to the lower crossing, where McKay put a locomotive at his disposal for
the trip to Omar. By the time he arrived there he was quite himself
again, suave, self-possessed, and magnificently outraged at the
treatment he had received. O'Neil met him with courtesy.

"Your man Appleton has lost his head," Gordon began. "I've come to ask
you to call him off."

"He is following instructions to the letter."

"Do you mean that you refuse to allow me to run my right-of-way along
that hillside? Impossible!" His voice betokened shocked surprise.

"I am merely holding my own survey. I can't quit work to accommodate
you."

"But, my dear sir, I must insist that you do."

O'Neil shrugged.

"Then there is but one way to construe your refusal--it means that you
declare war."

"You saved me that necessity when you sent Linn to hire my men away."

Gordon ignored this reference. "You must realize, O'Neil," said he,
"that I am merely asking what is mine. I have the right to use that
canonside--the right to use your track at that point, in fact, if it
proves impracticable to parallel it--under the law of common user. You
are an experienced contractor; you must be familiar with that law."

"Yes. I looked it up before beginning operations, and I found it has
never been applied to Alaska."

Gordon started. "That's a ridiculous statement."

"Perhaps, but it's true. Alaska is not a territory, it's a district,
and it has its own code. Until the law of common user has been applied
here you'll have to use the other side of the river."

"That would force me to bridge twice in passing the upper glacier. We
shall see what the courts have to say."

"Thanks! I shall be grateful for the delay."

Gordon rose with a bow. The interview had been short and to the point.
O'Neil put an engine at his service for the return trip, and after a
stiff adieu the visitor departed, inwardly raging.

It was his first visit to Omar, and now that he was here he determined
to see it all. But first another matter demanded his attention--a
matter much in his mind of late, concerning which he had reached a more
or less satisfactory decision during his journey.

He went directly to the new hotel and inquired for Gloria Gerard.

Beneath the widow's coldness when she came to meet him he detected an
uncertainty, a frightened indecision which assured him of success, and
he set himself to his task with the zest he always felt in bending
another to his will.

"It has been the greatest regret of my life that we quarreled," he told
her when their strained greeting was over. "I felt that I had to come
and see with my own eyes that you are well."

"I am quite well."

"Two people who have been to each other as much as we have been cannot
lightly separate; their lives cannot be divided without a painful
readjustment." He paused, then reflecting that he could afford a little
sentimental extravagance, added, "Flowers cannot easily be
transplanted, and love, after all, is the frailest of blooms."

"I--think it is perennial. Have you--missed me?" Her dark eyes were
strained and curious.

"My dear, you can never know how much, nor how deeply distressing this
whole affair has been to me." He managed to put an affecting pathos
into words sufficiently banal, for he was an excellent actor. "I find
that I am all sentiment. Under the shell of the hard-headed business
man beats the heart of a school-boy. The memory of the hours we have
spent together, the places we have seen, the joys and discouragements
we have shared, haunts me constantly. Memory can glean but never renew:
'joy's recollection is no longer joy while sorrow's memory is sorrow
still.'"

The spell of his personality worked strongly upon her. "Recollection is
the only paradise from which we cannot be turned out," she said. "You
read that to me once, but I didn't dream that my own happiness would
some day consist of recollection."

"Why should it, Gloria? Hope is ready to welcome you. Your home stands
open; my arms are outstretched."

"No!" she exclaimed, with a shake of her dark head. "There is some one
besides myself to consider. Natalie is happy here; no one seems to know
or to care what I have done."

"But surely you are not satisfied with this."

He ran his eye critically over the garish newness of the little hotel
parlor. It was flimsy, cheap, fresh with paint, very different from the
surroundings he had given her at Hope. "I wonder that he presumed to
offer you this after what you have had. A hotel-keeper! A landlady!"

"I was glad to get even this, for I have no pride now," she returned,
coldly. "At least the house is honest, and the men who come here are
the same. Mr. O'Neil is especially kind to Natalie, and she thinks a
great deal of him."

"I presume he wants to marry her."

"I pray that he will. I don't intend her to make the mistake I did."

Gordon received this announcement with grim satisfaction. It was what
he had suspected, and it fitted perfectly into his plans.

"I sha'n't allow this to continue, Gloria," he said. "Our difference
has gone far enough, and I sha'n't permit O'Neil to put me in his debt.
We have come to a final understanding, he and I. While my views on the
holiness of the marriage relation have not changed in the least, still
I am ready to follow your wishes."

"You--mean it?" she queried, breathlessly.

"I do. Come home, Gloria."

"Wait! I must tell Natalie." She rose unsteadily and left the room,
while he reflected with mingled scorn and amusement upon the weakness
of human nature and the gullibility of women.

A moment later mother and daughter appeared, arm in arm, both very pale.

"Is this true?" Natalie demanded.

"Quite true. You and Gloria seem to think I owe something; I never
shirk a debt." Mrs. Gerard's fingers tightened painfully upon her
daughter's arm as he continued: "There is only one condition upon which
I insist: you must both return to Hope at once and have done with
this--this man."

Natalie hesitated, but the look in her mother's eyes decided her. With
some difficulty she forced herself to acquiesce, and felt the grip upon
her arm suddenly relax. "When will the wedding take place?" she asked.

"At the earliest possible moment," Gordon declared, with well-feigned
seriousness. "Once we return to God's country--"

"No!" cried Natalie. "We can't go back to Hope until she is married; it
would be scandalous."

"Why more scandalous to accept my protection than that of a stranger?
Do you care what these people think?" he demanded, with an air of fine
scorn.

"Yes! I care very much."

"Is there any--reason for waiting?" Mrs. Gerard inquired.

"Many! Too many to enumerate. It is my condition that you both leave
Omar at once."

Gloria Gerard looked at her daughter in troubled indecision, but
Natalie answered firmly:

"We can't do that."

"So! You have your own plans, no doubt, and it doesn't trouble you that
you are standing in the way of your mother's respectability!" His voice
was harsh, his sneer open. "Bless my soul! Is the generosity to be all
on my side? Or has this man O'Neil forbidden you to associate with me?"

"I don't trust you." Natalie flared up. "I'm afraid you are trying--"

"It is my condition, and I am adamant. Believe me, O'Neil knows of your
disgrace, or will learn of it in time. It would be well to protect your
name while you can." Turning to the other woman, he said loudly:
"Gloria, the girl is ready to sacrifice you to her own ends."

"Wait!" Natalie's nerves were tingling with dislike of the man, but she
said steadily: "I shall do exactly as mother wishes."

Be it said to the credit of Gloria Gerard that she did not hesitate.

"I shall be here when you are ready," she told him.

With an exclamation of rage Gordon rose and strode out of the room.

XIII

WE JOURNEY TO A PLACE OF MANY WONDERS

Curtis Gordon's men broke camp upon his return from Omar, and by taking
the east bank of the Salmon River pressed through to the upper valley.
Here they recrossed to the west side and completed their survey, with
the exception of the three-mile gap which Dan Appleton held.

Gordon continued to smart under the sting of his defeat, however.
O'Neil had gotten the better of him in argument, and Natalie's
simplicity had proved more than a match for his powers of persuasion.
At no time had he seriously considered making Mrs. Gerard his wife, but
he had thought to entice the two women back under his own roof, in
order to humble both them and their self-appointed protector. He felt
sure that Natalie's return to Hope and her residence there would injure
her seriously in the eyes of the community, and this would be a stab to
O'Neil. Although he had failed for the moment, he did not abandon the
idea. His display of anger upon leaving the hotel had been due mainly
to disappointment at the checkmate. But knowing well the hold he
possessed upon the older woman, he laid it away for later use when the
fight grew hot, and meanwhile devoted himself to devising further
measures by which to harass his enemy and incidentally advance his own
fortunes.

Gordon's business career had consisted of a series of brilliant
manipulations whereby, with little to go upon, he had forced financial
recognition for himself. No one knew better than he the unstable
foundation beneath his Alaskan enterprises; yet more than once he had
turned as desperate ventures into the semblance of success. By his
present operations he sought not only to hamper O'Neil, but to create
an appearance of opposition to both him and the Trust that could be
coined into dollars and cents. There are in the commercial world money
wolves who prey upon the weak and depend upon the spirit of compromise
in their adversaries. Gordon was one of these. He had the faculty of
snatching at least half a victory from apparent defeat, and for this
reason he had been able to show a record sufficiently impressive to
convince the average investor of his ability.

By purchasing for a song the McDermott rights at Kyak he had placed
himself in position to share in the benefits of the Heidlemann
breakwater, and by rapidly pushing his tracks ahead he made his rivalry
seem formidable. As a means of attack upon O'Neil he adopted a
procedure common in railroad-building. He amended his original survey
so that it crossed that of the S. R. & N. midway between the lower
bridge over the Salmon River and the glaciers, and at that point began
the hasty erection of a grade.

It was at the cost of no little inconvenience that he rushed forward a
large body of men and supplies, and began to lay track across the S. R.
& N. right-of-way. If Appleton could hold a hillside, he reasoned, he
himself could hold a crossing, if not permanently, at least for a
sufficient length of time to serve his purpose.

His action came as a disagreeable surprise to Omar. These battles for
crossings have been common in the history of railroading, and they have
not infrequently resulted in sanguinary affrays. Long after the ties
are spiked and the heads are healed, the legal rights involved have
been determined, but usually amid such a tangle of conflicting
testimony and such a confusion of technicalities as to leave the
justice of the final decision in doubt. In the unsettled conditions
that prevailed in the Salmon River valley physical possession of a
right-of-way was at least nine-tenths of the law, and O'Neil realized
that he must choose between violence and a compromise. Not being given
to compromise, he continued his construction work, and drew closer, day
by day, to the point of contact.

Reports came from the front of his opponent's preparations for
resistance. Gordon had laid several hundred yards of light rails upon
his grade, and on these he had mounted a device in the nature of a
"go-devil" or skip, which he shunted back and forth by means of a
donkey-engine and steel cable. With this in operation across the point
of intersection like a shuttle, interference would be extremely
dangerous. In addition, he had built blockhouses and breast-works of
ties, and in these, it was reported, he had stationed the pick of his
hired helpers, armed and well provisioned.

Toward this stronghold Murray O'Neil's men worked, laying his road-bed
as straight as an arrow, and as the intervening distance decreased
anxiety and speculation at Omar increased.

Among those who hung upon the rumors of the approaching clash with
greatest interest was Eliza Appleton. Since Dan's departure for the
front she had done her modest best to act the part he had forced upon
her, and in furtherance of their conspiracy she had urged O'Neil to
fulfil his promise of taking her over the work. She felt an
ever-growing curiosity to see those glaciers, about which she had heard
so much; and she reflected, though not without a degree of
self-contempt, that nothing could be more favorable to her design than
the intimacy of several days together on the trail. Nothing breeds a
closer relationship than the open life, nothing brings people more
quickly into accord or hopeless disagreement. Although she had no
faintest idea that Murray could or would ever care seriously for her,
she felt that there was a bare possibility of winning his transient
interest and in that way, perhaps, affording her brother time in which
to attain his heart's desire. Of course, it was all utterly absurd, yet
it was serious enough to Dan; and her own feelings--well, they didn't
matter.

She was greatly excited when O'Neil announced one evening:

"I'm ready to make that trip to the front, if you are. I have business
at Kyak; so after we've seen the glaciers we will go down there and you
can take in the coal-fields."

"How long shall we be gone?"

"Ten days, perhaps. We'll start in the morning."

"I'm ready to leave at a moment's notice."

"Then perhaps you'd better help Natalie."

"Natalie!" exclaimed Eliza, seeing all her well-laid plans tottering.
"Is she going?"

"Oh yes! It's an opportunity she shouldn't miss, and I thought it would
be pleasanter for you if she went with us."

Eliza was forced to acknowledge his thoughtfulness, although it angered
her to be sacrificed to the proprieties. Her newspaper training had
made her feel superior to such things, and this of all occasions was
one upon which she would have liked to be free of mere conventions. But
of course she professed the greatest delight.

O'Neil had puzzled her greatly of late; for at times he seemed wrapped
up in Natalie, and at other times he actually showed a preference for
Eliza's own company. He was so impartial in his attentions that at one
moment the girl would waver in her determination and in the next would
believe herself succeeding beyond her hope. The game confused her
emotions curiously. She accused herself of being overbold, and then she
noted with horror that she was growing as sensitive to his apparent
coldness as if she were really in earnest. She had not supposed that
the mere acting of a sentimental role could so obsess her.

To counteract this tendency she assumed a very professional air when
they set out on the following morning. She was once more Eliza Appleton
the reporter, and O'Neil, in recognition of this fact, explained
rapidly the difficulties of construction which he had met and overcome.
As she began to understand there came to her a fuller appreciation of
the man and the work he was doing. Natalie, however, could not seem to
grasp the significance of the enterprise. She saw nothing beyond the
even gravel road-bed, the uninteresting trestles and bridges and cuts
and fills, the like of which she had seen many times before, and her
comment was childlike. O'Neil, however, appeared to find her naivete
charming, and Eliza reflected bitterly:

"If my nose was perfectly chiseled and my eyebrows nice, he wouldn't
care if my brain was the size of a rabbit's. Here am I, talking like a
human being and really understanding him, while she sits like a Greek
goddess, wondering if her hat is on straight. If ever I find a girl
uglier than I am I'll make her my bosom friend." She jabbed her pencil
viciously at her notebook.

