chances amidst the rotting, melting snows, only to find at the river,
where the old moose head stood guard, that Nature's opening channels had
sealed again under a breath that carried with it a return to the depth
of winter.

He had not been unprepared. He knew the Northland moods all too well.
Besides, his practised eyes had sought in vain the real signs of the
passing of winter. The migratory creatures of the feathered world had
given no sign. The geese and ducks were still waiting in the shelter of
warmer climates. Those wonderful flights, moving like clouds across the
sky, had put in no appearance, while the furry world still hugged the
shelter and sparse feeding grounds of the aged woods.

His disappointment was none the less at the sight of the solid,
ice-bound river, lying in the depths of the earth's foundations. It was
impossible as yet for the girl with the smiling blue eyes, who had given
him that message of her love at the moment of her going, to approach the
tryst, and he was left with the negative consolation that when she
arrived she would find him awaiting her.

His purpose, however, was simple. He was at the appointed spot, and he
intended to remain there until Keeko came to him. It was a matter of no
significance at all if he had to wait till the summer came and passed,
or if he must set out to search the ends of the earth for her. His
persistent, dogged mood was an expression of the passionate youth in
him. He loved as only early youth knows how to love, and nothing else
mattered. He was there alone with Nature in her wildest mood, a fit
setting for the primal passions sweeping through his soul.

So, in the time of waiting, he had lit a great fire. It was a beacon
fire. And in his simple fancy it was sending out a message which the
voiceless old moose was powerless to convey. It was a message carrying
with it the story of the love burning deep in his heart. And he hoped
that distant, searching eyes might see and interpret his signs. The
thought of it all pleased him mightily.

For ten days he had carried on his giant's work of feeding the
insatiable thing he had created. He laboured throughout the daylight
hours. At night he sat about, where his dogs were secured, gazing deep
into its ruddy heart, dreaming his dreams till bodily weariness overcame
him, and he sank into slumbers that yielded him still more precious
visions.

It was all so simple. It was all so real and human. The cares of life
left Marcel untouched. The bitter conditions of the outlands passed him
by without one thought to mar his enjoyment of being. Life was a perfect
thing that held no shadows, and for him it was lit by the sunshine of
eyes the thought of which sent the hot blood surging through his veins
till the madness of his longing found him yearning to embrace the whole
wide world in his powerful arms.

It was with all these undimmed feelings stirring that he took up his
customary position before his great signal fire at the close of a
laborious day. He had eaten. He had fed his vicious trail dogs and left
them for the night. His blankets and his sleeping-bag lay spread out
ready to receive him. And the old, sightless moose gazed out in its
silent, never-ceasing vigil.

Night shut down with a stillness that must have been maddening to a less
preoccupied mind. The perfect night sky shone coldly with the burnish of
its million stars. The blazing northern lights plodded their ghostly
measure with the sedateness of the ages through which they had endured,
while the youth sat on unstirring, smoking his pipe of perfect peace.
They were moments such as Marcel would never know again. For all the
waiting his happiness was well-nigh perfect.

His pipe went out. It was re-lit in the contemplative fashion of habit.
A whimper from the slumbering dogs left him indifferent. Only when the
flames of his fire grew less did he bestir himself. A great
replenishment and his final task was completed.

Again he returned to his seat. But it was not for long. Tired nature was
making herself felt. She was claiming him in the drooping eyelids, in
the nodding head. And her final demand came in the fall of his pipe from
the grip of his powerful jaws. He passed across to his blankets.

A thunderous crash from the depths below and Marcel was wide awake
again. He was sitting up in the shelter of his fur bag with eyes alight
with question. He was alert, with the ready wakefulness which is the
habit of the trail. That crash! It was----

But he quickly returned to his rest. It was the splitting of the solid
bed of ice into which the river that came up out of the south had been
transformed.

But somehow he did not readily sleep again. He was weary enough. His
mind was at rest. But sleep--sleep was reluctant, and the old thread of
his waking dreams came again as he gazed across at the beacon fire.

Hours passed. He had no idea of time. He had no care. He lay there
watching the dancing firelight, building for the hundredth time those
priceless castles of the night which the daylight loves to shatter.
Never were they more resplendent. Never was their lure more
irresistible.

But a drowsy fancy began to distort them. He had no knowledge of it. He
never realized the change. He passed to the realms of sleep like a tired
child, striving to follow the course of the flying sparks from the fire
till his final memory was of a hundred pairs of blazing eyes peering at
him out of the darkness.

He awoke with the grey of dawn. And as his eyes opened he heard a voice,
a gentle, low voice in which rang a world of gladness and tender
feeling.

"Why I just knew no one but Marcel could have lit that fire."

"Keeko!"

Every joyous emotion was thrilling in the man's exclamation. He leapt
from his blankets, and stood staring, in utter and complete amazement,
at the vision of the girl's smiling beauty.

Neither knew how it came about. It simply happened. Neither questioned,
or had thought to question. The long months of parting had completed
that which the summer had brought about. It was the spontaneous
confession of all that which had lain deep in the heart of each.

It was the girl who sought release from those caressing moments. Her
arms reaching up, clasped about the boy's muscular shoulders, parted,
and her warm woman's body stirred under the crushing embrace holding
her. Her lips were withdrawn from his, and, gazing up into the
passionate eyes above her, she spoke the desperate fears of her woman's
heart which had been submerged in the passion of the moment.

"But there's no time to lose!" she cried urgently. "Oh, Marcel, I came
because I just didn't dare to wait. It's you--you and those you love.
They mean to murder you. You--and those others. And so I came to bring
you warning."

The ardent light in the man's eyes changed. But the change seemed slow,
as though with difficulty only he was able to return to the things which
lay outside their love. But with the change came a look of incredulous
amazement that was almost derision.

"Murder?"

He echoed the word blankly. Then he laughed. It was the laugh of
reckless confidence engendered of the wild happiness of holding the girl
of his dreams in his arms, and feeling the soft, warm pressure of her
lips upon his.

For all Keeko's urgency Marcel refused to be robbed of his joy at their
reunion. His embrace relaxed in response to her movement, but he took
possession of her hands. Deliberately he moved towards the fallen
tree-trunk where the lichen-covered cache of their token lay. He sat
himself down, and drew her down beside him.

"Tell me," he said smilingly. "Tell it me all. You came to hand me
warning. They guess they're going to murder me, and Uncle Steve, and
An-ina. Tell me how you came, and all that happened. And the things that
happened to you, I reckon, interest me a heap more than this talk of
murder."

The easy assurance of Marcel's manner sobered the girl's alarm. She
yielded herself at his bidding, and sat beside him with her clasped hand
resting in one of his.

Just for a moment she turned wistful eyes upon the ice of the river
below them, and her gaze wandered on southwards.

"Oh, it's a bad story," she cried. "I guess it's as bad as I ever
feared--worse. Maybe I best tell it you all. But, oh, Marcel, just don't
figger it's nothing. I know you. There's nothing I can say to scare you.
We've just got to get right away to your home, and hand the warning, and
pass them our help."

The girl's appeal had a different effect from that she hoped. The man's
eyes lit afresh. He drew a sharp breath. His arm tightened about her
body, and the hand clasping hers crushed them with unconscious force.

"You'll come right back with me to our home?" he cried in a thrilling
tone. "You?" Then in a moment the great joy of it all broke forth. "Say,
I could just thank God for these--murderers."

But the woman in Keeko left her unsharing in his mood. She turned. And
her eyes were startled.

"You could--! Say," she cried with a sudden vehemence in sharp contrast
to her appealing manner. "Do you think I made trail from Fort Duggan for
a fancy, after months of winter to Seal Bay and back, on the day I'd
just made home? Do you think I wouldn't have waited for the river? Do
you think I'd have done this if it wasn't all--real? Oh, man, man," she
cried in protest, "I'm no fool girl to see things that just aren't. I
guess David Nicol has located your post, and he's right on his way there
now--for murder. There's----"

"On his way there now?" Marcel broke in sharply, fiercely. "How? How
d'you mean? He's located--Who's--this David Nicol? God! An-ina alone!
Tell me! Tell me quick. An-ina, my second mother, she's alone at the
post. A woman! God in heaven! Tell me quick."

