THE GREAT INTERROGATION
ITo say the least, Mrs. Saythers career in Dawson was meteoric. She arrived in the spring, with dog sleds and French-Canadian voyageurs, blazed gloriously for a brief month, and departed up the river as soon as it was free of ice. Now womanless Dawson never quite understood this hurried departure, and the local Four Hundred felt aggrieved and lonely till the Nome strike was made and old sensations gave way to new. For it had delighted in Mrs. Sayther, and received her wide-armed. She was pretty, charming, and, moreover, a widow. And because of this she at once had at heel any number of Eldorado Kings, officials, and adventuring younger sons, whose ears were yearning for the frou-frou of a womans skirts.
The mining engineers revered the memory of her husband, the late Colonel Sayther, while the syndicate and promoter representatives spoke awesomely of his deals and manipulations; for he was known down in the States as a great mining man, and as even a greater one in London. Why his widow, of all women, should have come into the country, was the great interrogation. But they were a practical breed, the men of the Northland, with a wholesome disregard for theories and a firm grip on facts. And to not a few of them Karen Sayther was a most essential fact. That she did not regard the matter in this light, is evidenced by the neatness and celerity with which refusal and proposal tallied off during her four weeks stay. And with her vanished the fact, and only the interrogation remained.
To the solution, Chance vouchsafed one clew. Her last victim, Jack Coughran, having fruitlessly laid at her feet both his heart and a five-hundred-foot creek claim on Bonanza, celebrated the misfortune by walking all of a night with the gods. In the midwatch of this night he happened to rub shoulders with Pierre Fontaine, none other than head man of Karen Saythers voyageurs. This rubbing of shoulders led to recognition and drinks, and ultimately involved both men in a common muddle of inebriety.
Heh? Pierre Fontaine later on gurgled thickly. Vot for Madame Sayther mak visitation to thees country? More better you spik wit her. I know no ting tall, only all de tam her ask one mans name. Pierre, her spik wit me; Pierre, you moos find thees mans, and I gif you mooch one thousand dollar you find thees mans. Thees mans? Ah, oui. Thees mans name vot you call Daveed Payne. Oui, msieu, Daveed Payne. All de tam her spik das name. And all de tam I look rount vaire mooch, work lak hell, but no can find das dam mans, and no get one thousand dollar tall. By dam!
Heh? Ah, oui. One tam dose mens vot come from Circle City, dose mens know thees mans. Him Birch Creek, dey spik. And madame? Her say Bon! and look happy lak anyting. And her spik wit me. Pierre, her spik, harness de dogs. We go queek. We find thees mans I gif you one thousand dollar more. And I say, Oui, queek! Allons, madame!
For sure, I tink, das two thousand dollar mine. Bully boy! Den more mens come from Circle City, and dey say no, das thees mans, Daveed Payne, come Dawson leel tam back. So madame and I go not tall.
Oui, msieu. Thees day madame spik. Pierre, her spik, and gif me five hundred dollar, go buy poling-boat. To-morrow we go up de river. Ah, oui, to-morrow, up de river, and das dam Sitka Charley mak me pay for de poling-boat five hundred dollar. Dam!
Thus it was, when Jack Coughran unburdened himself next day, that Dawson fell to wondering who was this David Payne, and in what way his existence bore upon Karen Saythers. But that very day, as Pierre Fontaine had said, Mrs. Sayther and her barbaric crew of voyageurs towed up the east bank to Klondike City, shot across to the west bank to escape the bluffs, and disappeared amid the maze of islands to the south.
IIOui, madame, thees is de place. One, two, tree island below Stuart River. Thees is tree island.
As he spoke, Pierre Fontaine drove his pole against the bank and held the stern of the boat against the current. This thrust the bow in, till a nimble breed climbed ashore with the painter and made fast.
One leel tam, madame, I go look see.
A chorus of dogs marked his disappearance over the edge of the bank, but a minute later he was back again.