The track by this time had been extended considerably beyond the lower
crossing--a circumstance which rendered their boat journey to the
glaciers considerably shorter than the one Dan had taken with his cargo
of dynamite. When the engine finally stopped it was in the midst of a
tent village beside which flowed one of the smaller branches of the
Salmon. In the distance the grade stretched out across the level swamps
like a thin, lately healed scar, and along its crest gravel-trains were
slowly creeping. An army of men like a row of ants were toiling upon
it, and still farther away shone the white sides of another encampment.

"Oh! That's Gordon's track," Eliza cried, quickly. "Why, you're nearly
up to him. How do you intend to get across?"

O'Neil nodded at the long thin line of moiling men in the distance.

"There's a loose handle in each one of those picks," he said.

"Somebody will be killed in that kind of a racket."

"That rests with Gordon. I'm going through."

"Suppose he had said that when Dan stopped him at the canon?"

"If he'd said it and meant it he'd probably have done it. He bluffs; I
don't! I have to go on; he didn't. Now lunch is served; and since this
is our last glimpse of civilization, I advise you to fortify
yourselves. From here on we shall see nothing but the wilderness."

He led them to a spotless tent which had been newly erected at the edge
of the spruce. It was smoothly stretched upon a framework of timber,
its walls and floor were of dressed lumber, and within were two cots
all in clean linen. There were twin washstands also, and dressers and
rocking-chairs, a table and a stove. On the floor beside the beds lay a
number of deep, soft bear-rugs. A meal was spread amid glass and
figured china and fresh new napery.

"How cozy! Why, it's a perfect dear of a house!" exclaimed Natalie.

"You will leave everything but your necessaries here, for we are going
light," Murray told them. "You will stop here on our way back to Kyak,
and I'll warrant you'll be glad to see the place by that time."

"You built this just for us," Eliza said, accusingly.

"Yes. But it didn't take long. I 'phoned this morning that you were
coming." He ran a critical eye over the place to see that its equipment
was complete, then drew out their chairs for them.

A white-coated cook-boy served a luncheon in courses, the quality of
which astonished the visitors, for there was soup, a roast, delicious
vegetables, crisp salad, a camembert which O'Neil had imported for his
private use, and his own particular blend of coffee.

The girls ate with appetites that rivaled those of the men in the
mess-tent near by. Their presence in the heart of a great activity, the
anticipation of adventure to come, the electric atmosphere of haste and
straining effort on every hand excited them. Eliza began to be less
conscious of her secret intention, and Natalie showed a gaiety rare in
her since the shadow of her mother's shame had fallen upon her life.

The boat crews were waiting when they had finished, and they were soon
under way. A mile of comparatively slack water brought them out into
one of the larger estuaries of the river, and there the long, uphill
pull began. O'Neil had equipped his two companions with high rubber
boots, which they were only too eager to try. As soon as they got
ashore they began to romp and play and splash through the shallows
quite like unruly children. They spattered him mischievously, they
tugged at the towing-ropes with a great show of assistance, they
scampered ahead of the party, keeping him in a constant panic lest they
meet with serious accident.

It was with no little relief that he gave the order to pitch camp some
hours later. After sending them off to pick wild currants, with a grave
warning to beware of bears, he saw to the preparations for the night.
They returned shortly with their hats filled and their lips stained;
then, much to his disgust, they insisted upon straightening out his
tent with their own hands. Once inside its low shelter, they gleefully
sifted sand between his blankets and replaced his pillow with a rock;
then they induced the cook to coil a wet string in his flapjack. When
supper was over and the camp-fires of driftwood were crackling merrily,
they fixed themselves comfortably where their feet would toast, and
made him tell them stories until his eyes drooped with weariness.

It was late summer, and O'Neil had expected to find the glaciers less
active than usual, but heavy rains in the interior and hot thawing
weather along the coast had swelled the Salmon until many bergs clogged
it, while the reverberations which rolled down the valley told him that
both Garfield and Jackson were caving badly. It was not the safest time
at which to approach the place, he reflected, but the girls had shown
themselves nimble of foot, and he put aside his uneasiness.

Short though the miles had been and easy as the trip had proved, Eliza
soon found herself wondering that it should be possible to penetrate
this region at all. The snarling river, the charging icebergs, the
caving banks, and the growing menace of that noisy gap ahead began to
have their effect upon her and Natalie; and when the party finally
rounded the point where Murray and Dan had caught their first glimpse
of the lower glacier they paused with exclamations of amazement. They
stood at the upper end of a gorge between low bluffs, and just across
the hurrying flood lay the lower limit of the giant ice-field. The
edge, perhaps six hundred feet distant, was sloping and mud-stained,
for in its slow advance it had plowed a huge furrow, lifting boulders,
trees, acres of soil upon its back. The very bluff through which the
river had cut its bed was formed of the debris it had thrown off, and
constituted a bulwark protecting its flank. Farther up-stream the
slope, became steeper, then changed to a rugged perpendicular face
showing marks of recent cleavage. This palisade extended on and on,
around the nearest bend, following the contour of the Salmon as far as
they could see. The sun was reflected from its myriad angles and facets
in splendid iridescence. Mammoth caves and caverns gaped. In spots the
ice was white, opaque; in other places it was a light cerulean blue
which shaded into purple. Ribbons and faint striations meandered
through it like the streaks in an agate. But what struck the beholders
with overwhelming force was the tremendous, the unbelievable bulk of
the whole slowly moving mass. It reared itself sheerly three hundred
feet high, and along its foot the river hurried, dwarfed to an
insignificant trickle. Here and there it leaned outward threateningly,
bulging from the terrific weight behind; at other points the muddy
flood recoiled from vast heaps which had slid downward and half dammed
its current. Back of these piles the fresh cleavage showed dazzlingly.
On, upward, back into the untracked mountains it ran through mile upon
mile of undulations, until at last it joined the ice-cap which weighted
the plateau. As far as the eye could follow the river ahead it stood
solidly. Across its entire face it was dripping; a thousand little
rills and waterfalls ate into it, and over it swept a cool, dank breath.

The effect of the first view was overwhelming. Nothing upon the earth
compares in majesty and menace to these dull-eyed monsters of bygone
ages; nothing save the roots of mountains can serve to check them;
nothing less than the ceaseless energy of mighty rivers can sweep away
their shattered fragments.

Murray O'Neil had seen Jackson Glacier many times, but always he
experienced the same feeling of awe, of personal insignificance, as
when he first came stumbling up that gorge more than a year before.

For a long time the girls stood gazing without a word. They seemed to
have forgotten his presence.

"Well?" he said at last.

"Isn't it BIG?" Natalie faltered, with round eyes. "Will it fall over
on us?"

He shook his head. "The river is too wide for that, but when a
particularly big mass drops it makes waves large enough to sweep
everything before them. This bank on our right is sixty feet high, but
I've seen it inundated."

Turning to Eliza, he inquired:

"What do you think of it?"

Her face as she met his was strangely glorified, her eyes were shining,
her fingers tightly interlocked.

"I--I'd like to cry or--or swear," she said, uncertainly,

"Why, Eliza!" Natalie regarded her friend in shocked amazement, but
Murray laughed.

"It affects people differently," he said. "I have men who refuse to
make this trip. There's something about Jackson that frightens
them--perhaps it is its nearness. You see, there's no other place on
the globe where we pygmies dare come so close to a live glacier of this
size."

"How can we go on?" Natalie asked. "We must work our boats along this
bank. If the ice begins to crack anywhere near us I want you both to
scamper up into the alders as fast as your rubber boots will carry you."

"What will you do?" Eliza eyed him curiously.

"Oh, I'll follow; never fear! If it's not too bad, I'll stay with the
boats, of course. But we're not likely to have much difficulty at this
season."

Eliza noted the intensity with which the boatmen were scanning the
passage ahead, and something in O'Neil's tone told her he was speaking
with an assurance he did not wholly feel.

"You have lost some men here, haven't you?" she asked.

"Yes. But the greater danger is in coming down. Then we have to get out
in the current and take our chances."

"I'd like to do that!" Her lips were parted, her eyes were glowing, but
Natalie gave a little cry of dismay.

"It's an utterly new sensation," O'Neil admitted. "I've been thinking
of sending you up across the moraine, but the trail is bad, and you
might get lost among the alders--"

"And miss any part of this! I wouldn't do it for worlds." Eliza's
enthusiasm was irresistible, and the expedition was soon under way
again.

Progress was more difficult now, for the river-shore was paved with
smooth, round stones which rolled under foot, and the boats required
extreme attention in the swift current. The farther they proceeded, the
more the ice wall opposite increased in height, until at last it shut
off the mountains behind. Then as they rounded the first bend a new
prospect unfolded itself. The size of Jackson became even more
apparent; the gravel bank under which they crept was steeper and higher
also. In places it was undercut by the action of the waves which
periodically surged across. At such points Murray sent his charges
hurrying on ahead, while he and his men tracked the boats after them.
In time they found themselves opposite the backbone of the glacier,
where the Salmon gnawed at the foot of a frozen cliff of prodigious
height. And now, although there had been no cause for apprehension
beyond an occasional rumble far back or a splitting crack from near at
hand, the men assumed an attitude of strained watchfulness and kept
their faces turned to the left. They walked quietly, as if they felt
themselves in some appalling presence.

At last there came a sound like that of a cannon-shot, and far ahead of
them a fragment loosened itself and went plunging downward. Although it
appeared small, a ridge promptly leaped out from beneath the splash and
came racing down the river's bosom toward them.

"Better go up a bit," O'Neil called to his charges.

The men at the ends of the tow-lines scrambled part way up the shelving
beach and braced themselves, then wrapped the ropes about their waists,
like anchormen on a tug-of-war team. Their companions waded into the
flood and fended the boats off the rocks.

The wave came swiftly, lifting the skiffs high upon the bank, then it
sucked them back amid a tangle of arms and legs. A portion of the
river-bottom suddenly bared itself and as suddenly was submerged again.
The boats plunged and rolled and beat themselves upon the shore,
wrenching the anchormen from their posts. They were half filled with
water too, but the wave had passed and was scudding away down-stream.

Eliza Appleton came stumbling back over the rock-strewn bank, for
during that first mad plunge she had seen O'Neil go down beneath one of
the rearing craft. A man was helping him out.

"Nothing but my ankle!" he reassured her when she reached his side. "I
was dragged a bit and jammed among the boulders." He sank down, and his
lips were white with pain, but his gray eyes smiled bravely. The
boatman removed his chief's boot and fell to rubbing the injury, while
the girls looked on helplessly.

"Come, come! We can't stay here," Murray told them. He drew on the boot
again to check the swelling.

"Can you walk?" they asked him, anxiously.

"Certainly! Two feet are really unnecessary. A man can get along nearly
as well on one." He hurried his men back to their tasks, and managed to
limp after them, although the effort brought beads of sweat to his lips
and brow.

It was well that he insisted upon haste, for they had not gone far when
the glacier broke abreast of the spot they had just left. There came a
rending crack, terrifying in its loudness; a tremendous tower of ice
separated itself from the main body, leaned slowly outward, then roared
downward, falling in a solid piece like a sky-scraper undermined. Not
until the arc described by its summit had reached the river's surface
did it shiver itself. Then there was a burst as of an exploded mine.
The saffron waters of the Salmon shot upward until they topped the main
rampart, and there separated into a cloud of spray which rained down in
a deluge. Out from the fallen mass rushed a billow which gushed across
the channel, thrashed against the high bank, then inundated it until
the alder thickets on its crest whipped their tips madly. A giant
charge of fragments of every size flew far out across the flats or
lashed the waters to further anger in its fall.

The prostrate column lay like a wing-dam, half across the stream, and
over it the Salmon piled itself. Disintegration followed; bergs heaved
themselves into sight and went rolling and lunging after the billow
which was rushing down-stream with the speed of a locomotive. They
ground and clashed together in furious confusion as the river spun
them; the greater ones up-ended themselves, casting off muddy cascades.
From the depths of the flood came a grinding and crunching as ice met
rock.

Spellbound, the girls watched that first wave go tearing out of sight,
filling the river bank-full. With exclamations of wonder, they saw the
imprisoned waters break the huge dam to pieces. Finally the last
shattered fragment was hurried out of sight, the flood poured past
unhampered, and overhead the glacier towered silent, unchanged, staring
at them balefully like a blind man with filmed eyes. There remained
nothing but a gleaming scar to show where the cataclysm had originated.

"If I'd known the river was so high I'd never have brought you," O'Neil
told them. "It's fortunate we happened to be above that break. You see,
the waves can't run up against the current." He turned to his men and
spurred them on.

It was not until the travelers had reached the camp at the bridge site
that all the wonders of this region became apparent. Then the two
girls, in spite of their fatigue, spent the late afternoon
sight-seeing. At this point they were able to gain a comprehensive
view; for at their backs lay Jackson Glacier, which they had just
passed, and directly fronting them, across a placid lake, was Garfield,
even larger and more impressive than its mate. Thirty, forty miles it
ran back, broadening into a frozen sea out of which scarred mountain
peaks rose like bleak islands, and on beyond the range of vision was
still more ice.

They were surrounded by ragged ramparts. The Salmon River ran through a
broken chalice formed by the encircling hills, and over the rim of the
bowl or through its cracks peered other and smaller ice bodies. The
lake at its bottom was filled by as strange a navy as ever sailed the
sea; for the ships were bergs, and they followed each other in
senseless, ceaseless manoeuvers, towed by the currents which swept
through from the cataract at its upper end. They formed long
battle-lines, they assembled into flotillas, they filed about the
circumference of a devil's whirlpool at the foot of the rapids,
gyrating, bobbing, bowing until crowded out by the pressure of their
rivals. Some of them were grounded, like hulks defeated in previous
encounters, and along the guardian bar which imprisoned them at the
outlet of the lake others were huddled, a mass of slowly dissolving
wreckage.