The change was supreme. No tone the girl had used could compare with the
force of Marcel's demand. There was no laugh on his lips now, no smile
in his eyes. A deadly fear, such as Keeko had never beheld in them
before, had taken possession of them. He was stirred to the depths of
his very soul.

Keeko's reply came at once.

"Yes. Nicol's the man I believed my step-father. He's a murderer. He's
the man who sent my mother to her grave before I made home last summer.
He's the man who Lorson Harris is going to hand a hundred thousand
dollars for the murder of your outfit, and to steal your trade. He's the
man who asked me to share with him the price of his crime, and would
have held me prisoner to obey his will if I hadn't just had the means
right there to help myself. Oh, my dear, my dear. I'm scared. I'm scared
to death now for the folks you love. That's why I struck out on a chance
for this old moose head, with my boys and dogs. I hoped, I prayed--oh,
God, how I prayed!--that I could get around and find you, and hand you
warning."

Marcel was no longer seated. He was standing, his great height towering
over the girl who was gazing up at him with tears of emotion shining in
her pretty eyes. He did not realize them. He was no longer thinking of
her. He was no longer thinking of his love, and the happiness that was
so newly born. His thought was far back over the trail of ice and snow
over which he had so recently passed. He was contemplating a dusky face
with eyes of velvet softness, carrying out her patient labours for the
men she loved. He was contemplating the stealing approach of the
would-be murderer. He saw in fancy the dawn of horror in the mother
woman's eyes as she awoke to realization----

Suddenly he flung out his clenched fists in a gesture of superlative
determination and threat.

"Say!" he cried, his eyes hot with a fire such as Keeko had never
thought to see in them. "It's two hundred miles of hell's own territory
with the thaw coming. I'm going right back--now. I'm going just as quick
as I can load my outfit. She's alone--do you get it? An-ina! She raised
me--she's my Indian mother woman. God help the swine that harms her
body!"

He turned and moved abruptly away. Keeko had come to him with her love.
She had faced everything the north country could show her to bring him
the warning. He had forgotten her. He had forgotten everything, but the
gentle creature whose dark-eyed terror haunted him.

Keeko understood. She had no feeling other than a great, unvoiced joy in
the splendid manhood of it all. She stood up. She moved after the man as
he made towards his camp. She overtook him.

"They're all down there, Marcel dear. They're down there on the river,"
she said, as she came to his side and her two hands clasped themselves
about his swinging arm. "There's Little One Man, Snake Foot, and
Med'cine Charlie. They're good boys, and the dogs are fresh, and ready.
I saw to that. We can start right away, and I guess you can't just set
the gait too hot."

CHAPTER XIX

THE STORE-HOUSE

Steve pushed back from the table in An-ina's kitchen. The woman was
standing ready to minister to his lightest demands. She had waited on
him throughout the meal, and remained standing the whole time. It was a
habit, which, throughout their years of life together, Steve had been
powerless to break her of. It was her pride thus to wait upon him.

Her soft, watchful eyes were observing him closely as he filled and lit
his pipe. There was something approaching anxiety in their depths. It
may have been the dull yellow lamplight that robbed the man's face of
its usual look of robust health. But if the shadows wrought upon it and
the curious pasty yellow tint of the skin were due to the lamplight,
certainly the hollows about the eyes, the cheeks, which had become
almost alarmingly drawn, and the sunken lines about the firm mouth could
not have been attributed to a similar cause.

An-ina understood this. She understood more. She had realized, during
the weeks that had elapsed since Steve's return from the heart of Unaga,
a curious growing bodily lassitude in the man. It was something
approaching inertia, and she knew its cause. Fear had grown up in her
simple Indian mind and heart. She wanted to speak. She wanted to offer
her warning. But somehow Steve's will was her law, and she knew that
will was driving him now in a fashion that would only leave her words
wasted. So, while her lips remained silent, her feelings were clearly
enough expressed in her eyes.

"Just a draw or two at the old pipe, An-ina," Steve said, with his
flicker of a smile that was full of gentleness. "Guess you can't know
the relief of being rid of the mask for awhile. The taste of every
breath I draw through it makes me well-nigh sick. Still, it's got to be.
It's that or quick death. And I'm not yearning to 'cash in' yet. There's
more than two weeks of it still. We brought a hell of a cargo of the
stuff. More than I guessed. I'd like to get through with it before
Marcel gets back with--this Keeko."

An-ina nodded. Something of her anxiety became absorbed by her tender
smile at the reference to Marcel and Keeko.

"The thaw him no come," she said. "Maybe him not find Keeko. Maybe it
long--heap long time. Oh, yes?"

Steve stood up and turned his back to the cook-stove. His sunken eyes
were reflective.

"No. The thaw's quit, and a sharp spell's closed down again," he said.
"He guessed the girl was coming up the river." He shook his head.
"There'll be no river open for weeks yet."

He passed across to the door and flung it open. Outside the night was
coldly bright, and the still air had a bitter snap in it. He remained
only a moment, then he closed the door again.

"We'll get no change till the next moon," he said as he returned.
"Anyway, I'll need to get things through before he comes. I don't want
the boy to take a hand in the packing. It's a big risk."

"Yes. Boss Steve take all risk. An-ina know." The woman sighed. "An-ina
mak' pack. Oh, no! Much big risk. She not mak' pack. So Boss Steve him
say. Boss Steve die all up bimeby. Leave An-ina. Leave him Marcel--an'
this Keeko. All mak' big weep. Oh, yes."

Steve's eyes smiled gently. He came over to the woman's side. One hand,
that seemed to have lost much of its muscular shape, rested gently on
her shoulder.

"Don't you just worry a thing, An-ina," he said. "Guess I know. When
Marcel gets back I'll be around all right. I reckon to get through
quick. That's why I work late into the night. After I get through, and
get quit of the masks, I'll eat good, and be as I was. I just get sick
with the dope on the mask, that's all. I'll get right on now."

He laid aside his pipe and passed out of the kitchen. And, as he went,
the woman's eyes gazed yearningly after him.

Steve had lit his lamp. It burned up. It flooded the great store-room
with its rank light. He watched it till it settled into full flame, half
his strong face hidden up under the mask saturated with its nauseating
"dope." Habit forced him to a swift upward glance at the three
ventilators in the roof. They were all set wide open. Then he glanced
round him surveying the work that occupied his working-day, and half the
night he would gladly have devoted to much-needed rest.

It was a curious scene. It was full of fascination in that it
represented the complete triumph which for so many years had been
withheld from him.

The great store-house, built with so much care and close study of its
purposes, and which had stood for so long empty, a pathetic expression
of man's hope deferred, was filled to its capacity. A greater part of
its shelving was groaning under bales of closely pressed Adresol in
hermetically-sealed wrappings, while the floor was piled with vast
quantities of the deadly plant awaiting the process that would render it
comparatively harmless to those who had yet to handle it.

In its raw, limp state the plant was unwholesome enough to look at. Its
pale foliage had something of the rubbery look of seaweed. But the
crushed blooms, oozing thick sap from their wounds, were something
almost evil for eyes that had knowledge behind them. Even in his most
triumphant mood Steve was not without a feeling of repulsion at the
sight. His mask held him impervious to the deadly fumes of the oozing
sap, but well enough he knew that, in such a presence, it was only that
ingenious contrivance that stood between him and swift death.

He turned to the window to see that it was secure. The door, too, he
tried to assure himself that it was shut tight. He was fearful lest the
heavy escaping fumes should reach those beyond. The ventilators were
built high, chimneys that carried the fumes well up into the night air,
where their diffusion was assured, leaving them robbed of their deadly
poison. But the window and door were dangerous outlets that needed close
watch.

