of Dede's labors, and it was her brother who inci=
ted
him to utilize the splendid water-power of the ranch that was running to
waste. It required Daylight's
breaking of extra horses to pay for the materials, and the brother devoted a
three weeks' vacation to assisting, and together they installed a Pelting w=
heel. Besides sawing wood and turning his
lathe and grindstone, Daylight connected the power with the churn; but his
great triumph was when he put his arm around Dede's waist and led her out to
inspect a washing-machine, run by the Pelton wheel, which really worked and=
really
washed clothes.
Dede and Ferguson,
between them, after a patient struggle, taught Daylight poetry, so that in =
the
end he might have been often seen, sitting slack in the saddle and dropping
down the mountain trails through the sun-flecked woods, chanting aloud
Kipling's "Tomlinson," or, when sharpening his ax, singing into t=
he
whirling grindstone Henley's "Song of the Sword." Not that he ever became consummate=
ly literary
in the way his two teachers were.
Beyond "Fra Lippo Lippi" and "Caliban and Setebos,&qu=
ot;
he found nothing in Browning, while George Meredith was ever his despair. It was of his own initiative, howe=
ver, that
he invested in a violin, and practised so assiduously that in time he and D=
ede
beguiled many a happy hour playing together after night had fallen.
So all went well =
with
this well-mated pair. Time ne=
ver
dragged. There were always new wonderful mornings and still cool twilights =
at
the end of day; and ever a thousand interests claimed him, and his interest=
s were
shared by her. More thoroughl=
y than
he knew, had he come to a comprehension of the relativity of things. In this new game he played he foun=
d in
little things all the intensities of gratification and desire that he had f=
ound
in the frenzied big things when he was a power and rocked half a continent =
with
the fury of the blows he struck.
With head and hand, at risk of life and limb, to bit and break a wild
colt and win it to the service of man, was to him no less great an achievem=
ent. And this new table on which he pla=
yed
the game was clean. Neither lying, nor cheating, nor hypocrisy was here.
Once only Dede as=
ked
him if he ever regretted, and his answer was to crush her in his arms and
smother her lips with his. His
answer, a minute later, took speech.
"Little woma=
n,
even if you did cost thirty millions, you are sure the cheapest necessity of
life I ever indulged in." And
then he added, "Yes, I do have one regret, and a monstrous big one,
too. I'd sure like to have the
winning of you all over again. I'd like to go sneaking around the Piedmont
hills looking for you. I'd li=
ke to
meander into those rooms of yours at Berkeley for the first time. And there's no use talking, I'm pl=
umb
soaking with regret that I can't put my arms around you again that time you
leaned your head on my breast and cried in the wind and rain."
But there came the
day, one year, in early April, when Dede sat in an easy chair on the porch,
sewing on certain small garments, while Daylight read aloud to her. It was in the afternoon, and a bri=
ght
sun was shining down on a world of new green. Along the irrigation channels of t=
he
vegetable garden streams of water were flowing, and now and again Daylight
broke off from his reading to run out and change the flow of water. Also, he was teasingly interested =
in the
certain small garments on which Dede worked, while she was radiantly happy =
over
them, though at times, when his tender fun was too insistent, she was rosil=
y confused
or affectionately resentful.
From where they s=
at
they could look out over the world.
Like the curve of a skirting blade, the Valley of the Moon stretched
before them, dotted with farm-houses and varied by pasture-lands, hay-field=
s,
and vineyards. Beyond rose th=
e wall
of the valley, every crease and wrinkle of which Dede and Daylight knew, an=
d at
one place, where the sun struck squarely, the white dump of the abandoned m=
ine
burned like a jewel. In the
foreground, in the paddock by the barn, was Mab, full of pretty anxieties f=
or
the early spring foal that staggered about her on tottery legs. The air shimmered with heat, and
altogether it was a lazy, basking day.&nbs=
p;
Quail whistled to their young from the thicketed hillside behind the
house. There was a gentle coo=
ing of
pigeons, and from the green depths of the big canon arose the sobbing wood =
note
of a mourning dove. Once, the=
re was
a warning chorus from the foraging hens and a wild rush for cover, as a haw=
k,
high in the blue, cast its drifting shadow along the ground.