O'Neil was helped into camp, and when his boot had been cut away he
sent news of his arrival to Dan, who came like an eager bridegroom.

XIV

HOW THE TRUTH CAME TO ELIZA

Appleton found his employer with one foot in a tub of hot water and his
lap full of blueprints. O'Neil explained briefly the condition of
affairs down the river.

"I want some one to make that crossing," he said.

"A volunteer?" asked Dan, with quickened pulses.

"Yes."

"Will I do?"

"I sent for you to give you the first chance--you've been chafing so at
your idleness. We must have steel laid to this point before snow flies.
Every hour counts. I daren't risk Mellen or McKay, for they might be
disabled. I intended to take charge myself, but I won't be able to walk
now for some time." He swore a little, and Dan nodded sympathetically.
"I wouldn't send anybody where I'd refuse to go myself. You understand?"

"Of course."

"If either McKay or Mellen were hurt I couldn't build the bridge, and
the bridge must be built."

"If Gordon stands pat somebody may be--hurt."

"I don't look for anything worse than a few broken heads, but of course
I can't tell. I'll stand behind you with my last dollar, no matter what
happens."

Dan laughed. "As I understand the situation you won't have a dollar
unless we make the crossing."

"Right!" O'Neil smiled cheerfully. "The life of the S. R. & N. depends
upon it. I'd give ten thousand dollars for your right ankle."

"You can have it for nothing, Chief. I'd amputate the whole leg and
present it to you," Dan declared earnestly.

Murray took his hand in a hearty grip. "Perhaps I'll be able to serve
you some time," he said, simply. "Anyhow, I'll look out for the chance.
Now spend the evening with the girls, and leave in the morning. I'll be
down as soon as I can travel, to watch the fight from the side-lines."
O'Neil's voice was level, but his teeth were shut and his fingers were
clenched with rage at his disability.

Dan hurried away highly elated, but when he told Eliza of the part he
had undertaken she stormed indignantly.

"Why, the brute! He has no right to send you into danger. This isn't
war."

"Sis, dear, it's my chance. He can't stand, and he daren't risk his
right-hand men."

"So he sacrifices you! I won't permit it. Your life and safety are
worth more than all his dollars. Let his old railroad go to smash!"

"Wait! More than my safety depends on this. He said he'd wait for a
chance to pay me back. If I do this he'll owe me more than any man on
the job, and when he learns that I love Natalie--"

"Dan!" exclaimed his sister.

"Oh, he'll make good!"

"Why, you're worse than he! The idea of suggesting such a thing!"

"Don't preach! I've had nothing to do lately but think of her; she's
always in my mind. The loneliness up here has made me feel more than
ever that I can't exist without her. The river whispers her name; her
face looks at me from the campfire; the wind brings me her messages--"

"Fiddlesticks! She saves her messages for him. When a man reaches the
poetical stage he's positively sickening. You'll be writing verses
next."

"I've written 'em," Dan confessed, sheepishly; "oceans of mush."

"Fancy! Thank Heaven one of us is sane."

"Our dispositions were mixed when we were born, Eliza. You're
unsentimental and hard-headed: I'm romantic. You'll never know what
love means."

"If you are a sample, I hope not." Eliza's nose assumed an even higher
tilt than usual.

"Well, if I knew I had no chance with Natalie I'd let Gordon's men put
an end to me--that's how serious it is. But I have a chance--I know I
have."

"Bosh! You've lived in railroad camps too long. I know a dozen girls
prettier than she." Eying him with more concern, she asked, seriously,
"You wouldn't really take advantage of a service to Murray O'Neil
to--to tell him the nature of your insanity?"

"I might not actually tell him, but I'd manage it so he'd find out."

"Don't you think Natalie has something to say? Don't you think she is
more than a piece of baggage waiting to be claimed by the first man who
comes along?" sputtered Miss Appleton in fine disgust at this attitude.
"She has more sense and determination than any girl, any pretty girl, I
ever saw. That's one reason why I hate her so. There's no use trying to
select a husband for her. When the time comes she'll do the selecting
herself. She'll knock over all our plans and walk blushingly up to the
altar with O'Neil, leaving us out on the sidewalk to cheer. I'm sorry I
ever tried to help you! I'm going to quit and get back my self-respect."

"You'll do no such thing. You'll continue to help your poor red-headed
brother to the finish. Say! When I'm alone I'm just bursting with
optimism; when I'm with you I wither with despair; when I'm with
Natalie I become as heavy and stupid as a frog full of buckshot--I just
sit and blink and bask and revel in a sort of speechless bliss. If she
ever saw how really bright and engaging I am--"

"You!" Eliza sniffed. "You're as uninteresting as I am."

"Now that you've pledged your undying support, here goes for some
basking," said Dan; and he made off hastily in search of Miss Gerard.

Eliza had really made up her mind to wash her hands of the affair, but
she wavered, and, as usual, she gave in. She did go to O'Neil to
protest at Dan's selection for the post of danger, but after talking
with him she began to see the matter in a new light, and her opposition
weakened. He showed her that the S. R. & N. had an individuality of its
own--an individuality greater than Murray O'Neil's, or Dan Appleton's,
or that of any man connected with it. She began to understand that it
was a living thing, and that O'Neil was merely a small part of it--a
person driven by a power outside himself, the head servant of a great
undertaking, upon whom rested a heavy responsibility. She saw for the
first time that the millions invested in the project imposed upon those
concerned with its management a sacred duty, and that failure to defend
the company's rights would be the worst sort of treachery. She began to
appreciate also how men may be willing to lay down their lives, if
necessary, to pave the way for the march of commerce.

"I never looked at it in this way," she told him, when he had finished.
"I--don't like to take that view of it, even now, but I suppose I must."

"Try not to worry about Dan," he said, sympathetically. "We'll start
back as soon as I'm able to move around, and I'll do my best to see
that he isn't hurt. It's--tough to be laid up this way."

"There's another sick man in camp, by the way."

"Who?"

"The Indian boy who helps the cook. He was hunting and shot himself in
the arm."

"They told me he was doing well."

"Oh, he is, but the pain has kept the poor fellow awake until he's
nearly out of his head. There are no drugs here."

"None this side of the end of the track."

"Can't we do something?"

"We can give Dan a note to 'Happy Tom' in the morning and have whatever
you want sent up. Tom will be there, and perhaps if you ask him he'll
despatch a man on foot at once."

Seizing pen and paper from the table, Eliza wrote a note, which she
read aloud:

"DEAR UNCLE TOM,--There is a sick Indian here. Won't you please send up
an opiate by special messenger, and receive the blessing of, Your
affectionate, ELIZA."

"Better change the word 'opiate,'" O'Neil advised. "I don't think Tom
is equal to that; he might send overalls!" So Eliza substituted
"something to put him to sleep." This message Dan promised faithfully
to deliver.

Murray had expected to begin the return journey within twenty-four
hours after his arrival; but his injury mended slowly, and when the
time came he was still unable to stand. This interval the girls spent
in watching the glaciers, of which they never seemed to tire, and in
spoiling many films.

It was late on the second day when a tired and sodden messenger bearing
the marks of heavy travel appeared at O'Neil's tent and inquired for
Miss Appleton. To her he handed a three-foot bundle and a note from Tom
Slater which read:

DEAR MADAM,--Here is the best thing I know of to put an Indian to
sleep.       THOS. SLATER.

"There's some mistake, surely," said the girl, as she unrolled the
odd-looking package; then she cried out angrily, and O'Neil burst into
laughter. For inside the many wrappings was a pick-handle.

Eliza's resentment at "Happy Tom's" unsympathetic sense of humor was
tempered in a measure by the fact that the patient had taken a turn for
the better and really needed no further medical attention. But she was
not accustomed to practical jokes, and she vowed to make Tom's life
miserable if ever the occasion offered.

As the days wore on and Murray remained helpless his impatience became
acute, and on the fourth morning he determined to leave, at whatever
cost in pain or danger to the injury. He gave orders, therefore, to
have a boat prepared, and allowed himself to be carried to it. The
foreman of the bridge crew he delegated to guide the girls down across
the moraine, where he promised to pick them up. The men who had come
with him he sent on to the cataract where Dan had been.

"Aren't you coming with us?" asked Natalie, when they found him seated
in the skiff with an oarsman.

"It's rough going. I'd have to be carried, so I prefer this," he told
them.

"Then we'll go with you," Eliza promptly declared.

Natalie paled and shook her dark head. "Is it safe?" she ventured.

"No, it isn't! Run along now! I'll be down there waiting, when you
arrive."

"If it's safe enough for you, it's safe enough for us," said Eliza.
Climbing into the boat, she plumped herself down with a look which
seemed to defy any power to remove her. Her blue eyes met O'Neil's gray
ones with an expression he had never seen in them until this moment.

"Nonsense, child!" he said. "Don't be silly."

"Don't you try to put me out. I'll hang on and--kick. Don't you say
'please,' either," she warned him.

"I must," he protested. "Please don't insist."

She scowled like an angry boy, and seized the gunwales firmly. Her
expression made him smile despite his annoyance, and this provoked her
the more.

"I'm going!" she asserted, darkly.

This outing had done wonders for both girls. The wind and the sunshine
had tanned them, the coarse fare had lent them a hearty vigor, and they
made charming pictures in their trim short skirts and sweaters and
leather-banded hats.

"Very well! If you're going, take off your boots," commanded O'Neil.

"What for?"

"We may be swamped and have to swim for it. You see the man has taken
his off." Murray pointed to the raw-boned Norwegian oarsman, who had
stripped down as if for a foot-race.

Eliza obeyed.

"Now your sweater."

Natalie had watched this scene with evident concern. She now seated
herself upon a boulder and began to tug at her rubber boots.

"Here! Here! You're not going, too!" O'Neil exclaimed.

"Yes, I am. I'm frightened to death, but I won't be a coward." Her
shaking hands and strained voice left no doubt of her seriousness.

"She can't swim," said Eliza; and O'Neil put an end to this display of
heroism with a firm refusal.

"You'll think I'm afraid," Natalie expostulated.

"Bless you, of course we will, because you are! So am I, and so is
Eliza, for that matter. If you can't swim you'd only be taking a
foolish risk and adding to our danger. Besides, Eliza doesn't know the
feel of cold water as we do."

Natalie smiled a little tremulously at recollection of the shipwreck.

"I'd much rather walk, of course," she said; and then to Eliza, "It--it
will be a lovely ramble for us."

But Eliza shook her head. "This is material for my book, and I'll make
enough out of it to--to--"

"Buy another orchard," Murray suggested.

Feeling more resigned now that the adventure had taken on a purely
financial color, Natalie at length allowed herself to be dissuaded, and
Eliza settled herself in her seat with the disturbing consciousness
that she had made herself appear selfish and rude in O'Neil's eyes.
Nevertheless, she had no notion of changing her mind.

When the other girl had gone the oarsman completed his preparations by
lashing fast the contents of the skiff--a proceeding which Eliza
watched with some uneasiness. O'Neil showed his resentment by a pointed
silence, which nettled her, and she resolved to hold her seat though
the boat turned somersaults.

Word was finally given, and they swung out into the flood. O'Neil stood
as best he could on his firm leg, and steered by means of a
sculling-oar, while the Norwegian rowed lustily.

Bits of drift, patches of froth, fragments of ice accompanied them,
bobbing alongside so persistently that Eliza fancied the boat must be
stationary until, glancing at the river-banks, she saw them racing past
like the panoramic scenery in a melodrama. The same glance showed her
that they were rushing directly toward the upper ramparts of Jackson
Glacier, as if for an assault. Out here in the current there were
waves, and these increased in size as the bed of the Salmon grew
steeper, until the poling-boat began to rear and leap like a frightened
horse. The gleaming wall ahead rose higher with every instant: it
overhung, a giant, crumbling cliff, imposing, treacherous. Then the
stream turned at right angles; they were swept along parallel with the
ice face, and ahead of them for three miles stretched the gauntlet. The
tottering wall seemed almost within reaching distance; its breath was
cold and damp and clammy. O'Neil stood erect and powerful in the stern,
swaying to the antics of the craft, his weight upon the sweep, his eyes
fixed upon the Thing overhead. The Norwegian strained at his oars while
the sweat ran down into his open shirt. The boat lunged and wallowed
desperately, rising on end, falling with prodigious slaps, drenching
the occupants with spray. It was splendid, terrifying! Eliza clung to
her seat and felt her heartbeats smothering her. Occasionally the
oarsman turned, staring past her with round, frightened eyes, and
affording her a glimpse of a face working with mingled fear and
exultation.

Thus far the glacier had not disputed their passage; it maintained the
silence and the immobility of marble; nothing but the snarl of the
surging flood re-echoed from its face. But with the suddenness of a
rifle-shot there came a detonation, louder, sharper than any blast of
powder. The Norwegian cursed; the helmsman dropped his eyes to the
white face in the bow and smiled.

Half a mile ahead of them a mass of ice came rumbling down, and the
whole valley rocked with the sound. Onward the little craft fled, a
dancing speck beneath the majesty of that frozen giant, an atom
threatened by the weight of mountains. At last through the opening of
the gorge below came a glimpse of the flats that led to the sea. A
moment later the boat swung into an eddy and came to rest, bumping
against the boulders.

O'Neil sat down, wiping his wet face.

"Well, was it worth your trouble, Miss Kick-over the-traces?" he asked.

"Oh, it was glorious! I'll never forget it."

Eliza's cheeks were burning now, her aching hands relaxed their hold,
and she drew a deep breath--the first of which she had been conscious
since the start, fifteen minutes before.

