The Spoilers (20 page)

“I shall have to kill that man some day,” he said, flecking his cigar ashes into the grate.

“What man?” She stood still and looked at him.

“Glenister, of course. If I had thought the story would ever reach you, I'd have shut him up long ago.

“It didn't come from him,” she cried, hot with in dignation. “He's a gentleman. It's that cat, Mrs. Champian.”

He shrugged his shoulders the slightest bit, but it was eloquent, and she noted it. “Oh, I don't mean that he did it intentionally—he's too decent a chap for that—but anybody's tongue will wag to a beautiful girl! My lady Malotte is a jealous trick,”

“Malotte! Who is she?” Helen questioned, curiously.

He seemed surprised. “I thought every one knew who she is. It's just as well that you don't.”

“I am sure Mr. Glenister would not talk of me.” There was a pause. “Who is Miss Malotte?”

He studied for a moment, while she watched him. What a splendid figure he made in his evening clothes! The cosey room with its shaded lights enhanced his size and strength and rugged outlines, In his eyes was that admiration which women live for. He lifted his bold, handsome face and met her gaze.

“I had rather leave that for you to find out, for I'm not much at scandal. I have something more important to tell you. It's the most important thing I have ever said to you, Helen.” It was the first time he had used that name, and she began to tremble, while her eyes sought the door in a panic. She had expected this moment, and yet was not ready.

“Not to-night—don't say it now,” she managed to articulate.

“Yes, this is a good time. If you can't answer, I'll come back to-morrow. I want you to be my wife. I want to give you everything the world offers, and I want to make you happy, girl. There'll be no gossip hereafter—I'll shield you from everything unpleasant, and if there is anything you want in life, I'll lay it at your feet. I can do it.” He lifted his massive arms, and in the set of his strong, square face was the promise that she should have whatever she craved if mortal man could give it to her—love, protection, position, adoration.

She stammered uncertainly till the humiliation and chagrin she had suffered this night swept over her again. This town—this crude, half-born mining-camp—had turned against her, misjudged her cruelly. The women were envious, clacking scandal-mongers, all of them, who would ostracize her and make her life in the Northland a misery, make her an outcast with nothing to sustain her but her own solitary pride. She could picture her future clearly, pitilessly, and see herself standing alone, vilified, harassed in a thousand cutting ways, yet unable to run away, or to explain. She would have to stay and face it, for her life was bound up here during the next few years or so, or as long as her uncle remained a judge. This man would free her. He loved her; he offered her everything. He was bigger than all the rest combined. They were his playthings, and they knew it. She was not sure that she loved him, but his magnetism was overpowering, and her admiration intense. No other man she had ever known compared with him, except Glenister—Bah! The beast! He had insulted her at first; he wronged her now.

“Will you be my wife, Helen?” the man repeated, softly.

She dropped her head, and he strode forward to take her in his arms, then stopped, listening. Some one ran up on the porch and hammered loudly at the door. McNamara scowled, walked into the hall, and flung the portal open, disclosing Struve.

“Hello, McNamara! Been looking all over for you. There's the deuce to pay!” Helen sighed with relief and gathered up her cloak, while the hum of their voices reached her indistinctly. She was given plenty of time to regain her composure before they appeared. When they did, the politician spoke, sourly:

“I've been called to the mines, and I must go at once.”

“You bet! It may be too late now. The news came an hour ago, but I couldn't find you,” said Struve. “Your horse is saddled at the office. Better not wait to change your clothes.”

“You say Voorhees has gone with twenty deputies, eh? That's good. You stay here and find out all you can.”

“I telephoned out to the Creek for the boys to arm themselves and throw out pickets. If you hurry you can get there in time. It's only midnight now.”

“What is the trouble?” Miss Chester inquired, anxiously.

“There's a plot on to attack the mines to-night,” answered the lawyer. “The other side are trying to seize them, and there's apt to be a fight.”

“You mustn't go out there,” she cried, aghast. “There will be bloodshed.”