It was this, perh=
aps,
that aroused old hunting memories in Wolf. At any rate, Dede and Daylight
became aware of excitement in the paddock, and saw harmlessly reenacted a g=
rim
old tragedy of the Younger World. Curiously eager, velvet-footed and silent=
as
a ghost, sliding and gliding and crouching, the dog that was mere domestica=
ted
wolf stalked the enticing bit of young life that Mab had brought so recently
into the world. And the mare,=
her
own ancient instincts aroused and quivering, circled ever between the foal =
and
this menace of the wild young days when all her ancestry had known fear of =
him
and his hunting brethren. Onc=
e, she
whirled and tried to kick him, but usually she strove to strike him with her
fore-hoofs, or rushed upon him with open mouth and ears laid back in an eff=
ort
to crunch his backbone between her teeth.&=
nbsp;
And the wolf-dog, with ears flattened down and crouching, would slide
silkily away, only to circle up to the foal from the other side and give ca=
use
to the mare for new alarm. Th=
en
Daylight, urged on by Dede's solicitude, uttered a low threatening cry; and
Wolf, drooping and sagging in all the body of him in token of his instant
return to man's allegiance, slunk off behind the barn.
It was a few minu=
tes
later that Daylight, breaking off from his reading to change the streams of
irrigation, found that the water had ceased flowing. He shouldered a pick and shovel, t=
ook a
hammer and a pipe-wrench from the tool-house, and returned to Dede on the
porch.
"I reckon I'=
ll
have to go down and dig the pipe out," he told her. "It's that sl=
ide
that's threatened all winter. I
guess she's come down at last."
"Don't you r=
ead ahead,
now," he warned, as he passed around the house and took the trail that=
led
down the wall of the canon.
Halfway down the
trail, he came upon the slide. It
was a small affair, only a few tons of earth and crumbling rock; but, start=
ing
from fifty feet above, it had struck the water pipe with force sufficient to
break it at a connection. Bef=
ore
proceeding to work, he glanced up the path of the slide, and he glanced with
the eye of the earth-trained miner. And he saw what made his eyes startle a=
nd
cease for the moment from questing farther.
"Hello,"=
; he
communed aloud, "look who's here."
His glance moved =
on
up the steep broken surface, and across it from side to side. Here and there, in places, small t=
wisted
manzanitas were rooted precariously, but in the main, save for weeds and gr=
ass,
that portion of the canon was bare.
There were signs of a surface that had shifted often as the rains po=
ured
a flow of rich eroded soil from above over the lip of the canon.
"A true fiss=
ure
vein, or I never saw one," he proclaimed softly.
And as the old
hunting instincts had aroused that day in the wolf-dog, so in him recrudesc=
ed
all the old hot desire of gold-hunting.&nb=
sp;
Dropping the hammer and pipe-wrench, but retaining pick and shovel, =
he
climbed up the slide to where a vague line of outputting but mostly soil-co=
vered
rock could be seen. It was al=
l but
indiscernible, but his practised eye had sketched the hidden formation whic=
h it
signified. Here and there, along this wall of the vein, he attacked the
crumbling rock with the pick and shoveled the encumbering soil away. Several times he examined this
rock. So soft was some of it =
that
he could break it in his fingers.
Shifting a dozen feet higher up, he again attacked with pick and
shovel. And this time, when h=
e rubbed
the soil from a chunk of rock and looked, he straightened up suddenly, gasp=
ing with
delight. And then, like a dee=
r at a
drinking pool in fear of its enemies, he flung a quick glance around to see=
if
any eye were gazing upon him. He
grinned at his own foolishness and returned to his examination of the
chunk. A slant of sunlight fe=
ll on
it, and it was all aglitter with tiny specks of unmistakable free gold.
"From the gr=
ass
roots down," he muttered in an awestricken voice, as he swung his pick
into the yielding surface.