Finally he passed to the far end of the room where his lamp stood on the
bench beside the baling machine, and the rolls of curious-looking cloth,
almost like oilskin, or some rubber-proofed material, and the large
vessel of sealing solution with its brush for application sticking up in
it. And forthwith he set to work at the scales upon which he measured
his quantities. The organization of it all was perfect. It was Steve
through and through, and his calm method seemed to rob the whole process
of any sense of danger.

But Steve was sick. He knew it. He knew it was a race between his
condition and the completion of the work. He was living in an atmosphere
of contending poisons, breathing one to nullify the effects of the
other. There were moments when he wondered how long his body could
endure the struggle which he knew must go on to the end, whatever that
end might be.

His determination remained unweakening. He knew that An-ina had become
aware of his condition, and it only made him the more urgent that his
task should be completed before Marcel's return. Whatever happened
Marcel must not be permitted to participate in the danger. So, for all
his appearance of calm, he worked with a feverish energy in the deadly
atmosphere.

Whatever Steve's bodily condition mentally he was fully alert. It even
seemed as if his bodily weakness stimulated the clear activity of his
mental powers. Working through the long hours of voiceless solitude he
held under almost microscopic review every aspect of the situation his
final triumph had created. Everything must fall out--provided his sick
body endured--just as he had calculated. There was only one thing that
disturbed the perfect smoothness of the road that lay open before him.
It was the story he had listened to from the lips of An-ina. It was
Marcel, and this girl with the Indian name of--"Keeko."

The thought was in his mind now. He was uneasy. The whole possibility of
Marcel's encountering such a woman in Unaga had seemed so absurdly
remote. A white girl! And yet An-ina had assured him it was true, and
the manner of her assurance left it impossible for him to doubt.

Who was this Keeko? How came she in those far remotenesses which he knew
Marcel hunted? He could not think, unless--His searching mind offered
him only one solution. It seemed remote enough. It even seemed
extravagant. Lorson Harris was the evil genius he had to fear. And he
sought to connect him with the mystery of it all. Was this Keeko some
Delilah seeking to betray the secret he had fought to retain so long?
Had she discovered Marcel for the sole purpose of serving Lorson Harris?
Was she one of those beautiful lost souls haunting the vice-ridden
shores of Seal Bay? It was just possible. There were such women, clever
enough, hardy enough to accomplish such a task. It looked like the only
solution of the mystery. And he smiled to himself as he thought of the
tender soul who had told him the story of it all with such appreciation
of its romance.

He realized only too well the fascination such a woman must exercise
over a boy of Marcel's years. He would be clay in her hands. Chivalrous,
honourable, unsuspicious, what an easy prey he must prove! It was too
pitifully easy once the woman discovered him. But even with this
realization he was by no means dismayed. He remembered poignantly that
An-ina had assured him that Marcel would bring the woman to the fort.
Well, if that happened Lorson Harris was by no means likely to have
things all his own way. He, Steve, had learned his lesson of women, and
was not likely to----

Steve was in the act of bearing down upon the lever of the baling
machine. He paused, with the lever pressed only half way home. He stood
listening, his bent figure unmoving. There was a sound beyond the door.
It might have been the sound of a snowfall from the roof above him. It
might have found its source in many things. Yet it was unusual enough to
hold the man listening acutely.

Presently, as there was no repetition of it, he dismissed the matter. He
was always fearful of possible approach. A moment's thoughtlessness on
the part of An-ina, on the part of his Indians, and the mischief would
be done. Even there was always the risk of Marcel's return, and the
attraction of the light of the lamp through the window. He dared not for
his own sake bar the door. There was always the risk of his mask failing
him.

He completed his operation. The oozing weed was compressed, and the
binding cords made fast. Then the lever was raised, and the sticky mass
was passed on to the outspread sheet for its final packing.

For all the cloth was spread, however, and the bundle was set in place
Steve hesitated before enfolding it. The disturbing sound still haunted
him curiously. He could never resist the dread of the deadly atmosphere
of the room. It needed only one breath--moments one might count upon the
fingers of a hand. The thought occurred to him to risk all and bar the
door. But it remained only a thought. He forced himself to continue his
work like a man who recognizes the weakness prompting him.

He folded the cloth about the bale and reached for the solution brush.
But the brush remained where it was. Distinct on the still night air
came the sound of a footstep. It was too heavy for An-ina. It had
nothing of Indian moccasins in it. It was the heavy footstep of a man, a
white man. Marcel!

Steve swung about in an agony of apprehension. But for once in his life
his forethought had failed him. He was too late. There was the swift
opening and shutting of the door and a man stood inside the room with
his back against it. But it was not Marcel. A heavy gun was thrusting
forward, and the muzzle of it was covering Steve's body. Helpless,
impotent, the man who had taken and survived every chance the Northern
world could offer him, stood like any weakling awaiting the shot that
must rob him of life in the hour of his triumph.

Steve stared wide-eyed. The man was no taller than himself. He was
white, and above his fur clothing was a dark, brutish face with eyes of
almost Indian blackness. For a moment they shone fiercely in the
lamplight. They were alive with demoniac purpose. A purpose he had come
so many weary miles to fulfil. Then, in a moment, the whole picture
changed with the rapidity of a kaleidoscope.

The ferocious purpose in the black eyes faded to a ghastly terror. The
lids widened, and the eyeballs rolled upwards. A voiceless gasp escaped
through wide open lips, where a moment before they had been firm set
with murderous intent. The out-held gun-arm dropped, and the weapon
clattered heavily to the ground. The man reeled. He tottered forward.
Then, with a sigh, a deep drawn sigh, his knees gave under him and he
plunged face downwards amongst the litter of the Adresol whose secret he
had come to steal. The deadly drug had done its work.

Steve passed down the room. He came to a stand beside the body of the
man, fallen with its face buried amidst the bruised and oozing Adresol.
His features were lost in the very heart of a limply spread white bloom.
It was as though he were seeking to intake the very dregs of the poison
with which the air was laden.

Steve stooped. Seizing the heavy body in his strong arms he dragged it
clear of the weed, and laid it upon its back. Then he stood up and gazed
down from behind his mask upon the lifeless face that gazed sightlessly
up at him.

In those long, silent, contemplative moments memory leapt back, bridging
the weary years. There was neither passion nor pity in his heart. It
was almost as if all feeling had passed from him, absorbed in a deep
curiosity at the signs which the years had set upon a once handsome
face. Even in death they remained. And only a dreadful pallor robbed it
of the deeper signs which debauchery had impressed.

Yes. Death had been merciful in that it had restored the features to
something of their early good looks. Those good looks, which, backed by
the subtle tongue of the seducer, had been sufficient to attract the
weak vessel of a foolish woman's heart from the path of virtue that had
been marked out for it.

Oh, yes. Steve recognized that ghastly, lifeless face. And just for one
moment he hoped that as Death secured its stranglehold the dead creature
had recognized his. He wondered.

"Garstaing! Hervey Garstaing!"

The words sounded faintly in the heavy atmosphere. It was Steve's voice
hushed to something like a whisper. It was a passionless whisper. There
was neither contempt nor hatred in it. Neither was there a shadow of
pity.

He turned back to the lamp. He picked it up, and brought it towards the
door. The body of his would-be murderer lay sprawled across the floor
barring his way. He thrust out a foot and pushed it aside. Then he
passed on.

Without one backward glance he turned out the light, and, passing out,
made fast the door and removed his dreadful mask.

But, for a while at least, he did not return to the woman who was
awaiting him. He moved on to the great gateway of the stockade. Then he
leant against one of the gate-posts and stood breathing the pure, cold
night air, while his thoughts drifted back over a hundred scenes,
which, until that moment, had remained deep buried in the back cells of
memory. He was thinking hard, wondering and searching, striving to probe
the full meaning of the man's attack.