"Now, on with your boots and your sweater. We'll have an hour's wait
for Natalie."

She gave a cry of surprise and offered him a glimpse of a trim ankle
and a dripping foot.

"See! They're wet, and I wriggled my toes right through my stockings. I
NEVER was so excited."

The boatman fastened the painter and resumed his outer clothing. O'Neil
lit a cigar and asked:

"Tell me, why did you insist on coming?"

"I was afraid something might happen to you."

He raised his brows, and she flushed. "Don't you understand? Dan would
never have forgiven me, and--and--I just HAD to come, that's all. It's
corking material for me--I thought you might upset, and I--I don't know
why I insisted." She bent over her stubborn boots, hiding her face. She
was flaming to the ears, for suddenly she knew the reason that had
prompted her. It rushed upon her like a sense of great shame. She
recalled the desperate grip at her heart when she had seen him ready to
leave, the wildness of her longing to share his danger, the black fear
that he might meet disaster alone. It had all come without warning, and
there had been no time for self-consciousness, but now she realized the
truth. The poignant pain of it made her fingers clumsy and sent that
flood of scarlet to her neck and ears.

When Natalie arrived they cast off, and the remaining miles were made
in a few hours.

Appleton joined them for lunch in the tent they remembered so well, and
professed to be shocked at the report of his sister's foolhardiness.
But whatever may have been Natalie's fear of ridicule, it promptly
disappeared under his complete indorsement of her wisdom in refraining
from such a mad adventure. As if to put her even more at ease, O'Neil
was especially attentive to her; and Eliza reflected gloomily that men,
after all, dislike bravado in women, that a trapeze artist or a lady
balloonist inspires only a qualified admiration.

During O'Neil's absence work had progressed steadily. On his return he
found the grade completed to within a few yards of Gordon's
right-of-way. Although he was still unable to walk, he insisted upon
going to the front, whither he was helped by Appleton and "Happy Tom."

Into the narrow space between the end of his embankment and that of his
rival's a gravel-train was spilling its burden, and a hundred
pick-and-shovel men were busy. The opposing forces also seemed hard at
work, but their activity was largely a pretense, and they showed
plainly that they were waiting for the clash. They were a hard-looking
crew, and their employer had neglected no precaution. He had erected
barricades for their protection until his grade looked like a military
work.

"They haven't showed any guns yet, but I'm sure they're armed,"
Appleton told his chief.

"How is the place lighted by night?" O'Neil inquired.

"Oil torches," Slater answered. "Ah! We've been recognized. That comes
from being fat, I s'pose."

As he spoke a donkey-engine at the right of the proposed crossing set
up a noisy rattling, a thin steel cable whipped into view between the
rails, and from the left there appeared a contrivance which O'Neil eyed
curiously. It was a sort of drag, and rode back and forth upon the
rails.

"Humph! They'd better not put much trust in that," Murray grunted,
grimly.

"Don't fool yourself; it's no rubber-tired baby-carriage," said Slater.
"Our men are afraid of it."

After watching the device scuttle back and forth for a few moments
O'Neil said shortly:

"Post a notice at once, offering a thousand dollars for any man who
cuts that cable."

"A thousand--" Appleton gasped. "Why, I'll do it. Let me--"

"No, you won't," Slater broke in. "I'll take that on myself."

"I spoke first. It's my first chance," Dan cried.

"It's my job! I'm going--"

"Wait a minute!" O'Neil silenced the two, who were glaring at each
other angrily. "Don't let's have any fighting; there will be enough of
that later."

"I spoke first," Dan repeated, stubbornly.

"I had my mouth puckered to spit, that's why," the fat man explained.
"A fellow has to spit--"

"I'd rather you wouldn't volunteer, Dan," said O'Neil.

"Why?"

"You might get hurt."

"Happy Tom" nodded his agreement. "Certainly! Never send a boy on a
man's errand."

"And I don't want you to do it either, Tom, for the same reason."

Slater mumbled some sort of sour acquiescence, but Dan would not be
denied.

"You made the offer, and I took it up," he told O'Neil. "Somebody has
to make the first move, and I have a particular need for exactly one
thousand dollars. If they start a rumpus, it will give us the excuse
we're looking for. I've been studying that 'go-devil' through
field-glasses for two days now, and I'll guarantee to put it out of
commission before Gordon's men know what I'm about. Just forget the
reward, if you like, and give me a chance."

"What's your plan?" Slater inquired, eagerly; but Appleton shook his
head.

"No you don't, Tommy!" he said. "I'm wise to you."

Murray hesitated briefly, then gave his permission. "I'd rather you'd
let one of the rough-necks take the chance, but if you insist--"

"I do."

"Then get your sister's consent--"

Slater swore mournfully, as if from a heart filled with black despair.

"Ain't that my luck? One cud of gum cost me a thousand dollars! Hell!
It would take a millionaire to afford a habit like that." He expelled
the gum violently and went grumbling off up the track.

"Sis won't object," said Dan, lightly. "She'd offer to do the trick
herself, for she's getting the spirit of the work."

When O'Neil had managed to regain the camp he began preparations for an
attack that very night, using the telephone busily. News of the coming
affray quickly spread, and both the day and night shifts discussed it
excitedly at supper-time.

Nor was the excitement lessened when a loaded gravel-train rolled in
and Dr. Gray descended from it with his emergency kit and two helpers
from the hospital at Omar.

Up to this point both Eliza and Natalie had hoped that the affair might
not, after all, turn out to be very serious, but the presence of the
grim-faced surgeon and the significant preparations he set about making
boded otherwise. Eliza undertook to reason with her brother, but her
words refused to come. As a matter of fact, deep down in her heart was
a great rebellion at the fate which had made her a woman and thus
debarred her from an active part in the struggle. Natalie, on the other
hand, was filled with dread, and she made a much more vigorous attempt
to dissuade Dan from his purpose than did his sister. But he refused to
heed even her, and soon hurried away to finish his preparations.

After supper the camp settled itself to wait for darkness. Night was
slow in coming, and long before Appleton signified his readiness
speculation was rife. With the approach of twilight the torches along
Gordon's grade began to glow brightly. Then Dan set his watch with
"Happy Tom's," kissed Eliza, and made off across the tundra. He left
the S. R. & N. at right angles and continued in that direction for a
mile or more before swinging about in a wide circle which brought him
well to the rear of Gordon's encampment. The gloom now covered his
movements, and by taking advantage of an alder thicket he managed to
approach very closely to the enemy's position. But the footing was
treacherous, the darkness betrayed him into many a fall, and he was
wet, muddy, and perspiring when he finally paused not more than two
hundred feet from the scene of the proposed crossing.

XV

THE BATTLE OF GORDON'S CROSSING

Curtis Gordon was not in charge of his field forces, having left the
command to his favorite jackal, Denny. Beneath his apparent contempt
for the law there lurked a certain caution. He knew his rival's
necessity, he appreciated his cunning, but, wishing to guard against
the possibility of a personal humiliation, he retired to Kyak, where he
was prepared to admit or to deny as much responsibility as suited him.
Denny had not forgotten O'Neil's exposure of his dishonesty, and his
zeal could be relied upon. He personally knew all the men under him, he
had coached them carefully, and he assured Gordon of his ability to
hold his ground.

Dan Appleton, from his covert, measured the preparations for resistance
with some uneasiness, reflecting that if Denny had the nerve to use
firearms he would undoubtedly rout O'Neil's men, who had not been
permitted to carry guns. By the bright torchlight he could see figures
coming and going along the grade like sentinels, and from within the
barricades of ties he heard others talking. The camp itself, which lay
farther to the left, was lighted, and black silhouettes were painted
against the canvas walls and roofs. Some one was playing an accordion,
and its wailing notes came to him intermittently. He saw that steam was
up in the boiler which operated the "go-devil," although the
contrivance itself was stationary. It was upon this that he centered
his attention, consulting his watch nervously.

At last ten o'clock came, bringing with it a sound which startled the
near-by camp into activity. It was a shrill blast from an S. R. & N.
locomotive and the grinding of car-wheels. The accordion ceased its
complaint, men poured out of the lighted tents, Appleton moved
cautiously out from cover.

He stumbled forward through the knee-deep mud and moss, bearing
slightly to his right, counting upon the confusion to mask his
approach. He timed it to that of the gravel-train, which came slowly
creaking nearer, rocking over the uneven tracks, then down upon the
half-submerged rails which terminated near the opposing grade. It
stopped finally, with headlight glaring into the faces of Denny and his
troops, and from the high-heaped flat cars tumbled an army of
pick-and-shovel men. During this hullabaloo Appleton slipped out of the
marsh and climbed the gravel-bed in time to see the steel cable of the
skip tighten, carrying the drag swiftly along the track. The endless
cable propelling the contrivance ran through a metal block which was
secured to a deadhead sunk between the ties, and up to this post Dan
hastened. He carried a cold-chisel and hammer, but he found no use for
them, for the pulley was roped to the deadhead. Drawing his knife, he
sawed at the manila strands. Men were all around him, but in their
excitement they took no notice of him. Not until he had nearly
completed his task was he discovered; then some one raised a shout. The
next instant they charged upon him, but his work had been done. With a
snap the ropes parted, the cable went writhing and twisting up the
track, the unwieldy apparatus came to a stop.

Dan found himself beset by a half-dozen of the enemy, who, having
singled him out of the general confusion as the cause of disaster, came
at him head-long. But by this time O'Neil's men were pouring out of the
darkness and overrunning the grade so rapidly that there was little
opportunity for concerted action. Appleton had intended, as soon as he
had cut the cable, to beat a hasty retreat into the marsh; but now,
with the firm gravel road-bed under his feet and the battle breaking
before his eyes, he changed his mind. He carried a light heart, and the
love of trouble romped through his veins. He lowered his head,
therefore, and ran toward his assailants.

He met the foremost one fairly and laid him out. He vanquished the
second, then closed with a burly black man who withstood him capably.
They went down together, and Dan began to repent his haste, for blows
rained upon him and he became the target, not only of missiles of every
kind, but of heavy hobnailed shoes that were more dangerous than
horses' hoofs.

The engineer dearly loved a fair fight, even against odds, but this was
entirely different: he was trampled, stamped upon, kicked; he felt
himself being reduced to a pulp beneath the overpowering numbers of
those savage heels. The fact that the black man received an equal share
of the punishment was all that saved Dan. Over and over between the
ties the two rolled, scorning no advantage, regarding no rules of
combat, each striving to protect himself at the other's expense.

They were groveling there in a tangle of legs and arms when "Happy Tom"
came down the grade, leading a charge which swept the embankment clean.

The boss packer had equipped his command with pick-handles and now set
a brilliant example in the use of this, his favorite weapon. For once
the apathetic Slater was fully roused; he was tremendous, irresistible.
In his capable grasp the oaken cudgel became both armor and flail; in
defense it was as active as a fencing-master's foil, in offense as
deadly as the kick of a mule. Beneath his formless bulk were the
muscles of a gladiator; his eye had all the quickness of a
prize-fighter. There was something primeval, appallingly ferocious
about the fat man, too: he fought with a magnificent enthusiasm, a
splendid abandon. And yet, in spite of his rage, he was clear-headed,
and his ears were sensitively strained for the sound of the first
gunshot-something he dreaded beyond measure.

He was sobbing as much from anxiety as from the violence of his
exertions when he tore Appleton from the clutch of the black man and
set him on his feet.

"Are you hurt, son?" he gasped.

"Sure! I'm--hurt like hell." Dan spat out a mouthful of blood and sand.
"Gimme a club."

"Go back yonder," Tom directed, swiftly. "Nail Denny before he gets 'em
to shooting. Kill him if you have to. I'll take care of these fellers."

The younger man saw that the engagement at this end of the line was no
longer general, but had become a series of individual combats, so he
made what haste he could toward the scene of the more serious encounter
to the right of the crossing. He judged that the issue was still in
doubt there, although he could make out little in the confusion on
account of the glaring headlight, which dazzled him.

As he ran, however, he discovered that the S. R. & N. forces were in
possession of the middle ground, having divided the enemy's ranks like
a wedge, and this encouraged him. Out of the darkness to right and left
came shouts, curses, the sounds of men wallowing about in the knee-deep
tundra. They were Gordon's helpers who had been routed from their
positions.

Now that Appleton had time to collect himself he, too, grew sick with
suspense, for he knew that arms had been stacked inside the barricades.
Any instant might bring them into play. He began to wonder why Denny
withheld the word to fire.

As a matter of fact, the explanation was simple, although it did not
appear until later. Mr. Denny at that moment was in no condition to
issue orders of any kind, the reason being as follows: when
preparations for the advance were made, Dr. Gray, who understood
perhaps more fully than any one else except O'Neil the gravity of the
issue and the slender pivot upon which the outcome balanced, had taken
his place in the vanguard of the attacking party instead of in the
background, as befitted his calling. The first rush had carried him
well into the fray, but once there he had shown his good judgment by
refusing to participate in it.

Instead, he had selected Denny out of the opposing ranks and bored
through the crowd in his direction, heedless of all efforts to stop
him. His great strength had enabled him to gain ground; he had hurled
his assailants aside, upsetting them, bursting through the press as a
football-player penetrates a line; and when the retreat had begun he
was close at the heels of his victim. He had overtaken Denny beside one
of the barricades just as Denny seized a rifle and raised it. With one
wrench he possessed himself of the weapon, and the next instant he had
bent the barrel over its owner's head.