“That's just why I
must
go,” said McNamara. “I'll come back in the morning, though, and I'd like to see you alone. Good-night!” There was a strange, new light in his eyes as he left her. For one unversed in woman's ways he played the game surprisingly well, and as he hurried towards his office he smiled grimly into the darkness.

“She'll answer me to-morrow. Thank you, Mr. Glenister,” he said to himself.

Helen questioned Struve at length, but gained nothing more than that secret-service men had been at work for weeks and had to-day unearthed the fact that Vigilantes had been formed. They had heard enough to make them think the mines would be jumped again to-night, and so had given the alarm.

“Have you hired spies?” she asked, incredulously.

“Sure. We had to. The other people shadowed us, and it's come to a point where it's life or death to one side or the other. I told McNamara we'd have bloodshed before we were through, when he first outlined the scheme—I mean when the trouble began.”

She wrung her hands. “That's what uncle feared before we left Seattle. That's why I took the risks I did in bringing you those papers. I thought you got them in time to avoid all this.”

Struve laughed a bit, eying her curiously.

“Does Uncle Arthur know about this?” she continued.

“No, we don't let him know anything more than necessary; he's not a strong man.”

“Yes, yes. He's not well.” Again the lawyer smiled. “Who is behind this Vigilante movement?”

“We think it is Glenister and his New Mexican bandit partner. At least they got the crowd together.” She was silent for a time.

“I suppose they really think they own those mines.”

“Undoubtedly.”

“But they don't, do they?” Somehow this question had recurred to her insistently of late, for things were constantly happening which showed there was more back of this great, fierce struggle than she knew. It was impossible that injustice had been done the mine-owners, and yet scattered talk reached her which was puzzling. When she strove to follow it up, her acquaintances adroitly changed the subject. She was baffled on every side. The three local newspapers upheld the court. She read them carefully, and was more at sea than ever. There was a disturbing undercurrent of alarm and unrest that caused her to feel insecure, as though standing on hollow ground.

“Yes, this whole disturbance is caused by those two. Only for them we'd be all right.”

“Who is Miss Malotte?”

He answered, promptly: “The handsomest woman in the North, and the most dangerous.”

“In what way? Who is she? “

“It's hard to say who or what she is—she's different from other women. She came to Dawson in the early days—just came—we didn't know how, whence, or why, and we never found out. We woke up one morning and there she was. By night we were all jealous, and in a week we were most of us drivelling idiots. It might have been the mystery or, perhaps, the competition. That was the day when a dance-hall girl could make a homestake in a winter or marry a millionaire in a month, but she never bothered. She toiled not, neither did she spin on the waxed floors, yet Solomon in all his glory would have looked like a tramp beside her,”

“You say she is dangerous?”

“Well, there was the young nobleman, in the winter of ‘98, Dane, I think—fine family and all that—big, yellow-haired boy. He wanted to marry her, but a faro-dealer shot him. Then there was Rock, of the mounted police, the finest officer in the service. He was cashiered. She knew he was going to pot for her, but she didn't seem to care—and there were others. Yet, with it all, she is the most generous person and the most tender-hearted. Why, she has fed every ‘stew bum' on the Yukon, and there isn't a busted prospector in the country who wouldn't swear by her, for she has grubstaked dozens of them. I was horribly in love with her myself. Yes, she's dangerous, all right—to everybody but Glenister.”

“What do you mean?”

“She had been across the Yukon to nurse a man with scurvy, and coming back she was caught in the Spring break-up. I wasn't there, but it seems this Glenister got her ashore somehow when nobody else would tackle the job. They were carried five miles down-stream in the ice-pack before he succeeded.”

“What happened then?”

“She fell in love with him, of course.”

“And he worshipped her as madly as all the rest of you, I suppose,” she said, scornfully.

“That's the peculiar part. She hypnotized him at first, but he ran away, and I didn't hear of him again till I came to Nome. She followed him. finally, and last week evened up her score. She paid him back for saving her.”

“I haven't heard about it.”