CHAPTER XX

THE HOME-COMING

Steve gave no sign. He saw no reason to admit anyone to the secret of
that which had transpired in the store-house. He waited for the approach
of an accompanying outfit, he searched to discover the supporters of
Hervey Garstaing in his attempt on his life, and, failing all further
development, he saw no use in sounding a note of alarm to disturb those
who looked to him for leadership and protection. Besides, he was more
than reluctant to lay bare anything that could stir afresh those
memories from which only the passing of the years had brought him peace.

So he went on with his work, that work whose completion had become
well-nigh an obsession. The dead body of Garstaing lay huddled aside,
ruthlessly flung where it could least obtrude itself and interfere with
the labours upon which he was engaged. Its presence was no matter of
concern. It lay there held safe from decay by the power of the drug
which had robbed it of life. Later, with leisure, and when the desire
prompted, Steve would dispose of it as he might dispose of any other
refuse that displeased or disgusted him.

To a man of lesser hardihood, of less singleness of purpose such an
attitude must have been impossible. But Steve had learned his lessons of
life in a ruthless school. He had no thought for any leniency towards an
enemy, alive or dead. He had no reverence for the empty shell, which,
in life, had contained nothing but vileness.

To the last he fought out the battle of physical endurance, and he won
out. It was a bitter, deadly struggle in which will alone turned the
scale. When the last bale of Adresol was packed, and the door of the
store-house was made secure, its treasure in the keeping of its dead
guardian, Steve knew that he was about to pay the price. The final
removal of his mask found him an extremely sick man. And for two weeks
he was forced to fight against the effect of the deadly toxins he had
been inhaling for so long. He had saved others from the risk of handling
the Adresol. Now he was called upon to pay for his self-sacrifice.

In her silent, unquestioning fashion An-ina understood, and, for nearly
two weeks, she watched and ministered to the man of her love with
smiling-eyed devotion. Steve never admitted his condition, and An-ina
never reminded him of it. That was their way. But never in all their
years of life together had the woman been more surely her man's devoted
slave. Her every service was an expression of the happiness which the
privilege yielded her. Every thought behind her dark eyes was a prayer
for the well-being of her man.

For all the inroad the poisons had made upon him, Steve's robust,
healthy body was no easy prey, and, slowly but surely, it won its way
and drove back a defeated enemy. The spirit of the man was invincible,
and then, too, his knowledge of the drugs, both Adresol and those
antitoxins which he had been forced to oppose to it, was well-nigh
complete. The dead father of Marcel had left him in no uncertainty. He
had equipped him perfectly through his writings.

So, with the complete break-up of winter Steve was once more in his
place at the helm of his little vessel. He was there calm, strong,
resourceful, ready to deal with every matter that came along as the rush
of the open season's business descended upon the fort.

It, was as well. The rush was considerable as the Sleepers roused from
their hibernation. An-ina, Julyman, Oolak, were all his able
lieutenants, but Steve's was the guiding mind and hand. The others were
people of the same colour as these half Eskimos.

The hubbub and chaffer of it all went on the day long. The store was
alive with the squat, black-eyed, dusky creatures, swathed in their
Arctic furs. They brought all their trade, surplus stocks of the dried
Adresol weed, pelts, beaver and grey fox, wolf and seal. And for these
they demanded equipment and supplies for the open season's hunt. They
were mainly a good-natured and unsuspicious crowd whose guttural tongue
was harsh and very voluble. They needed handling. Essentially they
needed handling by the white man.

Steve had been relieved for his midday meal. He was relieved by An-ina,
assisted by Julyman. Oolak stood by with his club, ready for any display
of the predatory instincts that yielded to temptation.

Steve had not yet returned from the kitchen. He had finished his hearty
meal and lit his pipe. He was standing before the window, from which all
covering had been removed at the advance of the open season.

The air was chill. For the moment he was staring out reflectively at the
clear, bright sunlight, while the buzz of voices in the store hummed
upon his ears. It was well-nigh a perfect Northern spring day. The sky
was a-froth with white, sunlit clouds. But the sunlight had little
relation to the sunlight of more temperate climates at such a season. It
was fiercely bright against the melting snows, with a steely chill that
entirely lacked the gracious promise of budding trees and tender
shooting grass. At best it spoke of the final passing of the wastes of
snow and ice.

These things, however, were not concerning Steve. It was one of those
moments of solitude in which he could give run to the thoughts that most
nearly concerned him. His eyes had parted from the shadowy smile which
they usually wore before the eyes of others. Just now they were scarcely
happy, and the drawn brows suggested a lurking trouble that disturbed
him. He was thinking of Marcel. Ever since the visitation of Hervey
Garstaing, Marcel had rarely been out of his thoughts.

He removed his pipe and passed a hand across his broad brow. It was a
gesture of weariness. There were no eyes to witness the action, so he
attempted no disguise. It mattered little enough to him that the whole
world about him was awakening. It mattered nothing to him that the white
world was passing, and the rivers were starting to flood. The feathered
world might wing to greet the new-born season. It might darken the sky
with its legions. Such things had no power to stir his pulses, any more
than had the thought of the great triumph he had achieved over the
desperate Arctic elements, if all was not well with--Marcel.

This was his haunting fear. He was thinking of Marcel--and this white
girl, Keeko. Even when he had listened to the delighted tones of An-ina,
as she told him the story which she had obtained from the boy's own
lips, his fears had been stirred. The woman's delight had been the
simple delight of a woman in such romance. That side of it had left him
cold. He knew the Northern world, his world, too well. He knew the type
of woman that haunted the habitations of man in such regions as Unaga.
And so he had feared for Marcel.

Since that time had happened those things which warned him of a
wide-flung conspiracy of which his secret trade in Adresol was the
centre. Oh, yes, it had needed but one flash of inspiration to warn him
of this thing, and his concern was that this beautiful white woman,
Keeko, was a link in the chain of the conspiracy with which he was
surrounded.

He saw the hand of Lorson Harris in it, guiding, prompting, from that
office he knew so well in Seal Bay.

Hervey Garstaing was his tool. There could be no doubt as to that to
which the man had sunk. It was the simple logic of such a career as his.
A man reduced to haunting Mallard's in his endeavour to escape the law
must inevitably sink lower and lower. Garstaing was a Northern man.
Sooner or later the Northern wilderness would claim him. The next step
would be the embrace of Lorson Harris. No man "on the crook" north of
60° could escape that. Then--? But there was no need to look further in
that direction.

But this girl, or woman, this Keeko--her very name suggested to him the
vampire creatures haunting the muddy shores of Seal Bay--had discovered
Marcel last summer. Marcel, a boy. A boy in years--a child in mind. She
would be beautiful. Oh, yes, Lorson Harris would see to that. She would
be possessed of every art and wile of the women of her trade. It would
be too pitifully easy. She must have returned to her headquarters with
the secret he had held so long hidden. And then the coming of the
murderer to complete the task Lorson Harris had set.

Now Marcel had gone again to meet this Delilah. He had returned to her
in all his splendid youth to be dragged down, down to those backwaters
of vice in which her life was spent. Or, having achieved her purpose,
would she meet him again? Would she not rather have gone to receive the
reward of her betrayal? Anyway it mattered so little. Her mischief was
complete. Body and soul, this youth was doubtless hers. What manner of
man would he return?

This it was that haunted Steve throughout the long hours of each passing
day. Mind and heart had been set on one great purpose of selfishness. He
had gambled his life against overwhelming odds for the sake of this
youth. He had won out at terrific cost to himself. And now the joy of
his thought was submerged in the prospect of that moral destruction
which the evil scheming of Lorson Harris had brought about.

The hopelessness of it all was in simple proportion to the strength and
depth of the love and parental affection of the man's heart. But he knew
that until the naked truth, however hideous, was revealed he must
continue the labours that were his. If the merciless hand of Lorson
Harris had destroyed the simple soul of Marcel, then Lorson should pay
as he little dr----

Steve started. His depressed brows lightened. His eyes, so full of
brooding, widened as he listened. The sound of a voice, big, strong,
reached him over the guttural buzz of the trading Sleepers' tones.