Then, as the fight surged onward, he had gathered the limp figure in
his arms and borne it into the light of a gasolene-torch, where he
could administer first aid. He was kneeling over the fellow when
Appleton found him as he came stumbling along the grade.

But the decisive moment had come and gone now, and without a leader to
command them Gordon's men seemed loath to adopt a more bloody reprisal.
They gave way, therefore, in a half-hearted hesitation that spelled
ruin to their cause. They were forced back to their encampment: over
the ground they had vacated picks and shovels began to fly, rails were
torn up and relaid, gravel rained from the flat cars, the blockhouses
were razed, and above the rabble the locomotive panted and wheezed, its
great yellow eye glaring through the night. When it backed away another
took its place; the grade rose to the level of the intersection, then
as morning approached it crept out beyond. By breakfast-time a long row
of flats extended across the line which Curtis Gordon had tried to hold
in defiance of the law.

Dan Appleton, very dirty, very tired, but happy, found Natalie and
Eliza awaiting him when he limped up to their tent in the early morning
light. One of his eyes was black and nearly closed, his lips were cut
and swollen, but he grinned cheerfully as he exclaimed:

"Say! It was a great night, wasn't it?"

Eliza cried out in alarm at his appearance.

"You poor kid! You're a sight." She ran for hot water and soap, while
Natalie said, warmly:

"You were perfectly splendid, Dan. I knew you'd do it."

"Did you?" He tried to smile his appreciation, but the effort resulted
in a leer so repulsive that the girl looked dismayed. "You ought to
have seen the shindy."

"Seen it! Maybe we didn't!"

"Honestly?"

"Did you think we could stay behind? We sneaked along with the
cook-house gang, and one of them helped us up on the gravel-cars. He
smelled of dish-water, but he was a hero. We screamed and cried, and
Eliza threw stones until Mr. O'Neil discovered us and made us get down.
He was awfully mean."

"He's a mean man."

"He isn't! He was jumping around on one leg like a crippled
grasshopper."

"I made a thousand dollars," said Dan. "Guess what I'm going to do with
it?"

"How can I guess?"

"I'm going to buy an engagement ring." Once more he leered repulsively.

"How nice!" said Natalie, coolly. "Congratulations!"

"Guess who it's for?"

"I couldn't, really."

"It's for you."

"Oh no, it isn't!" Natalie's voice was freezing. "You have made a
mistake, a very great mistake, Dan. I like you, but--we won't even
mention such things, if you please."

Eliza's entrance saved her further embarrassment, and she quickly made
her escape. Dan groaned so deeply as his sister bathed his injuries
that she was really concerned.

"Goodness, Danny," she said, "are you as badly hurt as all that?"

"I'm worse," he confessed. "I've just been shot through the heart. Slow
music and flowers for me! Arrange for the services and put a rose in my
hand, Sis."

"Nonsense! I'll put a beefsteak on your eye," she told him, unfeelingly.

Under Dr. Gray's attention O'Neil's ankle began to mend, and by the
time the track had been laid far enough beyond the crossing to insure
against further interference from Gordon he declared himself ready to
complete the journey to Kyak, which he and the girls had begun nearly
three weeks before.

During the interval Eliza had occupied herself in laying out her
magazine stories, and now she was eager to complete her investigations
so as to begin the final writing. Her experience in the north thus far
had given her an altered outlook upon the railroad situation, but as
yet she knew little of the coal problem. That, after all, was the more
important subject, and she expected it to afford her the basis for a
sensational exposure. She had come to Alaska sharing her newspaper's
views upon questions of public policy, looking upon Murray O'Neil as a
daring promoter bent upon seizing the means of transportation of a
mighty realm for his own individual profit; upon Gordon as an
unscrupulous adventurer; and upon the Copper Trust as a greedy
corporation reaching out to strangle competition and absorb the riches
of the northland. But she had found O'Neil an honorably ambitious man,
busied, like others, in the struggle for success, and backing his
judgment with his last dollar. She had learned, moreover, to sympathize
with his aims, and his splendid determination awoke her admiration. Her
idea of the Trust had changed, likewise, for it seemed to be a fair and
dignified competitor. She had seen no signs of that conscienceless,
grasping policy usually imputed to big business. In regard to Gordon
alone, her first conviction had remained unchanged. He was, in truth,
as evil as he had been reputed.

The readjustment of her ideas had been disappointing, in a way, since
it robbed her of a large part of her ammunition; but she consoled
herself with the thought that she had not yet reached the big, vital
story which most deeply concerned the welfare of the north.

She was a bit afraid to pursue her inquiries into the coal subject, for
her ideas were fixed, and she feared that O'Neil's activities merited
condemnation. In his railroad-building, she believed, he was doing a
fine work, but the coal was another matter. Obviously it belonged to
the people, and he had no right to lay hands upon their heritage.

She wondered if it would not be possible to omit all mention of him in
her coal stories and center attention upon the Trust. It was impossible
for her to attack him now, since she had come to understand her
feelings toward him. Even so, she reflected with horror that if her
articles created the comment she anticipated their effect would be to
rob him of his holdings. But she took her work very seriously, and her
sense of duty was unwavering. She was one of the few who guide
themselves by the line of principle, straight through all other
considerations. She would write what she found true, for that was her
mission in life. If Murray proved culpable she would grieve over his
wrong-doing--and continue to love him.

O'Neil had recognized her sincerity, and on the broad subject of
conservation he had done nothing to influence her views. He preferred
to let her see the workings of the principle and, after actually
meeting some of those who had suffered by it, form her own conclusions.
It was for this reason mainly that he had arranged the trip to Kyak.

The journey in a small boat gave Eliza a longed-for opportunity to
discuss with him the questions which troubled her. He was
uncommunicative at first, but she persisted in her attempt, drawing him
out in the hope of showing him the error of his ways. At last she
provoked him to a vigorous defense of his views.

"Conservation is no more than economy," he declared, "and no one
opposes that. It's the misapplication of the principle that has
retarded Alaska and ruined so many of us. The situation would be
laughable if it weren't so tragic."

"Of course you blame your troubles on the Government. That's one thing
governments are for."

"Our ancestors blamed King George for their troubles, more than a
hundred years ago, and a war resulted. But every abuse they suffered is
suffered by the people of Alaska to-day, and a lot more besides.
Certainly England never violated her contracts with the colonies half
so flagrantly as our Government has violated its contracts with us."

"Of course you exaggerate."

"I don't. Judge for yourself. The law offers every citizen the
chance--in fact, it invites him--to go upon the public domain and
search for treasure. If he is successful it permits him to locate the
land in blocks, and it agrees to grant him a clear title after he does
a certain amount of work and pays a fixed price. Further, it says in
effect: 'Realizing that you may need financial assistance in this work,
we will allow you to locate not only for yourself, but also for your
friends, through their powers of attorney, and thus gain their
co-operation for your mutual advantage. These are the rules, and they
are binding upon all parties to this agreement; you keep your part, we
will keep ours.' Now then, some pioneers, at risk of life and health,
came to Kyak and found coal. They located it, they did all the law
required them to do--but did the Government keep its word? Not at all.
It was charged that some of them hadn't conformed strictly to the
letter of the agreement, and therefore all the claims were blacklisted.
Because one man was alleged to have broken his contract the Government
broke its contract with every man who had staked a coal claim, not only
at Kyak, but anywhere else in Alaska. Guilty and innocent were treated
alike. I was one of the latter. Was our money returned to us? No! The
Government had it and it kept it, along with the land. We've been
holding on now for years, and the Interior Department has tried by
various means to shake us off. The law has been changed repeatedly at
the whim of every theorist who happened to be in power. It has been
changed without notice to us even while we were out in the wilderness
trying to comply with the regulations already imposed. You can see how
it worked in the case of Natalie and her mother. The Government
succeeded in shaking them off."

"That's only one side of the question," said Eliza. "You lose sight of
the fact that this treasure never really belonged to you, but to the
public. The coal-lands were withdrawn from entry because men like you
and the agents of the Heidlemanns were grabbing it all up."

O'Neil shook his head, frowning. "That's what the papers say, but it
isn't true. There are twenty million acres of coal in Alaska, and not
more than thirty thousand acres have been located. The law gave me the
right to locate and buy coal claims, and I took advantage of it. Now it
tells me that I have money enough, and takes back what it gave. If it
did the right thing it would grant patents to those who located under
the law as it then existed and withdraw the rest of the land from entry
if advisable. This country needs two things to make it
prosper--transportation and fuel. We are doing our best to supply the
first in spite of hindrance from Washington; but the fuel has been
locked away from us as if behind stone walls. Rich men must be brave to
risk their dollars here under existing conditions, for they are not
permitted to utilize the mines, the timber, or the water-power, except
upon absurd and unreasonable terms. Why, I've seen timber lying four
layers deep and rotting where it lies. The Government won't save it,
nor will it allow us to do so. That's been its policy throughout. It is
strangling industry and dedicating Alaska to eternal solitude.
Railroads are the keys by which this realm can be unlocked; coal is the
strength by which those keys can be turned. The keys are fitted to the
lock, but our fingers are paralyzed. For eight years Alaska's greatest
wealth has lain exposed to view, but the Government has posted the
warning, 'Hands off! Some one among you is a crook!' Meanwhile the law
has been suspended, the country has stagnated, men have left dispirited
or broken, towns have been abandoned. The cost in dollars to me, for
instance, has been tremendous. I'm laying my track alongside rich
coal-fields, but if I picked up a chunk from my own claim to throw at a
chipmunk I'd become a lawbreaker. I import from Canada the fuel to
drive my locomotives past my own coal-beds--which I have paid for--and
I pay five times the value of that fuel, forty percent of which is
duty. I haul it two thousand miles, while there are a billion tons of
better quality beneath my feet. Do you call that conservation? I call
it waste."

"Fraud was practised at the start, and of course it takes time to find
out just where it lay."

"That's the excuse, but after all these years no fraud has been proved.
In administering the criminal law there is an axiom to the effect that
it is better for ninety-nine guilty men to escape than for one innocent
man to suffer, but the Land Office says that ninety-nine innocent
Alaskans shall suffer rather than that one guilty man shall escape. The
cry of fraud is only a pretense, raised to cover the main issue.
There's something sinister back of it."

"What do you mean?"

"A conspiracy of the Eastern coal-operators and the transcontinental
freight-lines."

"How ridiculous!" cried Eliza.

"You think so? Listen! Since all the high-grade coal of the Pacific
coast must come from the East, who, then, would discourage the opening
of local fields but those very interests? Every ton we burn means a
profit to the Eastern miner and the railroad man. Yes, and twenty per
cent. of the heat units of every ton hauled are consumed in
transportation. Isn't that waste? Every two years it costs our navy the
price of a battle-ship to bring coal to the Pacific fleet, while we
have plenty of better fuel right here on the ground. Our coal is
twenty-five hundred miles nearer to the Philippines than San Francisco,
and twelve thousand miles nearer than its present source. If Alaskan
coal-beds were opened up, we wouldn't have this yearly fight for
battle-ship appropriations; we'd make ourselves a present of a
first-class navy for nothing. No, our claims were disputed, and the
dispute was thrown into politics to keep us out of competition with our
Eastern cousins. We Alaskans sat in a game with high stakes, but after
the cards were dealt the rules were changed."

"You argue very well," said Eliza, who was a bit dazed at this
unexpected, forceful counter-attack, "but you haven't convinced me that
this coal should be thrown open to the first person who comes along."

"I didn't expect to convince you. It's hard to convince a woman whose
mind is made up. It would take hours to cover the subject; but I want
to open your eyes to the effect of this new-fangled national policy.
Any great principle may work evil if it isn't properly directed, and in
Kyak you'll see the results of conservation ignorantly applied. You'll
see how it has bound and gagged a wonderful country, and made loyal
Americans into ragged, bitter traitors who would spit upon the flag
they used to cherish."

"Is that the only reason why you came along--just to make sure that I
saw all this?"

"No. I want to look at the Heidlemann breakwater. My fortune hangs upon
it."

"It's as serious as that?"

O'Neil shrugged. "I'm waiting for the wind. My coal is in the hands of
the bureaucracy at Washington, my railroad is in the hands of the wind
god. Incidentally, I'd much rather trust the god than the Government."

Natalie, who had listened so far without the least sign of interest,
now spoke up.

"If the storm doesn't come to your help, will you be ruined?" she asked.

Murray smiled cheerfully. "No man is ruined as long as he keeps his
dreams. Money isn't much, after all, and failure is merely a schooling.
But--I won't fail. Autumn is here: the tempest is my friend; and he
won't be long in coming now. He'll arrive with the equinox, and when he
does he'll hold my fortune in his hand."

"Why, the equinoctial storm is due," said Eliza.

"Exactly! That's why I'm going to meet it and to bid it welcome."

The village of Kyak lay near the mouth of the most easterly outlet of
the Salmon, and it was similar in most respects to Hope and to Omar,
save that it looked out across a shallow, unprotected bay to the open
reaches of the north Pacific. The shores were low; a pair of rocky
islets afforded the only shelter to its shipping, and it was from these
as a starting-point that the Copper Trust had built its break-water. A
trestle across the tide-flats connected the work with the mainland, and
along this rock-trains crawled, adding their burdens to the strength of
the barrier. Protected by this arm of steel and stone and timber lay
the terminal buildings of the Alaska Northern, as the Heidlemann line
was called, and there also lay the terminus of the old McDermott
enterprise into which Curtis Gordon had infused new life. Both places
showed plenty of activity when O'Neil and his two companions arrived,
late one afternoon.