He seemed to unde=
rgo
a transformation. No quart of
cocktails had ever put such a flame in his cheeks nor such a fire in his ey=
es.
As he worked, he was caught up in the old passion that had ruled most of hi=
s life. A frenzy seized him that markedly
increased from moment to moment. He
worked like a madman, till he panted from his exertions and the sweat dripp=
ed
from his face to the ground. =
He
quested across the face of the slide to the opposite wall of the vein and b=
ack
again. And, midway, he dug down through the red volcanic earth that had was=
hed from
the disintegrating hill above, until he uncovered quartz, rotten quartz, th=
at
broke and crumbled in his hands and showed to be alive with free gold.
Sometimes he star=
ted
small slides of earth that covered up his work and compelled him to dig
again. Once, he was swept fif=
ty
feet down the canon-side; but he floundered and scrambled up again without
pausing for breath. He hit up=
on
quartz that was so rotten that it was almost like clay, and here the gold w=
as
richer than ever. It was a
veritable treasure chamber. F=
or a
hundred feet up and down he traced the walls of the vein. He even climbed over the canon-lip=
to
look along the brow of the hill for signs of the outcrop. But that could wait, and he hurrie=
d back
to his find.
He toiled on in t=
he
same mad haste, until exhaustion and an intolerable ache in his back compel=
led
him to pause. He straightened=
up
with even a richer piece of gold-laden quartz. Stooping, the sweat from his=
forehead
had fallen to the ground. It now ran into his eyes, blinding him. He wiped it from him with the back=
of
his hand and returned to a scrutiny of the gold.
It would run thir=
ty
thousand to the ton, fifty thousand, anything--he knew that. And as he gazed upon the yellow lu=
re,
and panted for air, and wiped the sweat away, his quick vision leaped and s=
et
to work. He saw the spur-trac=
k that
must run up from the valley and across the upland pastures, and he ran the
grades and built the bridge that would span the canon, until it was real be=
fore
his eyes. Across the canon wa=
s the
place for the mill, and there he erected it; and he erected, also, the endl=
ess
chain of buckets, suspended from a cable and operated by gravity, that would
carry the ore across the canon to the quartz-crusher. Likewise, the whole m=
ine
grew before him and beneath him-tunnels, shafts, and galleries, and hoisting
plants. The blasts of the min=
ers
were in his ears, and from across the canon he could hear the roar of the
stamps. The hand that held th=
e lump
of quartz was trembling, and there was a tired, nervous palpitation apparen=
tly
in the pit of his stomach. It=
came
to him abruptly that what he wanted was a drink--whiskey, cocktails, anythi=
ng,
a drink. And even then, with =
this new
hot yearning for the alcohol upon him, he heard, faint and far, drifting do=
wn
the green abyss of the canon, Dede's voice, crying:--
"Here, chick,
chick, chick, chick, chick! H=
ere,
chick, chick, chick!"
He was astounded =
at
the lapse of time. She had le=
ft her
sewing on the porch and was feeding the chickens preparatory to getting
supper. The afternoon was
gone. He could not conceive t=
hat he
had been away that long.
Again came the ca=
ll:
"Here, chick, chick, chick, chick, chick! Here, chick, chick, chick!&q=
uot;
It was the way she
always called--first five, and then three.=
He had long since noticed it.
And from these thoughts of her arose other thoughts that caused a gr=
eat
fear slowly to grow in his face.
For it seemed to him that he had almost lost her. Not once had he thought of her in =
those
frenzied hours, and for that much, at least, had she truly been lost to him=
.
He dropped the pi=
ece
of quartz, slid down the slide, and started up the trail, running heavily.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> At the edge of the clearing he eas=
ed
down and almost crept to a point of vantage whence he could peer out, himse=
lf unseen. She was feeding the chickens, toss=
ing to
them handfuls of grain and laughing at their antics.