"Uncle Steve? He's back. He's--safe?"

The tone was urgent. It was Marcel. And there was that note of force and
anxiety in his voice which Steve never remembered to have heard before.

Impulse urged him. It was quite beyond his power to restrain it. He
waited not a moment for An-ina's reply. Snatching his pipe from his
mouth he shouted swift response as he made for the store.

"Why, surely, boy," he cried. "It don't seem to me there's a thing north
of 60° to do me hurt."

The two men were standing in the doorway of the store, just where they
had met. Outside were two dog trains newly drawn up, and four figures,
stranger figures, were moving about them.

Inside the store the clamour of traffic went on undisturbed by the new
arrival. Oolak, with his club, continued to shepherd the queer, squat
creatures he despised. Julyman was at the rough counter at the command
of An-ina, whose outward calm was a perfect mask for the feelings
stirred at the unexpected return of Marcel. It was all so characteristic
of these people, for all there were momentous words and happenings
passing, for all Marcel was conveying news of the threat to their lives
which had brought him at such speed back to his home.

The older man, broad of shoulder, sturdy under his rough buckskin, was
no match for the youngster who towered over him. And that which he
lacked in stature was made up for in the undisturbed expression of his
face. Marcel was urgent in his youthful grasp of the threat
overshadowing. Steve, while apparently listening to him, seemed to be
absorbed in the movements of the strangers beyond the door.

Marcel's story was a brief outline, almost disjointed. It was the story,
roughly, as Keeko had brought it to him. He told of the purpose of the
man Nicol, bribed by Lorson Harris to steal the secret of their trade.
He told of Nicol's confession to Keeko that he had located the
whereabouts of the fort, and his purpose forthwith to raid it, and wipe
out its occupants, and so earn the price of his crime. He told of
Keeko's ultimate terror of this creature's proposals to herself and of
the desperate nature of her flight from Fort Duggan to warn Marcel, and
seek his protection.

It was all told without a thought for anything beyond the urgency of the
threat, and his own youthful absorption in the girl who had taught him
the meaning of love. In that supreme moment he had no thought for the
thing that had driven Steve out into the winter wilderness, fighting
the battle of his great purpose. He had no thought for the success or
failure that had attended him. Steve was there in the flesh, the same
"Uncle" Steve he had always known. It was sufficient. An-ina, too, was
there, safe and well, and the sight of her had banished his worst
anxieties. The lover's selfishness was his. Keeko was outside. She had
come with him to his home. She had promised him the fulfilment of his
man's great desire. Where then was the blame? Steve had no thought of
blame in his mind. And An-ina? An-ina's complete happiness lay in the
fact of her boy's return.

"Say, Uncle," Marcel cried in conclusion, with impulsive vehemence.
"It's been one hell of a trip. It certainly has. And I'd say a feller
don't know one haf the deviltry of this forsaken country till he's hit
it haf thawed."

"No." Steve smiled at the four figures he was watching as there flashed
through his mind the recollection of the journey of a white man, and a
woman, and two Indians, and a child at such a time of year a good many
seasons ago.

"You're right, Uncle," Marcel went on, without observing the smile. "But
it just needed a woman to show the way, I guess," he cried, in a wave of
burning enthusiasm. "Keeko had us well-nigh hollering help from the
start. She set the gait. She showed us the way. She guessed that warning
needed to get through quick, with An-ina here alone. And she meant to
save her if the work of it killed her. She's just the greatest ever.
She's the bravest, the best----"

Steve nodded.

"Yes. I guess she's all you say."

The older man's eyes had come back to the handsome face lit with
passionate enthusiasm. There was a twinkle of dry humour in them.

"I know, boy," he said gently. "I get all that. That's why I want to get
right out now and hand her thanks and welcome to your home. Guess it's
not my way to have folks who've made near five hundred miles to do me
good service, standing around waiting while I'm asked to pass 'em
welcome. Guess I want to shake this white girl, with the queer Indian
name, by the hand. I want to make her just as welcome as I know how. Do
you feel like helping me that way?"

In a moment a great laugh broke, through the shadow of disappointment
that had fallen upon Marcel's eyes at the other's first words.

"You can just kick me, Uncle Steve," he cried. "You surely can. Guess
I'm every sort of crazy fool, trying to tell you the thing that's
Keeko's to tell. But I didn't think," he added, passing a hand across
his forehead. "I don't seem to be able to just now. You see--Say come
right along."

"So you're--Keeko."

Marcel was standing by, looking on with a smiling happiness lighting his
face. But he was not observing. Observation at such a moment was
impossible to him. He was feasting his happy eyes on the girl's pretty
face under the brown fur cap which had been tilted from her forehead. He
was looking for her approval of Uncle Steve, and her smiling blue eyes
seemed to him all sufficient.

Had he been less concerned with Keeko he must have discovered that which
was looking out of Steve's eyes. It was a curious, searching look that
had something startled in it. He must have become aware that, for all
the older man's self-restraint, something was stirring within him,
something that robbed him of a composure that the dangers and trials of
the life that was his had on power to rob him of. Uncle Steve was
smiling responsively, a gentle, kindly smile, but it was utterly
powerless to deny the other expression.

Keeko withdrew her hands which had been held for a moment in both of
Steve's.

"Yes," she said, something shyly. "I'm Keeko."

"Keeko." Steve's echo of the name was reflective. "It's a queer name."

The startled look had passed out of his eyes. But his intent regard
remained almost embarrassing. Then, quite suddenly, as the girl turned a
little helplessly, and her gaze settled itself upon the great figure of
Marcel, he seemed to become aware this was so. He, too, promptly glanced
away, taking in the three Indians standing beside the dogs.

"Here, say," he cried authoritatively. "Unhitch those dogs and fix the
sleds. You boys best get the sleds unloaded."

Then he turned again to Keeko.

"I want to hand you a big show piece talk, Keeko," he said with quiet
ease. "I want to say how glad I am you came along with this boy of ours,
and to thank you for the things you figgered to do for us. I guess we
aren't going to let the thought of this feller--Nicol--worry us grey.
And Lorson Harris, big as he may be in Seal Bay, don't cut much ice up
here in the heart of Unaga. We've the measure of most things taken
that's likely to hand us worry. There's a home right here for you, for
just as long as you two fancy. I take it you've fixed things up between
you. Guess it scared me when I first heard tell of you, and I don't need
to tell you why I was scared. Now I've seen you it isn't that way. No,"
he added, in contemplative fashion. "I kind of thank Providence. He
sent you where you found our boy, and later made things so you came
along--to home. My dear, I'm just glad." Then he added in response to
the wonderful light which his words brought into the girl's pretty eyes:
"Say, just come right in. An-ina's inside. She'll get you rested and
fed. And she'll hand you a mother's welcome, same as I do a--father's."

The girl made no movement to obey. The tenderness, the simple kindliness
that rang in Steve's tones, was so utterly different from anything she
had ever listened to in the hard years of nomadic life she had been
forced to live. In contrast, the memory of her days at Fort Duggan left
her shuddering. The memory of the pitiful subterfuges to which she and
her dead mother had been forced to resort in the hope of saving her from
the merciless hands of the beast of prey who had ruined so utterly their
lives, was something that seemed to belong to some hideous nightmare.
For perhaps the first time since the iron of life had entered into her
woman's soul she wanted to fall to a-weeping. In her speechlessness
tears actually rose to her eyes. She was weary, weary of limb with the
hardship of her journey. But now, in the reaction of Steve's welcome,
she realized, too, an utter weariness of mind. But her tears were saved
from overflowing. She looked to the smiling Marcel, and, with a little
helpless gesture, held out her hands.