Kyak, they found, was inferior to Omar in its public accommodations,
and Murray was at a loss to find shelter for the girls until his
arrival was made known to the agents of the Alaska Northern. Then Mr.
Trevor, the engineer in charge, looked him up and insisted upon sharing
his quarters with the visitors. In Trevor's bearing was no suggestion
of an enmity like Gordon's. He welcomed his rival warmly--and indeed
the Trust had never been small in its opposition. O'Neil accepted the
invitation gratefully.

After dinner he took Natalie with him to see the sights, while Eliza
profited by the opportunity to interview Trevor. In her numerous tilts
with O'Neil she had not been over-successful from the point of view of
her magazine articles, but here at her hand was the representative of
the power best known and best hated for its activities in the
north-land, and he seemed perfectly willing to talk. Surely from him
she would get information that would count.

"Understand, I'm on the side of your enemies," she warned him.

"So is everybody else," Mr. Trevor laughed; "but that's because we're
misunderstood."

"The intentions of any Trust warrant suspicion."

He shrugged. "The Heidlemanns are just ordinary business men, like
O'Neil, looking for investment. They heard of a great big copper-field
hidden away back yonder in the mountains, and they bought what they
considered to be the best group of claims. They knew the region was
difficult of access, but they figured that a railroad from tide-water
would open up not only their own properties, but the rest of the
copper-belt and the whole interior country. They began to build a road
from Cortez, when some 'shoe-stringer' raised the cry that they had
monopolized the world's greatest copper supply, and had double-cinched
it by monopolizing transportation also. That started the fuss. They
needed cheap coal, of course, just as everybody else needs it; but
somebody discovered the danger of a monopoly of that and set up another
shout. Ever since then the yellow press has been screaming. The
Government withdrew all coal-lands from entry, and it now refuses to
grant patents to that which had been properly located. We don't own a
foot of Alaskan coal-land, Miss Appleton. On the contrary, we haul our
fuel from British Columbia, just like O'Neil and Gordon. Those who
would like to sell local coal to us are prevented from doing so."

"It sounds well to hear you tell it," said Eliza. "But the minute the
coal patents are issued you will buy what you want, then freeze out the
other people. You expect to control the mines, the railroads, and the
steamship lines, but public necessities like coal and oil and timber
and water-power should belong to the people. There has been an
awakening of the public conscience, and the day of monopolized
necessities is passing."

"As long as men own coal-mines they will sell them. Here we are faced
not by a question of what may happen, but of what has happened. If you
agreed to buy a city lot from a real-estate dealer, and after you paid
him his price he refused to give you a deed, you'd at least expect your
money back, wouldn't you? Well, that's the case of Uncle Sam and the
Alaskan miners. He not only refuses to deliver the lot, but keeps the
money, and forces them to pay more every year. I represent a body of
rich men who, because of their power, are regarded with suspicion; but
if they did anything so dishonest as what our Government has done to
its own people they would be jailed."

"No doubt there has been some injustice, but the great truth remains
that the nation should own its natural resources, and should not allow
favored individuals to profit by the public need."

"You mean railroads and coal-fields and such things?"

"I do."

Trevor shook his head. "If the people of Alaska waited for a Government
railroad, they'd die of old age and be buried where they died, for lack
of transportation. The Government owns telegraph-lines here, but it
charges us five times the rates of the Western Union. No, Miss
Appleton, we're not ready for Government ownership, and even if we were
it wouldn't affect the legality of what has been done. Through fear
that the Heidlemanns might profit this whole country has been made to
stagnate. Alaska is being depopulated; houses and stores are closed;
people are leaving despondent. Alaskans are denied self-government in
any form; theories are tried at their expense, but they are never
consulted. Not only does Congress fail to enact new laws to meet their
needs, but it refuses to proceed under the laws that already exist. If
the same policy had been pursued in the settlement of the Middle West
that applies to this country, the buffalo would still be king of the
plains and Chicago would be a frontier town. You seem to think that
coal is the most important issue up here, but it isn't. Transportation
is what the country needs, for the main riches of Alaska are as useless
to-day as if hidden away in the chasms of the moon. O'Neil had the
right idea when he selected the Salmon River route, but he made an
error of judgment, and he lost."

"He hasn't lost!" cried Eliza, in quick defense of her friend. "Your
breakwater hasn't been tested yet."

"Oh, it will hold," Trevor smiled. "It has cost too much money not to
hold."

"Wait until the storms come," the girl persisted.

"That's what we're doing, and from present indications we won't have
much longer to wait. Weather has been breeding for several days, and
the equinox is here. Of course I'm anxious, but--I built that
breakwater, and it can't go out."

When O'Neil and Natalie returned they found the two still arguing.
"Haven't you finished your tiresome discussions?" asked Natalie.

"Mr. Trevor has almost convinced me that the octopus is a noble
creature, filled with high ideals and writhing at the thrusts of the
muck-rakers," Eliza told them.

But at that the engineer protested. "No, no!" he said. "I haven't half
done justice to the subject. There are a dozen men in Kyak to-night who
could put up a much stronger case than I. There's McCann, for instance.
He was a prospector back in the States until he made a strike which
netted him a hundred thousand dollars. He put nearly all of it into
Kyak coal claims and borrowed seventy thousand more. He got tired of
the interminable delay and finally mined a few tons which he sent out
for a test in the navy. It had better steaming qualities than the
Eastern coal now being used, but six weeks later an agent of the Land
Office ordered him to cease work until his title had been passed upon.
That was two years ago, and nothing has been done since. No charges of
irregularity of any sort have ever been filed against McCann or his
property. The Government has had his money for five years, and still he
can't get a ruling. He's broke now and too old to make a living. He's
selling pies on the street--"

"He borrowed a dollar from me just now," said O'Neil, who was staring
out of a window. Suddenly he turned and addressed his host. "Trevor,
it's going to storm." His voice was harsh, his eyes were eager; his
tone brought the engineer to his side. Together they looked out across
the bay.

The southern sky was leaden, the evening had been shortened by a rack
of clouds which came hurrying in from the sea.

"Let it storm," said Trevor, after a moment. "I'm ready."

"Have you ever seen it blow here?"

"The old-timers tell me I haven't, but--I've seen some terrible storms.
Of course the place is unusual--"

"In what way?" Eliza inquired.

"The whole country back of here is ice-capped. This coast for a hundred
miles to the east is glacial. The cold air inland and the warm air from
the Japanese Current are always at war."

"There is a peculiar difference in air-pressures, too," O'Neil
explained. "Over the warm interior it is high, and over the coast range
it is low; so every valley becomes a pathway for the wind. But that
isn't where the hurricanes come from. They're born out yonder." He
pointed out beyond the islands from which the breakwater flung its
slender arm. "This may be only a little storm, Trevor, but some day the
sea and the air will come together and wipe out all your work. Then
you'll see that I was right."

"You told me that more than a year ago, but I backed my skill against
your prophecy."

O'Neil answered him gravely: "Men like you and me become over-confident
of our powers; we grow arrogant, but after all we're only pygmies."

"If Nature beats me here, I'm a ruined man," said the engineer.

"And if you defeat her, I'm ruined." O'Neil smiled at him.

"Let's make medicine, the way the Indians did, and call upon the Spirit
of the Wind to settle the question," Eliza suggested, with a woman's
quick instinct for relieving a situation that threatened to become
constrained. She and Natalie ran to Trevor's sideboard, and, seizing
bottle and shaker, brewed a magic broth, while the two men looked on.
They murmured incantations, they made mystic passes, then bore the
glasses to their companions.

As the men faced each other Natalie cried:

"To the Wind!"

"Yes! More power to it!" Eliza echoed.

Trevor smiled. "I drink defiance."

"In my glass I see hope and confidence," said O'Neil. "May the storm
profit him who most deserves help."

Despite their lightness, there was a certain gravity among the four,
and as the night became more threatening they felt a growing suspense.
The men's restlessness communicated itself to the girls, who found
themselves listening with almost painful intentness to the voice of the
wind and the rumble of the surf, which grew louder with every hour. By
bed-time a torrent of rain was sweeping past, the roof strained, the
windows were sheeted with water. Now and then the clamor ceased, only
to begin with redoubled force. Trevor's guests were glad indeed of
their snug shelter.

As Natalie prepared for bed she said: "It was fine of Mr. Trevor to
treat Murray O'Neil so nicely. No one would dream that they were
rivals, or that one's success means the other's ruin. Now Gordon--" She
turned to see her friend kneeling at the bedside, and apologized
quickly.

Eliza lifted her face and said simply, "I'm praying for the Wind."

Natalie slipped down beside her and bowed her dark head close to the
light one. They remained there for a long time, while outside the rain
pelted, the surf roared, and the wind came shrieking in from the sea.

XVI

THE FRUIT OF THE TEMPEST

Neither O'Neil nor his host was in sight when the girls came to
breakfast. The men had risen early, it seemed, and were somewhere out
in the storm. A wilder day would be hard to imagine; a hurricane was
raging, the rain was whirled ahead of it like charges of shot. The
mountains behind Kyak were invisible, and to seaward was nothing but a
dimly discernible smother of foam and spray, for the crests of the
breakers were snatched up and carried by the wind. The town was sodden;
the streets were running mud. Stove-pipes were down, tents lay
flattened in the mire, and the board houses were shaking as if they
might fly to pieces at any moment. The darkness was uncanny, and the
tempest seemed to be steadily growing in violence.

When an hour or two had passed with no word from the men Eliza
announced her intention of looking them up. She had spent the time at a
window, straining her eyes through the welter, while Natalie had curled
up cozily with a book in one of Trevor's arm-chairs.

"But, dearie, you'll be drenched." Natalie looked up in surprise. "Mr.
O'Neil is all right."

"Of course he is. I'm not going out to spank him and bring him in. I
want to look at the storm."

"So do I, but it won't do any good. I can't make it blow any harder by
getting my feet wet."

"You read your novel and talk to Mr. Trevor when he comes back. He
knows we're to blame for this storm, so you must be nice to him. I
can't." She clad herself in rain-coat, sou'wester, and boots, and
hurried out. Walking was difficult enough, even in the shelter of the
village, but not until she had emerged upon the beach did she meet the
full strength of the gale. Here it wrapped her garments about her limbs
until she could scarcely move. The rain came horizontally and blinded
her; the wind fairly snatched her breath away and oppressed her lungs
like a heavy weight. She shielded herself as best she could, and by
clinging to stationary objects and watching her chance she managed to
work her way onward. At last she caught sight of O'Neil, standing high
above the surf, facing the wind defiantly, as if daring it to unfoot
him. He saw her and came in answer to her signal; but to breast that
wind was like stemming a rushing torrent, and when he reached her side
he was panting.

"Child! What are you doing here?" he demanded.

"I couldn't wait any longer," she shouted back. "You've been out since
daylight. You must be wet through."

He nodded. "I lay awake all night listening. So did Trevor. He's
beginning to worry already."

"Already? If the breakwater stands this--"

"The storm hasn't half started! Come! We'll watch it together." He took
her hand, and they lunged into the gale, battling their way back to his
point of vantage. He paused at length, and with his arm about her
pointed to the milk-white chaos which marked Trevor's handiwork. The
rain pelted against their faces and streamed from their slickers.

The breakwater lay like a reef, and over it the sea was pounding in
mighty wrath. High into the air the waters rose, only to disappear upon
the bosom of the gale. They engulfed the structure bodily, they raced
along it with thunderous detonations, bursting in a lather of rage. Out
beyond, the billows appeared to be sheared flat by the force of the
wind, yet that ceaseless upheaval of spume showed that the ocean was in
furious tumult. For moments at a time the whole scene was blotted out
by the scud, then the curtain would tear asunder and the wild scene
would leap up again before their eyes.

Eliza screamed a question at her companion, but he did not seem to
hear; his eyes roved back and forth along that lace-white ridge of rock
on the weakness of which depended his salvation. She had never seen him
so fierce, so hawklike, so impassive. The gusts shook him, his garments
slatted viciously, every rag beneath his outer covering was sodden, yet
he continued to face the tempest as indifferently as he had faced it
since the dawn. The girl thrilled at thought of the issue these mighty
forces were fighting out before her eyes, and of what it meant to the
man beside her. His interests became hers; she shared his painful
excitement. Her warm flesh chilled as the moisture embraced her limbs;
but her heart was light, for O'Neil's strong arm encircled her, and her
body lay against his.

After a long time he spoke. "See! It's coming up!" he said.

She felt no increase in the wind, but she noted that particles of sand
and tiny pebbles from the beach were flying with the salt raindrops.
Her muscles began to tremble from the constant effort at resistance,
and she was relieved when Murray looked about for a place of refuge.
She pointed to a pile of bridge timbers, but he shook his head.

"They'll go flying if this keeps up." He dragged her into the shelter
of a little knoll. Here the blasts struck them with diminished force,
the roaring in their ears grew less, and the labor of breathing was
easier.

Rousing himself from his thoughts, the man said, gently:

"Poor kid! You must be cold."

"I'm freezing. But--please don't send me back." The face that met his
was supplicating; the eyes were bluer than a spring day. He patted her
dripping shoulder.

"Not until you're ready."

"This is grander than our trip past the glacier. That was merely
dangerous, but this--means something."

"There may be danger here if we expose ourselves. Look at that!"

High up beyond reach of the surf a dory had been dragged and left
bottom up. Under this the wind found a fingerhold and sent it flying.
Over and over it rolled, until a stronger gust caught it and sent it in
huge leaps, end over end. It brought up against the timber pile with a
crash, and was held there as if by a mighty suction. Then the beams
began to tremble and lift. The pile was disintegrated bit by bit,
although it would have required many hands to move any one of its parts.