He detailed the story of the gambling episode at the Northern saloon, and concluded: “I'd like to have seen that ‘turn,' for they say the excitement was terrific. She was keeping cases, and at the finish slammed her case-keeper shut and declared the bet off because she had made a mistake. Of course they couldn't dispute her, and she stuck to it. One of the by-standers told me she lied, though.”

“So, in addition to his other vices, Mr. Glenister is a reckless gambler, is he?” said Helen, with heat. “I am proud to be indebted to such a character. Truly this country breeds wonderful species.”

“There's where you're wrong,” Struve chuckled. “He's never been known to bet before.”

“Oh, I'm tired of these contradictions!” she cried, angrily. “Saloons, gambling-halls, scandals, adventuresses! Ugh! I hate it! I
hate
it! Why did I ever come here?”

“Those things are a part of every new country. They were about all we had till this year. But it is women like you that we fellows need, Miss Helen. You can help us a lot.” She did not like the way he was looking at her, and remembered that her uncle was up-stairs and asleep.

“I must ask you to excuse me now, for it's late and I am very tired.”

The clock showed half-past twelve, so, after letting him out, she extinguished the light and dragged herself wearily up to her room. She removed her outer garments and threw over her bare shoulders a negligee of many flounces and bewildering, clinging looseness. As she took down her heavy braids, the story of Cherry Malotte returned to her tormentingly. So Glenister had saved
her
life also at risk of his own. What a very gallant cavalier he was, to be sure! He should bear a coat of arms—a dragon, an armed knight, and a fainting maiden. “I succor ladies in distress—handsome ones,” should be the motto on his shield. “The handsomest woman in the North,” Starve had said. She raised her eyes to the glass and made a mouth at the petulant, tired reflection there. She pictured Glenister leaping from floe to floe with the hungry river surging and snapping at his feet, while the cheers of the crowd on shore gave heart to the girl crouching out there. She could see him snatch her up and fight his way back to safety over the plunging ice-cakes with death dragging at his heels. What a strong embrace he had! At this she blushed and realized with a shock that while she was mooning that very man might be fighting hand to hand in the darkness of a mountain-gorge with the man she was going to marry.

A moment later some one mounted the front steps below and knocked sharply. Truly this was a night of alarms Would people never cease coming? She was worn out, but at the thought of the tragedy abroad and the sick old man sleeping near by, she lit a candle and slipped down-stairs to avoid disturbing him. Doubtless it was some message from McNamara, she thought, as she unchained the door.

As she opened it, she fell back amazed while it swung wide and the candle flame flickered and sputtered in the night air. Roy Glenister stood there, grim and determined, his soft, white Stetson pulled low, his trousers tucked into tan half-boots, in his hand a Winchester rifle. Beneath his corduroy coat she saw a loose cartridge-belt, yellow with shells, and the nickelled flash of a revolver. Without invitation he strode across the threshold, closing the door behind him.

“Miss Chester, you and the Judge must dress quickly and come with me.”

“I don't understand.”

“The Vigilantes are on their way here to hang him. Come with me to my house where I can protect you.”

She laid a trembling hand on her bosom and the color died out of her face, then at a slight noise above they both looked up to see Judge Stillman leaning far over the banister. He had wrapped himself in a dressing-gown and now gripped the rail convulsively, while his features were blanched to the color of putty and his eyes were wide with terror, though puffed and swollen from sleep. His lips moved in a vain endeavor to speak.

O
N the morning after the episode in the Northern, Glenister awoke under a weight of discouragement and desolation. The past twenty-four hours with their manifold experiences seemed distant and unreal. At breakfast he was ashamed to tell Dextry of the gambling debauch, for he had dealt treacherously with the old man in risking half of the mine, even though they had agreed that either might do as he chose with his interest, regardless of the other. It all seemed like a nightmare, those tense moments when he lay above the receiver's office and felt his belief in the one woman slipping away, the frenzied thirst which Cherry Malotte had checked, the senseless, unreasoning lust for play that possessed him later. This lapse was the last stand of his old, untamed instincts. The embers of revolt in him were dead. He felt that he would never again lose mastery of himself, that his passions would never best him hereafter.