It was all so unlike the woman who had faced every hardship on the
trail. It was all so unlike the strong courage which Marcel knew. He
caught her hands in his, and drew her to his side. Then, together, they
passed on to the store, while Steve's eyes followed them, and the
Indians remained at the work they had been set.

Once Keeko and Marcel had vanished within the store there was no longer
need for disguise. Steve's smile passed out of his eyes. A great light
of startled wonder took its place. Unconsciously he turned in the
direction of the store-house, concealing its great burden of
Adresol--and that other.

For a while he stood there. Then a sound broke from him. It was a
single, low-muttered word.

"Keeko!"

He moved away. He passed on to the open gateway of the stockade and
gazed far out towards the south-west. The sunlight upon the melting snow
was well-nigh blinding. But it troubled him not at all. His eyes were no
longer seeing. They were absorbed in a deep contemplation, visualizing
scenes that rose up at him out of the dim, distant past. He was thinking
of that moment of parting, when he had gazed down into the great blue
eyes of his baby girl as she was held up to him by her erring mother.

"Keeko!" he muttered again. "Coqueline!" Then, after a long, almost
interminable pause: "Nita!"

CHAPTER XXI

THE GREAT REWARD

Years ago Steve had drunk to the dregs a despair that left life shorn of
everything but a desolate existence. The effect of that time had
remained in him. It would remain so long as he lived. But it was a
reverse of the picture which despairing human nature usually presents.
It had deepened the reserve of a nature at all times undemonstrative. It
had hardened a will that was already of an iron quality. It had deepened
and broadened a fine understanding of human nature, and finally it had
succeeded in mellowing a tolerance that had always been his. For him
those bitter moments had proved to be the cleansing fires which had
produced nothing but pure gold.

Now the memory of those dread moments was stirring afresh. But despair
had no place in the emotions it provoked. It was all the other extreme.
A world of glad hope had taken possession of him. A gladness
unspeakable, almost overpowering. A great impulse drove him now. It was
a sort of wild desire to yield to the amazing madness of it all, and cry
from the house-tops of his little world all that was clamouring for
unrestrained expression.

But the man had no more power to yield to this wild surge of feeling
than he had had power to yield to the despair of former years. So, for a
while, his voice remained silent, and only his lighting eyes gave index
of the thought and feeling behind them.

With the departure of Marcel and Keeko for the mother welcome of An-ina,
Steve also returned to the store. He came to release the willing
creature, yearning for that moment when she could revel in the joy of
the contemplation of her boy's happiness.

Steve took his place in the traffic that was going on, and nodded
soberly to the eager, dusky woman.

"Get right along, An-ina," he said kindly. "Guess they're needing you."

"Oh, yes? Marcel--Keeko." An-ina's eyes lit.

"Sure--and Keeko."

And the man's smile as he turned to the waiting customers was something
An-ina, at least, was never likely to forget.

Steve contemplated many things for that night. He contemplated unlocking
the doors of those hidden secrets of his life to which no one had been
admitted. But disappointment awaited him.

When the last of the Sleepers took their departure and the store was
closed for the night he passed into the kitchen for his supper. He
looked to find Keeko. He looked to find Marcel. He looked to revel in
those moments of happiness which still seemed utterly unreal, even
impossible. There were so many things he still had to learn before----

But An-ina had all the wisdom of a great mother. And, in response to his
question, he received the final verdict from which there was no appeal.

"Keeko all beat to death," she said, with quiet assurance. "She sleep
plenty. Oh, yes. Marcel he much angry with An-ina."

She glanced swiftly across at the great figure of Marcel, lounging over
the cook-stove, smoking with the happy content of a luxurious dreamer.
The smile that responded to An-ina's sly glance was one of boyish
shyness and held no threat of displeasure.

"Guess An-ina packed her to bed, Uncle Steve," he explained. "Keeko
hadn't a notion that way, but it didn't signify with An-ina. She
reckoned Keeko ought to be plumb beat and needing her bed. So she just
handed her supper, and gave her her own bed to sleep in."

Steve glanced from one to the other. Then, in his ready way he nodded.

"Guess An-ina got these things better than you and me, boy," he said.
"Anyway where other folks are concerned. There's only herself she don't
know about. Guess we can feed ourselves for once, while she finds the
blankets she's mostly ready to pass on to other folks."

A flicker of disappointment passed over the dusky face of the woman. But
there was no demur. She understood. Steve wanted Marcel to himself for
this, his first evening. So she bowed to the man's will.

With her going the two men sat in at the supper table. And of the two it
was only Marcel who did real justice to the plain fare An-ina's hands
had set out for them. The lover in Marcel left him still a giant that
needed bodily support. But with Steve there was a burden of thought and
emotion that left food the last thing to be desired.

For some moments there was a silence between them while the steaming tea
was poured from the iron pot on the corner of the stove. Each man helped
himself from the great dish of dry hash set for them. Steve helped
himself from sheer habit. Marcel ate hungrily.

It was Marcel who broke the silence. He was in no mood for silence.
There were many things seeking outlet in his mind. But paramount was the
all-dominating subject of Keeko.

"Say, Uncle," he cried suddenly, "isn't she just great? Isn't she----?"

Steve nodded.

"She's greater," he said, with twinkling eyes.

Marcel's eyes widened as he stared across at the man whose sympathy he
most desired.

"You're laffing at me," he said quickly.

Steve shook his head.

"No," he said. "I just mean that."

"You do?"

"Yes. There isn't a thing you could say, boy, to make that girl greater
in my eyes." Steve laid down the fork on his enamelled plate, and drank
some tea. "Say, the story of it all's so queer I can't get the full grip
of it. Maybe I will in time. When I've thought. Yes, it's queer. And the
queerest of it is you bringing her along to us the way you have."

For a moment his reflective eyes gazed away into the distance. Then
alert and full of simple sincerity, they came back to the face of the
youth beyond the lamp which stood between them.

"But I want to say right here that I'd sooner see you married to this
girl, Keeko, than any other woman in the whole darn world. The day that
sees her your wife'll give me a happiness you can't just dream about.
Does that make you feel right? I hope so, boy, I hope it bad."

There was no need for the older man's question. The answer was looking
back at him out of Marcel's eyes, which were shining with a boyish
delight.

"Thanks, Uncle," he returned for lack of better expression. Then, in a
moment, it seemed as if he could contain himself no longer. And words
literally tumbled from his lips. They were hot, frank impulsive words,
all unconsidered, all straight from an honest heart. "Say, you've just
been everything to me. You and An-ina. And I've never had a chance to
make return or do a thing. Oh, I know. But for you An-ina and I would
have been left to chase the country with no better lot than the darn
Sleepers. I've thought and thought. And I know. You've helped me grow a
man. You've taught me life. You've taught me just everything one man can
teach another. Oh, I guess I'm grateful. I feel so I can't ever repay
you. I've wanted to. I want that way now. And, say, you can't ever stop
me again. You're glad I'm going to marry Keeko. Why, it just means all
the world to me. Now I'm a man. I'm no fool kid any longer. The summer
trail's over for me, and I'm going to take my place in the great fight
you've been making all these years. You can't deny me--now. I--I won't
stand for it----"

Steve's smiling shake of the head brought the boy to a blank-eyed stop.

"The fight's won," he said. "There's no more fight for us."

"You mean----?"

Steve jerked his dark head in the direction of the store-house.

"It's full," he said. "Full, plumb up, of green weed. There's thousands
of the deadly lily blooms in there, packed and ready for Seal Bay.
Lorson Harris has lost the dirty game he's playing, and now--now he'll
just have to pay us all we choose to ask."

Marcel's food was forgotten. He stared across the table, blank amazement
looking out of his eyes.

"You've found it? The growing weed? You've brought it home? Uncle!"