Even where the man and the woman crouched the wind harried them like a
hound pack, but by clinging to the branches of a gnarled juniper bush
they held their position and let the spray whine over their heads.

"Farther west I've seen houses chained to the earth with ships'
cables," he shouted in her ear. "To think of building a harbor in a
place like this!"

"I prayed for you last night. I prayed for the wind to come," said the
girl, after a time.

O'Neil looked at her, curiously startled, then he looked out at the sea
once more. All in a moment he realized that Eliza was beautiful and
that she had a heart. It seemed wonderful that she should be interested
in his fortunes. He was a lonely man; beneath his open friendliness lay
a deep reserve. A curiously warm feeling of gratitude flamed through
him now, and he silently blessed her for bearing him company in the
deciding hour of his life.

Noon came, and still the two crouched in their half-shelter, drenched,
chilled, stiff with exposure, watching Kyak Bay lash itself into a
boiling smother. The light grew dim, night was settling; the air seemed
full of screaming furies. Then O'Neil noticed bits of driftwood racing
in upon the billows, and he rose with a loud cry.

"It's breaking up!" he shouted. "It's breaking up!"

Eliza lifted herself and clung to him, but she could see nothing except
a misty confusion. In a few moments the flotsam came thicker.
Splintered piling, huge square-hewn timbers with fragments of twisted
iron or broken bolts came floating into sight. A confusion of wreckage
began to clutter the shore, and into it the sea churned.

The spindrift tore asunder at length, and the watchers caught a brief
glimpse of the tumbling ocean. The breakwater was gone. Over the place
where it had stood the billows raced unhindered.

"Poor Trevor!" said O'Neil. "Poor Trevor! He did his best, but he
didn't know." He looked down to find Eliza crying. "What's this? I've
kept you here too long!"

"No, no! I'm just glad--so glad. Don't you understand?"

"I'll take you back. I must get ready to leave."

"Leave? Where--"

"For New York! I've made my fight, and I've won." His eyes kindled
feverishly. "I've won in spite of them all. I hold the key to a
kingdom. It's mine--mine! I hold the gateway to an empire, and those
who pass through must pay." The girl had never seen such fierce triumph
in a face. "I saw it in a dream, only it was more than a dream." The
wind snatched O'Neil's words from his lips, but he ran on: "I saw a
deserted fishing-village become a thriving city. I saw the glaciers
part to let pass a great traffic in men and merchandise. I saw the
unpeopled north grow into a land of homes, of farms, of mining-camps,
where people lived and bred children. I heard the mountain passes echo
to steam whistles and the whir of flying wheels. It was a wonderful
vision that I saw, but my eyes were true. They called me a fool, and it
took the sea and the hurricane to show them I was right." He paused,
ashamed of his outburst, and, taking the girl's hand in his, went
stumbling ahead of the storm.

Their limbs were cramped, their teeth chattered, they wallowed through
mire, and more than once they fell. Nearing Trevor's house, they saw
what the storm had done. Kyak was nearly razed. Roofs had been ripped
off, chimneys were down, glass was out. None but the most substantial
log cabins had withstood the assault, and men were busied in various
quarters trying to repair the damage.

They found Natalie beside herself with anxiety for their safety, and an
hour later Trevor came in, soaked to the skin. He was very tired, and
his face was haggard.

"Well! She went out!" he said. "I saw a million dollars swallowed up in
that sea."

They tried to comfort him, but the collapse of his work had left him
dazed.

"God! I didn't think it could blow like this--and it isn't over yet.
The town is flat."

"I'm sorry. You understand I sympathize?" said Murray; and the engineer
nodded.

"You told me it blew here, and I thought I knew what you meant, but
nothing could withstand those rollers."

"Nothing."

"You'll go East and see our people, I suppose?"

"At once."

"Tell them what you saw. They'll never understand from my reports.
They're good people. If there's anything I can do--"

O'Neil took his hand warmly.

Two days later Murray bade the girls good-by, and left, traveling
light. They remained in Kyak so that Eliza might complete her
investigations.

Of all those who suffered by the storm Curtis Gordon took his
misfortune hardest. This had been a black season for him, indeed.
Beginning with O'Neil's rivalry, everything had gone against him. He
had dropped his coal interests at Kyak in favor of the copper-mine,
because they failed to yield quick profits. Then he had learned that
the mine was valueless, and realized that it could not serve him much
longer as a means of raising funds. Still, he had trusted that by
taking a vigorous part in the railroad struggle he would be able either
to recoup his fortunes or at least to effect a compromise in the shadow
of which his fiasco at Hope would be forgotten. As yet the truth about
Hope Consolidated was not generally known to his stock-holders, but a
certain restlessness among them had become troublesome. The stream of
money had diminished alarmingly, and it was largely because of this
that he had bought the McDermott right-of-way and moved to Kyak. And
now, just as he had his affairs in shape for another and a greater
campaign of stock-flotation, the storm had come to ruin him.

The bitterest element in his defeat was the realization that O'Neil,
who had bested him at every turn, was destined to profit by the very
blow which crushed him. Defeat at the hands of the Copper Trust he
would have accepted with a fairly good grace; but the mere thought that
Murray O'Neil, whom he considered in every way his inferior, had gained
the upper hand was intolerable. It was in keeping with Gordon's
character that instead of blaming his own judgment he became furiously
angry at the Trust for the mistake of its engineers, and held them
responsible for his desperate situation. That it was truly desperate he
very soon realized, since disaster to his railroad project meant that
his stock-holders would be around his ears like a swarm of hornets, and
once they understood the true state of affairs at Hope the complete
collapse of his fortunes would surely follow.

During the days succeeding the storm he scarcely knew where to turn, so
harassed was he; yet he never for a moment wavered in his resolve to
make O'Neil pay for his interference and to exact a reckoning from
Gloria Gerard.

Natalie's presence in Kyak confirmed his belief that O'Neil was
interested in her, and he began to plan a stroke by which he could take
revenge upon all three. It did not promise in any way to help him out
of his financial straits, but at least it would give him a certain
satisfaction.

He sent word to the girl that he would like to see her.

XVII

HOW THE PRINCE BECAME A MAN

Gordon found his erstwhile ward greatly improved by her recent life.
She was brown, vigorous, healthy; her physical charms quickened his
pulses.

"You must have a very good reason for coming to see me," she began. "I
don't flatter myself that it is from affection."

"There you wrong me," he assured her, with the warm earnestness he so
easily assumed. "I have always regarded you as a daughter."

"I have no faith in you."

"Exactly, and the knowledge distresses me. You and Gloria were a large
part of my life; I can't bear to lose you. I hope--and I believe--that
her regard for me has changed no more than mine for her. It remains for
me to regain yours."

"That is impossible. You had the chance--"

"My dear, you can't know my reasons for acting as I did at Omar. But
those reasons no longer exist."

"Just what--do you mean by that?" stammered Natalie.

"I mean what I say. I'm ready to marry your mother."

"When?"

"At once. You shall plead my cause for me. You shall add your voice to
mine--"

"That isn't necessary. You know mother is only waiting for you. It
means so much to her that she couldn't refuse."

"Doesn't it mean anything to you?"

Natalie nodded. "It means more to me than to any one else, perhaps. I
have been carrying a great burden, almost more than I can bear.
Sometimes I've wished I were a man--for just long enough to make you
pay. Oh yes," she continued, as he started to protest. "Don't let us
begin this new life with any false conceptions; you may as well know
that I shall always hate you. We shall see very little of each other."

"Nonsense! I can't let you feel like that. I sha'n't rest until I win
back your love and confidence."

She eyed him searchingly for a moment, then opened her lips to speak,
but closed them.

"Well?" he prompted her. "Let us be frank with each other."

"I'm merely wondering how greatly your decision has been influenced by
the storm and the fight at the railroad crossing. I understand how you
feel toward Mr. O'Neil, and I know that he means to crush you."

"Oh!" Gordon's face lighted.

"Yes! He has never said so, but I can feel it. I wonder if you have
snatched us up in your extremity as a defense."

"Ridiculous! Your suspicions are insulting. I have nothing to fear from
him, for he is broken, his credit is gone, he is in desperate straits."

"Are you in any better condition? How long can you fool your people
with that pretense of a mine?"

Gordon flushed, but affected scorn. "So! Have you and Gloria begun to
balance my wealth against my love? If so--"

"You know she would marry you if you were penniless."

"I hope so--and, indeed, I can't believe her mercenary. Well, I shall
say good-by to Kyak, without idle regret, and we three shall return to
Hope, where I can attack my problems with fresh courage. I can well
afford my loss here, if by doing so I gain the woman of my desires."

"You want me to go with you?"

"Of course. You can't stay in Omar, knowing what you do about O'Neil.
Remember, I shall be in the position of a father to you."

"Very well. It is the least I can do. Miss Appleton and I are returning
to Omar in a few days. Will you go with us?"

"I shall be delighted, my dear." He smiled upon her in his most
fatherly fashion, but she was far from feeling the assurance he meant
to convey.

The eighteen-hour train from Chicago bore Murray O'Neil into New York
on time, and he hastened directly to the Holland House, where the clerk
greeted him as if he had run in from Yonkers instead of from the
wilderness of the far northwest. His arrival was always the forerunner
of great prosperity for the bell-boys, and there was the customary
struggle for his baggage.

An hour later, having bathed and changed his linen, he was whizzing
toward lower Broadway, with the roar of the Subway in his ears. New
York looked very good to O'Neil, for this time he came not as a
suppliant, but as a conqueror, and a deep contentment rested in his
heart. More than once during the last two years he had made this flying
trip across an ocean and a continent, but heretofore he had been
burdened with worries and responsibilities. Always he had needed to
gather his wits for some supreme effort; always there had been the
urgent necessity of raising money. As the S. R. & N. had grown his
obligations had increased; and, while he had never returned
empty-handed, no one but he knew at what cost of time and strength he
had succeeded in financing his venture. Invariably he had left New York
mentally and physically exhausted, and his days in the open had barely
served to replenish his store of nervous energy for the next campaign.

As he looked back upon it all he was amazed at his daring in attempting
to finance a railroad out of his own pocket. But he had won, and the
Trust had met with a sharp reverse in attempting to beat him at his own
game. He held the winning card, and he looked out upon the world
through eyes which were strained and weary, but complacent.

Mr. Herman Heidlemann was expecting him.

"You have the most confident way of arranging appointments from the
other side of the world," he began, as O'Neil entered his office.
"Steamships and railroads appear to be your obedient servants."

"Not always. I find railroads very troublesome at times."

"Well, you're on time to the minute," said Heidlemann. "Now tell me
about Kyak. Trevor cables that you were there during the storm which
ruined us." The head of the copper syndicate did not look like a man
facing ruin; in fact, he seemed more curious to hear of the physical
phenomena of that hurricane than of its effect upon his fortunes.

"Kyak was a great mistake," he admitted, when O'Neil had given him the
particulars he asked for. "We're all agreed on that point. Some of our
associates feel that the whole Alaskan enterprise has been a
mistake--mines and all."

"Your mines are as good as they ever were, but Kyak is a long way from
Wall Street, and you relied too much upon other people's judgment."

"We have to rely upon our experts."

"Of course. But that country must have a railroad."

"Must?" Heidlemann lifted his brows. "It has done very well without one
so far. Our friends call us crazy for trying to build one, and our
enemies call us thieves."

"You can't afford to give up."

"No. There's an element of pride in the matter, and I really believe
the country does need transportation."

"You can't understand how badly it needs it."

"Yet it's a heavy load to carry," said Heidlemann, with conviction,
"for a road will lose money for many years. We were willing to wait
until the agriculture and the mining developed, even though the profit
came only to our children; but--we have been misunderstood, abused by
the press and the public. Even Congress is down on us. However, I
suppose you came to tell me once more that Omar is the gateway and that
we need it."

O'Neil smiled. "That's hardly necessary now, is it? I own every inch of
water-front at that point, and there's no other harbor. My track will
be laid to the glaciers by the time snow flies."

"Trevor reports that a bridge is possible, although expensive."

"It will cost two million dollars."

"I don't see how it can be built to withstand the ice."

"I'll guarantee to build it so it will hold."

"What is your proposition?" asked Heidlemann.

"I'll sell the S.R.&N. for five million dollars and contract to
complete the road within two years on a ten-per-cent commission."

"It has cost you about three million dollars, I believe. That would
leave you a handsome profit."

"One million for me, one million for my associates."

"What will the remaining hundred miles cost?"

"About ten millions. That will give me another million profit as
contractor. My force and equipment is on the ground. I can save you
money and a year's time."

Mr. Heidlemann drummed upon the top of his desk for a moment.

"You're a high-priced man, O'Neil," he said, finally.

"You've had experience with the other kind."

"Counting the money we've already sunk, the road would stand us about
twenty million dollars completed."

"It will cost thirty to build from Cortez, and take two years longer."

Mr. Heidlemann seemed to consider this for a moment. "We've had this
matter before us almost constantly since the report of the storm," he
said, at length, "and after deliberation our directors have voted to do
nothing just yet."

O'Neil opened his eyes in amazement.

"I don't understand."

"It's this way. Our engineers first recommended Cortez as a
starting-point, and we spent a fortune there. Then you attacked the
other route, and we sent Trevor up to find if you were right and we
were wrong. He recommended the Salmon River valley, and told us he
could build a breakwater at Kyak. You know the result. We relied upon
him, for he seemed to be the best man in the country, but as a matter
of precaution we later sent other engineers. Their reports came in not
three months ago, and, while all seemed confident that the breakwater
could be built, none of them were certain about the bridge. One, in
fact, condemned it absolutely. Now on the heels of their statements
comes the news that the very work they united in declaring feasible has
been undone. Naturally, we don't know where we are or whom to believe."