The sight of her
seemed to relieve the panic fear into which he had been flung, and he turned
and ran back down the trail. =
Again
he climbed the slide, but this time he climbed higher, carrying the pick and
shovel with him. And again he
toiled frenziedly, but this time with a different purpose. He worked artfully, loosing slide =
after slide
of the red soil and sending it streaming down and covering up all he had
uncovered, hiding from the light of day the treasure he had discovered. He even went into the woods and sc=
ooped
armfuls of last year's fallen leaves which he scattered over the slide.
Next he repaired =
the
broken pipe, gathered his tools together, and started up the trail. He walked slowly, feeling a great
weariness, as of a man who had passed through a frightful crisis.
He put the tools
away, took a great drink of the water that again flowed through the pipes, =
and
sat down on the bench by the open kitchen door. Dede was inside, preparing supper,=
and
the sound of her footsteps gave him a vast content.
He breathed the b=
almy
mountain air in great gulps, like a diver fresh-risen from the sea. And, as he drank in the air, he ga=
zed
with all his eyes at the clouds and sky and valley, as if he were drinking =
in
that, too, along with the air.
Dede did not know=
he
had come back, and at times he turned his head and stole glances in at her-=
-at
her efficient hands, at the bronze of her brown hair that smouldered with f=
ire
when she crossed the path of sunshine that streamed through the window, at =
the
promise of her figure that shot through him a pang most strangely sweet and
sweetly dear. He heard her
approaching the door, and kept his head turned resolutely toward the
valley. And next, he thrilled=
, as
he had always thrilled, when he felt the caressing gentleness of her fingers
through his hair.
"I didn't kn=
ow
you were back," she said.
"Was it serious?"
"Pretty bad,
that slide," he answered, still gazing away and thrilling to her touch=
. "More serious than I reckoned=
. But I've got the plan. Do you know=
what
I'm going to do?--I'm going to plant eucalyptus all over it. They'll hold it. I'll plant them thick as grass, so=
that even
a hungry rabbit can't squeeze between them; and when they get their roots
agoing, nothing in creation will ever move that dirt again."
"Why, is it =
as
bad as that?"
He shook his head=
.
"Nothing
exciting. But I'd sure like t=
o see
any blamed old slide get the best of me, that's all. I'm going to seal that slide down =
so
that it'll stay there for a million years.=
And when the last trump sounds, and Sonoma Mountain and all the other
mountains pass into nothingness, that old slide will be still a-standing th=
ere,
held up by the roots."
He passed his arm
around her and pulled her down on his knees.
"Say, little
woman, you sure miss a lot by living here on the ranch--music, and theatres,
and such things. Don't you ev=
er
have a hankering to drop it all and go back?"
So great was his
anxiety that he dared not look at her, and when she laughed and shook her h=
ead
he was aware of a great relief. Also, he noted the undiminished youth that =
rang
through that same old-time boyish laugh of hers.
"Say," =
he
said, with sudden fierceness, "don't you go fooling around that slide
until after I get the trees in and rooted. It's mighty dangerous, and I sure
can't afford to lose you now."
He drew her lips =
to
his and kissed her hungrily and passionately.
"What a
lover!" she said; and pride in him and in her own womanhood was in her
voice.
"Look at tha=
t,
Dede." He removed one
encircling arm and swept it in a wide gesture over the valley and the mount=
ains
beyond. "The Valley of the Moon--a good name, a good name. Do you know, when I look out over =
it
all, and think of you and of all it means, it kind of makes me ache in the
throat, and I have things in my heart I can't find the words to say, and I =
have
a feeling that I can almost understand Browning and those other high-flying
poet-fellows. Look at Hood Mo=
untain
there, just where the sun's striking.
It was down in that crease that we found the spring."
"And that was
the night you didn't milk the cows till ten o'clock," she laughed. "And if you keep me here much
longer, supper won't be any earlier than it was that night."
Both arose from t=
he
bench, and Daylight caught up the milk-pail from the nail by the door. He paused a moment longer to look =
out
over the valley.
"It's sure
grand," he said.
"It's sure
grand," she echoed, laughing joyously at him and with him and herself =
and
all the world, as she passed in through the door.
And Daylight, like
the old man he once had met, himself went down the hill through the fires of
sunset with a milk pail on his arm.