"Yes." Never were Steve's eyes more sober. Never were they less
emotional. "You were full up to Keeko when you came along so I didn't
tell you. Two sled loads. As heavy as we could bank 'em up. I figure,
according to your father's reckoning of the stuff, there's well-nigh a
fortune lying back in that place." He paused and drew a deep breath.
"Yes. I got the trail. We can help ourselves. It's right in the heart of
Unaga, where the world's afire, like hell opened up from below. Say,
boy, I've seen wonders, the like I never dreamed about, and we beat all
this country could set up to keep safe its secrets. We passed through
one hell only to reach a worse. But we got it. We found it. And--the
fight's won."

Marcel forgot everything in that concise narrative of Steve's success.
All his lover's selfishness faded before the tremendous significance of
that final great adventure. He even forgot his own disappointment that
he had not been permitted to share in it. This great thing had happened,
the fulfilment of the dream that had been theirs. Then in a moment he
remembered. A thought, an apprehension flashed swiftly through his mind.
Lorson Harris! The man--Nicol!

"Is it finished?" he cried, with a swift change of manner. "Or is it
only just beginning? Say, Uncle--you've forgot. Harris! This feller we
brought you word of. Say----"

Steve shook his head.

"It's finished," he said, with a ring in his voice that carried absolute
conviction. "Oh, yes, it was like you to spare no effort to make home
with warning. I'm not blinded. Keeko made the journey to you with word,
but it was you who forced that journey through the haf thaw to save
An-ina and me. I can see you driving through as man never drove before,
and I guess I get the feeling that made you pass the credit on to Keeko.
But I allow she'll have a different yarn of that journey. Anyway,
there's no worry to this thing. I care nothing for Lorson Harris, or
this scum--Nicol. We've the growing weed. And the battle's won."

For moments Marcel had no answer in face of Steve's denial, so sternly
confident and assured. Young and impulsive as he was the force of the
older man was still irresistible. He drew out his pipe and filled it
thoughtfully, and finally disappointment took possession of him.

"Then there's nothing--nothing more? It's done?"

Just a shadow of eagerness crept into Marcel's final question. He felt
he was being robbed of the last chance of making return and proving his
manhood to the man who had given up his life to him.

Steve was swift to read the prompting of the other's words. He laughed
silently, gently, and his eyes were alight with deep affection.

"No. There's things to do yet," he said. "Oh, yes. There's a whole heap.
Your father didn't reckon to quit on the first load. He reckoned to help
the world with all his knowledge and body. And that's what I figger to
do--with your help."

"Ah!"

"Guess I see it this way. This summer sees you and Keeko in Seal Bay. Me
too. We've to trade our weed. And I guess, if it suits your fancy, we'll
find the passon feller, that can't kick religion into that township,
ready to fix you and Keeko up. After that there's the winter trail for
us both, for just as many seasons as you fancy. We've a mighty big work
still, before we strip the heart of Unaga of the treasure the world
needs."

In the reaction from his disappointment Marcel's generous nature
asserted itself. He saw himself at last admitted to that which he
considered the work of manhood. And he sought to embrace it all.

"But you, Uncle," he cried earnestly. "Is there need? Why should you
have to go on? Think of all you've done. Why, say--pass the work to me,
and take an easy."

Steve's eyes promptly denied him.

"Easy?" He shook his head. "Why should I? Guess the north country's mine
for keeps, boy. And when my time gets around I hope it finds me beating
up the dogs at 40° below, with a hell fire blizzard sweeping down off
the Arctic ice."

Steve was abroad early next morning. He had talked long and late with
Marcel over-night, and their talk had been mostly of Keeko and her life,
as the lover knew it. Never, to the moment they parted for the night,
did Steve display weariness of the subject of their talk. To Marcel it
seemed natural enough that this should be so. But then he was little
more than twenty, and in love. Steve's urgency for detail must have been
pathetic to any onlooker. To Marcel it was only another exhibition of
his goodness and sympathy for himself.

Steve had little enough sleep after he left the boy. For once in a hardy
lifetime he lay under his blankets with a mind feverishly alert. He was
yearning for the passing of night. He was well-nigh crazy for the sun of
the morrow. Yet withal a wonderful happiness robbed him of all
irritation at his wakefulness.

So it came in the chill dawn of a perfect spring morning, in which only
the melting snow had reason to weep, he was moving abroad in heavy boots
wading through the slush which would soon be past. He watched the sun
rise from its nightly slumber, and its brilliant light amidst the
passing clouds of night was a sign to him. It was the dawn of his great
day. It was the passing of his years-long night.

As the clouds dropped away and vanished below the horizon, leaving the
sun safely enthroned, an amazing jewel set in the world's azure canopy,
he passed again into the store. Even on this great day habit remained.
He replenished the stoves, and set the boilers of water in place for
An-ina. After that he passed out again, and made his way to the
store-house that held his secret.

He adjusted a mask upon his mouth and nostrils and tasted again the
sickening drug he had learned to hate. He unfastened the door and passed
within. For a long time he remained with the door closed behind him.
Later he reappeared, and, removing his mask, passed out into the pure
air of the morning. He secured the door behind him.

Absorbed in thought, his eyes unsmiling, he was making his way back to
the main building. It was not until he had almost reached the door that
he became aware of An-ina's presence. It was her voice that caused him
to look up.

"Look," she cried in her soft tones, and pointed.

Steve followed the direction of her lean brown finger. Marcel and Keeko
were standing in the great gateway of the stockade.

Steve's smile was good to see and An-ina responded in sympathy.

"They love. Sure. Oh, yes," she said.

Steve nodded. He was gazing at the tall, graceful figure of Keeko. He
seemed to have no eyes for the boy at all. Keeko, in her mannish clothes
of buckskin, her beaded, fur-trimmed tunic which revealed the
shapeliness of her youthful body. The vision of it all carried his mind
back so many years.

"Keeko for Marcel. Marcel for Keeko. Yes?"

Steve drew a deep breath.

"Yes. Thank God."

He moved away. There was no ceremony between these two. Steve's love for
An-ina was built upon the unshakable foundations of perfect
understanding. He strode out towards the gates, and the lovers heard the
splash of his boots as he waded the melting snow. They turned. And it
was Marcel who made half-shamefaced explanation.

"I was telling Keeko of the weed," he said. "I was telling her of the
fire country which I guess she got a peek at last summer--from a
distance. She was asking to know the trade Lorson Harris was yearning to
steal, and the feller Nicol was ready to murder for. She guesses it's
most like a fairy yarn."

Steve's eyes were steadily regarding the girl's smiling face. He noted
the beautiful, frank, wide eyes, the perfect lips that so reminded him--

The fresh, clear, transparent cheeks forming so perfect an oval. Then
there was her fair hair escaping from beneath the soft edges of her fur
cap. She was prettier even than he had first thought.

"I allow it maybe sounds that way," he said. Then he shook his head.
"But there's nothing unreal to it. No. There's no more unreal to Adresol
than there is to the hell fires raging away out there in the heart of
Unaga, where the whole place is white like a lake of pure milk with the
bloom of the plant that breathes certain death, but which holds in its
heart the greatest benefit the world's ever known. It's all queer, I
allow. But--say--" He turned and pointed at the store-house. "It's all
there. It's baled ready for Lorson Harris to buy. You can get a peek at
it, at the stuff these folks reckoned to steal. Will you----?"

The invitation stirred Marcel to prompt anxiety. He laid a hand on
Keeko's soft shoulder as she prepared to move away.

"Is it safe, Uncle Steve?" he demanded hastily. "You see, Keeko's not
like----"

"Safe? Sure." Steve produced two masks. "I've worked in there for weeks,
boy, with these things set on my face. I've worked all day and haf the
night--baling. Sure it's safe. You go, too. There's a mask for each, and
I guess they aren't just things of beauty. We'll go along over, and I'll
fix 'em for you. I kind of fancy Keeko should see what's hid up in that
store-house."