"They simply didn't know the conditions at Kyak," argued O'Neil, "and
they evidently haven't studied the bridge as I have. But you'll have to
go at the breakwater again or build in from Cortez or give up."

"No, we have decided to mark time until that crossing is proved
feasible. Understand, I voice the sentiment of the majority."

"If I build that bridge you may find it more difficult to buy me out,"
said O'Neil, quietly.

"We'll have to take our medicine," Mr. Heidlemann replied, without
heat. "We cannot afford another mistake."

"This is definite?"

"Oh, absolutely! We're going slow for a time."

A blow in the face could not have affected O'Neil more disagreeably
than this statement. Fortune had seemed within his grasp when he
entered the room; now ruin was more imminent than it had ever been
before. The ground seemed to be slipping from beneath his feet; he
discovered that he was dizzy. He felt himself utterly incapable of
raising the two million dollars necessary to carry his road to a point
where the Trust would consider a purchase, yet to fail meant the loss
of all he had put in. He knew also that these men would never recede
from a position once taken.

"Hasn't this public clamor had something to do with your
determination?" he asked.

"A great deal. We had the best intentions when we started--we still
have--but it's time to let the general sentiment cool. We thought we
were doing a fine thing for the country in opening Alaska, but it seems
we're regarded as thieves and grafters. One gets tired of abuse after a
while."

"Will you take an option on the S. R. & N. conditional upon the
building of the bridge?"

"We couldn't very well do that.  Remember you are our rival."
Heidlemann smiled in his recognition of the fact that the rivalry was
friendly. "To do so would fan excitement at Washington to a white heat.
We'd then be in the position they now accuse us of occupying, and that
would have a serious bearing upon the coal situation. No, we can't help
you, O'Neil, but rest assured we won't do anything to hinder you. You
have treated us fairly; we will reciprocate. Once you have built your
bridge we can discuss a purchase and the abandonment of our original
enterprise, but meanwhile we must proceed cautiously. It is unfortunate
for us all."

"Especially for me."

"You need money badly, don't you?"

"I'm worse than broke," O'Neil admitted.

"I'd really be sorry to take over the wreck of your enterprise,"
Heidlemann said, earnestly, "for you have made a good fight, and your
ideas were better than ours. I'd much prefer to pay your price than to
profit by your misfortune. Needless to say we don't feel that way about
Gordon."

"There would be no uncertainty about the bridge if I had the money.
With your means I could build a road to the moon, and double-track it."

Although Murray felt that further effort was useless, he continued to
argue the matter from various angles, hoping against hope to sway
Heidlemann's decision. But he gave up at last. Out in the marble hall
which led to the elevators he discovered that all his vigor of an hour
ago had passed. The spring was out of his limbs; he walked slowly, like
an old man. A glimpse of his image in the mirrors of the car as he shot
downward showed him a face grave and haggard. The crowds jostled him,
but he was hardly conscious of them. The knowledge that his hardest
fight was yet to come filled him with sickening apprehension. He was
like a runner who toes the mark for a final heat knowing himself to be
upon the verge of collapse.

The magnitude of the deal narrowed his field of operations alarmingly,
and he had already learned what a serious effect upon capital the
agitation about Alaska had produced. More than once he had found men
who were willing to invest but feared the effect of public sentiment.
Popular magazines, newspapers like The Review, and writers like Eliza
Appleton had been largely to blame for the wrong. They had
misunderstood the problem and misinterpreted the spirit of commercial
progress. But, strangely enough, he felt no bitterness at thought of
Eliza. On the contrary, his heart softened in a sort of friendly
yearning for her company. He would have liked to talk the matter over
with her.

Looking the situation squarely in the face, he realized that he must
face a crash or raise two million dollars within the next month. That
meant seventy thousand dollars a day. It was a man-sized task.

He bought himself a cigar at the corner, hailed a taxicab, and was
driven all the way up town to the Holland House. Once there, he
established himself in that corner of the men's cafe which he always
frequented.

The waiter who served him lingered to say:

"It's good to see you back in your 'office' again. You've been a long
time away, sir."

O'Neil smiled as he left a silver dollar on the tray.

"It's good to be back, Joe," he said. "This time I may not leave."

XVIII

HOW THE MAN BECAME A PRINCE AGAIN

O'Neil had the faculty of sleeping well, in spite of the most
tormenting worries. He arose on the morning after his interview with
Mr. Heidlemann, ready to begin the struggle with all his normal energy
and confidence. But the day brought him only discouragement. He had a
large acquaintance, the mention of his name in quarters where he was
not personally known gained him respectful attention; but he found
himself working in the shadow of the Copper Trust, and its silent
influence overcame his strongest arguments. One banker expressed the
general attitude by saying:

"If the Heidlemanns were not in the field we might help you, but it
would be financial suicide to oppose them."

"There's no opposition about it," Murray assured him. "If I build that
bridge they'll buy us out."

At this his hearer very naturally wished to know why, if the bridge
were indeed feasible, the Heidlemanns delayed action; and O'Neil had to
fall back upon a recital of the facts, realizing perfectly that they
failed to carry conviction.

No one, it seemed, cared to risk even a semblance of rivalry with that
monstrous aggregation of capital, for the interlacing of financial
interests was amazingly intricate, and financiers were fearful of the
least misstep. Everywhere O'Neil encountered the same disheartening
timidity. His battle, it seemed, had been lost before it was begun.

Days passed in fruitless endeavors; evenings found O'Neil in his corner
of the Holland House Cafe racking his brain for some way out of his
perplexities. Usually he was surrounded by friends, for he continued to
entertain in the lavish fashion for which he had gained a reputation;
but sometimes he was alone, and then his solitude became more
oppressive than it had ever been even in the farthest wastes of the
northland. He was made to feel his responsibility with dreadful
keenness, for his associates were in a panic and bombarded him with
daily inquiries, vexatious and hard to answer. He had hoped that in
this extremity they might give him some practical help, and they did
make a few half-hearted attempts, only to meet the same discouragements
as he. At last they left him to carry the burden alone.

A week, two weeks went by. He was in constant cable communication with
Omar, but not even the faithful Dr. Gray knew the dire straits in which
his chief was struggling. Work on the S. R. & N. was going forward as
usual. The organization was running at its highest efficiency: rails
were being laid; gangs of rock-workers were preparing the grade beyond
the glaciers. Yet every day that passed, every pay-check drawn brought
ruin closer. Nevertheless, O'Neil continued to joke and chat with the
men who came to his table in the cafe and kept his business
appointments with his customary cheerfulness. The waiters who attended
him rejoiced in his usual princely tips.

One evening as he ran through his mail he found a letter in a woman's
handwriting and, glancing at the signature, started. It was signed
"Gloria Gordon." Briefly it apprised him of her marriage and of her and
Natalie's return to Hope. Gloria thanked him perfunctorily for his many
kindnesses, but she neither expressed nor implied an invitation for him
to visit them. He smiled a little grimly--already her loyalty had
veered to Gordon's side, and Natalie no doubt shared her feeling. Well,
it was but natural, perhaps. It would be unreasonable to expect them to
sacrifice their desires, and what they now seemed to consider their
interests, to a business quarrel they could hardly be expected to
understand. He could not help feeling hurt that the women should so
readily exchange his friendship for the protection of his bitterest
enemy, but--they were helpless and he had helped them; let it rest at
that. He was really troubled, however, that they had been so easily
deceived. If they had only waited! If he had only been able to advise
them! For Gordon's intention was plain. He was aroused from his train
of thought by a stranger whom he found standing beside his table and
looking down at him with wavering eye.

"Misser O'Neil, ain't it?" the fellow inquired. "Sure! Thought I knew
you. I'm Bulker, of the old North Pass. Remember me?"

Mr. Bulker had been imbibing freely. He showed evidences of a
protracted spree not only in his speech, but in the trembling hand
which he extended. His eyes were bloodshot, and his good-natured face
was purple.

O'Neil greeted him pleasantly, and, considering himself
enthusiastically welcomed, the new-comer sat down suddenly, as if some
one had tripped him.

"Been washing you for ten minutes."

"Washing me?"

"No! WASHING you. Couldn't make you out--eyesight's getting bad. Too
many bright lights in this town. Ha! Joke! Let's have a gill."

"Thank you, no."

"Must have a little dram for old time's sake. You're the only one of
the North Pass crowd I'll drink with." Mr. Bulker gestured
comprehensively at a group of waiters, and Murray yielded. "You were my
friend, O'Neil; you always treated me right."

"What are you doing now?" asked O'Neil, with the interest he could not
refuse to any one who had ever worked with him. He remembered the
fellow perfectly. He had come on from the East as auditor, and had
appeared to be capable, although somewhat given to drink.

"I'm a broker. Wall Street's my habitat. Fine time to buy stocks,
Misser O'Neil." Bulker assumed an expression of great wisdom. "Like to
have a tip? No? Good! You're a wise man. They fired me from the North
Pass. Wha'd you know about that? Fired me for drinking! Greatest
injustice I ever heard of, but I hit running, like a turkey. That
wasn't the reason they let me go, though. Not on your life!" He winked
portentously, and strangely enough his eyelid failed to resume its
normal position. It continued to droop, giving the appearance of a
waggish leer. "I knew too mush! Isn't healthy to know too mush, is it?"

"I've never had a chance to find out," smiled Murray.

"Oh, don't be an ingenue; you savvied more than anybody on the job.
I'll admit I took a nip now and then, but I never got pickled. Say! Who
d'you s'pose I saw to-day? Old man Illis!"

O'Neil became suddenly intent. He had been trying to get in touch with
Poultney Illis for more than a fortnight, but his cables to London had
brought no response.

"When did he arrive?"

"Just lately. He's a game old rooster, ain't he? Gee, he's sore!"

"Sore about what?"

Bulker winked again, with the same lack of muscular control.

"About that North Pass deal, of course. He was blackmailed out of a
cold million. The agreement's about up now, and I figure he's over here
to renew it."

"You're talking Greek," said O'Neil; but his eagerness was manifest.

"I s'posed you knew. The North Pass has been paying blackmail to the
Yukon steamboat companies for three years. When you built the line it
practically put 'em out of the Dawson market, understand?"

"Of course."

Now that Mr. Bulker's mind was running along well-worn grooves, his
intoxication became less apparent.

"Those Frisco steamboat men got together and started a rate war against
the railroad; they hauled freight to Dawson by way of St. Michaels at a
loss. Of course Illis and his crowd had to meet competition, and it
nearly broke 'em the first two seasons. Gee, they were the mad ones!
Finally they fixed up an agreement--had to or go bust--and of course
the Native Sons put it over our English cousins. They agreed to restore
the old rate, and each side promised to pay the other a royalty of ten
dollars a ton on all the freight it hauled to Dawson and up-river
points. You can guess the result, can't you? The steamboat companies
let Illis haul all the freight and sat back on their haunches and took
their profit. For every ton he hauled he slipped 'em ten round American
dollars, stamped with the Goddess of Liberty. Oh, it was soft! When
they had him fairly tied up they dry-docked their steamboats, to save
wear and tear. He paid 'em a thousand dollars a day for three years. If
that ain't blackmail, it's a first cousin to it by marriage."

"Didn't the Interstate Commerce Commission get wise?"

"Certainly not. It looks wise, but it never GETS wise. Oh, believe me,
Poultney Illis is hopping mad. I s'pose he's over here now to renew the
arrangement for another three years on behalf of his stock-holders.
Let's have a dram." Bulker sat back and stared as through a mist at his
companion, enjoying the effect of his disclosure.

O'Neil was indeed impressed--more deeply than his informant dreamed.
Out of the lips of a drunken man had come a hint which set his nerves
to tingling. He knew Illis well, he knew the caliber of the Englishman,
and a plan was already leaping in his brain whereby he might save the
S. R. & N.

It lacked an hour of midnight when O'Neil escaped from Bulker and
reached his room. Once inside, he seized the telephone and rang up
hotel after hotel, inquiring for the English capitalist, but without
result. After a moment's consideration he took his hat and gloves and
went out. The matter did not permit of delay. Not only were his own
needs imperative, but if Poultney Illis had come from London to confer
with his rivals there was little time to spare.

Remembering the Englishman's habits, O'Neil turned up the Avenue to the
Waldorf, where he asked for the manager, whom he well knew.

"Yes, Mr. Illis is here," he was informed, "but he's registered under a
different name. No doubt he'll be glad to see you, however."

A moment later Murray recognized the voice of Illis's valet over the
wire and greeted him by name. Another brief delay, and the capitalist
himself was at the 'phone.

"Come right up," he said; and O'Neil replaced the receiver with a sigh
of relief.

Illis greeted him warmly, for their relations had been close.

"Lucky you found me," he said. "I'm going back on the next sailing."

"Have you signed up with the Arctic Navigation Company?" Murray
inquired; and the other started.

"Bless me! What do you mean?"

His caller laughed. "I see you haven't. I don't think you will, either,
after you've talked with me."

Without the tremor of an eyelash Illis exclaimed:

"My word! What are you driving at?"

"That agreement over freight rates, of course."

The Briton eyed him for a moment, then carefully closed the door
leading from his sitting-room, and, seating himself, lit a cigar.

"What do you know about that matter?" he asked, quietly.

"About all there is to know--enough, at least, to appreciate your
feelings."

"I flattered myself that my affairs were private. Where did you get
your information?"

"I'll tell you if you insist, although I'd rather not. There's no
danger of its becoming public."

Illis showed his relief. "I'm glad. You gave me a start. Rotten fix for