Steve led the way, and, hand in hand, like two children, the others
followed him. At the door of the store-house he paused and turned. He
stepped up to Marcel and adjusted his mask. And while he adjusted it his
eyes remained unsmiling. He was careful, infinitely careful, in the
adjustment, and in reply to the youth's protest at the nauseating taste
of the drug he was forced to inhale his retort was briefly to the point.

"Sure it's no bouquet," he said. "But it's that or a--halo, and wings
and things."

Keeko offered no protest at all. She was impressed far more than she
knew. It seemed to her that the simple trust which prompted the man's
action in revealing his secret to her, the secret Lorson Harris was
willing to pay a hundred thousand dollars for, was something too simply
wonderful for words.

With the adjustment of the masks Steve removed the fastenings that
barred the door. He held it closed a moment and turned to Marcel.

"You'll go first, boy. You'll go right in. I guess you've got the masks
so I can't come with you. I want you to take Keeko, and show it all.
Maybe you'll find things there you don't understand. That don't matter.
Maybe you can figger them out between you."

Then he turned to Keeko and his steady eyes regarded her seriously under
the disfiguring mask.

"Get a look at it all, my dear. All. But say, as you value your
life--and Marcel's and my peace of mind--don't shift that mask a hair's
breadth, no matter how you feel--looking around. When you come out you
can tell me about things."

He set the door ajar, and leading the girl by the hand Marcel passed
into the house of death.

Steve stood guard. He listened with straining ears. There came the faint
sound of muffled voices from within, and the sound of movement. The
moments dragged slowly. Once he thought he heard a series of sharp
exclamations. But he could not be sure. He expected them. That was all.

After awhile the voices ceased, and there only remained the shuffling of
feet whose sound drew nearer. The visit was short, as he expected it
would be. He understood. A moment later he felt pressure against the
door.

He opened it, and Keeko and Marcel returned to the open air. Without a
word Steve re-fastened the door. Marcel dragged the mask from his
troubled face and Keeko followed his example.

Steve turned from the door and stood confronting them. His eyes were
hard. They were almost fierce as he looked into the startled faces
before him.

"Well?" he demanded. Then his gaze rested on the girl. "You saw--it?"

Keeko inclined her head. She hesitated. A curious parching of throat and
tongue left her striving to moisten her trembling lips.

"Yes," she said, at last.

"And it was--Nicol?"

"Yes."

Quite suddenly Steve laughed. It was a mere expression of relief, but it
succeeded in robbing his eyes of a light which so rarely found place in
them. He pointed at the closed door.

"He came here in the night," he said. "I don't know how he came. I never
saw a sign of his outfit. Maybe they left him, as he didn't get back."

He shrugged indifference.

"It don't matter anyway. I was at work. Same as I'd been at work nights.
I'd a lamp burning. Maybe he saw me through the window. I guess that was
so. The door was shut, but unfastened. I didn't dare keep it fast,
working in there. Well, I heard a sound. The door was pushed wide and he
jumped in on me with a loaded gun at my vitals. He'd got me plumb set.
Sure. But the dope. It didn't give him a chance. It got a strangle-holt
right away, and he dropped dead at my feet. He's--he's your step-father?
The man you came to warn me of?"

"Yes."

Steve nodded.

"Here, let's quit this place. Guess it's not wholesome standing around.
Pass me the masks. We'll get right over to the sheds. There, where it's
dry, and we can sit. There's things I need to tell you right away. Both
of you."

Marcel and Keeko were sitting side by side on one of the sleds which had
not yet been completely unloaded. Steve was squatting on an up-turned
box that had been used to contain food stores for the trail. He was
facing them, and his back was towards the building of the store. It was
rather the picture of two children listening to some wonderful fairy
story, told in the staid tones of a well-loved parent. Never for a
moment was attention diverted. Never was interruption permitted. Even
the approach of An-ina passed unremarked.

And as Steve talked a beam of sunlight fell athwart his sturdy figure,
lightening its rough clothing, and surrounding him with a penetrating
light that revealed the sprinkling of grey beginning to mar the dark hue
of his ample hair. The lines, too, in his strong face, fine-drawn and
scarcely noticeable ordinarily, the searching sun of spring had no mercy
upon.

"Oh, it's a heap long way back," he said, "and I guess it all belongs to
me. Anyway it did till Keeko got around. Say, you need to think of a
crazy sort of feller who guessed that most all there was in life was to
make good for the woman he loved, and the poor girl kiddie she'd borne
him. You need to figger on a feller who didn't know a thing else, and
thought he was acting square and right by his wife the whole darn time.
He was a fool, a crazy fool. But he did all he knew, and the way he knew
it. His duty was the law and order of a wide enough territory around
Athabasca, which is just one hell of a piece of country from here. When
you've thought of that you want to think of a real good woman, all
pretty, and bright, with blue eyes and fair hair, and her baby girl the
same. You want to reckon she was just about your ages, and was plumb
full of life, and ready for all the play going. When you've got that you
want to think of her man being away from their home months and months,
winter and summer. It was his work. And all the time there's a feller, a
mean, low, skunk of a feller with a good-looker face, and the manners
and talk of a swell white man, hanging around on that home doorstep. So
it goes on. How long I don't know. Then comes a time when this p'lice
officer gets out on a mission to Unaga. And it's the other feller that
has to hand him his orders. Do you see? That trip's a two years' trip,
and the pore gal is just left around home with her baby the whole time.
Oh, she's got her food, and home, and money. That's so. Well, at the end
of that trip the feller gets back. He's found up there a white kiddie,
and an Indian nurse woman, and the hell of a tragedy of the boy's
parents. So he brings the kiddie back, a little brother to his baby
girl."

Steve drew a deep breath and stirred. When he went on his eyes were
gazing out at the sunlight beyond the shed.

"When he made home with the life well-nigh beat out of him, his outfit a
wreck, and the nurse woman and the kiddie no better, his wife and his
baby girl were gone. They'd been gone a great while. So had the man.
They had gone together, and the man was wanted for stealing the Treaty
Money of the Indians he was the government agent for. Do you get that?"

Keeko nodded. She was listening with breathless interest for she felt
the story was addressed to her. Marcel, too, was absorbed. But the
ultimate drift of the story was scarcely as clear to him yet.

"Well, it don't need telling you the things that happened after that,"
Steve went on with a half-smile that was something desperately grim.
"Maybe that feller went nigh mad. I don't know. Anyway, when he got
better of things he hit out after that skunk of an agent in the hope of
coming up with him, and killing him."

"But he was saved that. Maybe it was meant he should be. We can't reckon
these things. Anyway he never saw his wife again. He never saw his baby
girl. And--he never saw Hervey Garstaing till weeks ago he came under
the label of Nicol--right along here to set the story of murder into his
book of life. He's there in that store-house and he's been dead weeks.
Only the rottenness in him hasn't broke out because of the weed. Anyway
he's dead. He was a scum that had no place in this world, and I guess
Providence handed it to him in its own fashion and time. He robbed me of
Nita. He robbed me of----"

"Nita--my mother's name." Keeko's voice was choked. A world of emotion
seemed to be striving to overwhelm her. Marcel in bewilderment was
regarding only the strong face of the man seated in the sunlight.

Steve inclined his head.

"Yes. Nita was your mother."

An uncontrollable impulse urged the girl. She had no power to resist it.
Why should she? This man--this man to whom Marcel had brought her, with
his steady eyes and strong face. He--he----

She sprang from her seat beside her lover, the great creature staring so
amazedly at the man, who, for a moment, had permitted a glance into
those close-hidden secrets of his heart. In a moment she was on her
knees at Steve's side, and the man's hands were grasping hers in their
strong embrace.

"And you--you are my--father!" she cried.

Steve crushed the hands in his with a power that told of the feeling
stirring.

"Yes," he said simply. Then he added very gently, very tenderly. "And
you--you are my little baby girl Coqueline."

And in the silence that followed there reached them from close behind
the sound of the low, soft voice of the mother woman.

"So. An-ina glad. Oh, yes."

THE END