Oui, madame, thees is de cabin. I mak investigation. No can find mans at home. But him no go vaire far, vaire long, or him no leave dogs. Him come queek, you bet!
Help me out, Pierre. Im tired all over from the boat. You might have made it softer, you know.
From a nest of furs amidships, Karen Sayther rose to her full height of slender fairness. But if she looked lily-frail in her elemental environment, she was belied by the grip she put upon Pierres hand, by the knotting of her womans biceps as it took the weight of her body, by the splendid effort of her limbs as they held her out from the perpendicular bank while she made the ascent. Though shapely flesh clothed delicate frame, her body was a seat of strength.
Still, for all the careless ease with which she had made the landing, there was a warmer color than usual to her face, and a perceptibly extra beat to her heart. But then, also, it was with a certain reverent curiousness that she approached the cabin, while the Hush on her cheek showed a yet riper mellowness.
Look, see! Pierre pointed to the scattered chips by the woodpile. Him fresh two, tree day, no more.
Mrs. Sayther nodded. She tried to peer through the small window, but it was made of greased parchment which admitted light while it blocked vision. Failing this, she went round to the door, half lifted the rude latch to enter, but changed her mind and let it fall back into place. Then she suddenly dropped on one knee and kissed the rough-hewn threshold. If Pierre Fontaine saw, he gave no sign, and the memory in the time to come was never shared. But the next instant, one of the boatmen, placidly lighting his pipe, was startled by an unwonted harshness in his captains voice.
Hey! You! Le Goire! You makm soft more better, Pierre commanded. Plenty bearskin; plenty blanket. Dam!
But the nest was soon after disrupted, and the major portion tossed up to the crest of the shore, where Mrs. Sayther lay down to wait in comfort.
Reclining on her side, she looked out and over the wide-stretching Yukon. Above the mountains which lay beyond the further shore, the sky was murky with the smoke of unseen forest fires, and through this the afternoon sun broke feebly, throwing a vague radiance to earth, and unreal shadows. To the sky-line of the four quarters spruce-shrouded islands, dark waters, and ice-scarred rocky ridges stretched the immaculate wilderness. No sign of human existence broke the solitude; no sound the stillness. The land seemed bound under the unreality of the unknown, wrapped in the brooding mystery of great spaces.
Perhaps it was this which made Mrs. Sayther nervous; for she changed her position constantly, now to look up the river, now down, or to scan the gloomy shores for the half-hidden mouths of back channels. After an hour or so the boatmen were sent ashore to pitch camp for the night, but Pierre remained with his mistress to watch.
Ah! him come thees tam, he whispered, after a long silence, his gaze bent up the river to the head of the island.
A canoe, with a paddle flashing on either side, was slipping down the current. In the stern a mans form, and in the bow a womans, swung rhythmically to the work. Mrs. Sayther had no eyes for the woman till the canoe drove in closer and her bizarre beauty peremptorily demanded notice. A close-fitting blouse of moose-skin, fantastically beaded, outlined faithfully the well-rounded lines of her body, while a silken kerchief, gay of color and picturesquely draped, partly covered great masses of blue-black hair. But it was the face, cast belike in copper bronze, which caught and held Mrs. Saythers fleeting glance. Eyes, piercing and black and large, with a traditionary hint of obliqueness, looked forth from under clear-stencilled, clean-arching brows. Without suggesting cadaverousness, though high-boned and prominent, the cheeks fell away and met in a mouth, thin-lipped and softly strong. It was a face which advertised the dimmest trace of ancient Mongol blood, a reversion, after long centuries of wandering, to the parent stem. This effect was heightened by the delicately aquiline nose with its thin trembling nostrils, and by the general air of eagle wildness which seemed to characterize not only the face but the creature herself. She was, in fact, the Tartar type modified to idealization, and the tribe of Red Indian is lucky that breeds such a unique body once in a score of generations.
Ah! him come thees tam, he whispered, after a long silence, his gaze bent up the river to the head of the island.
A canoe, with a paddle flashing on either side, was slipping down the current. In the stern a mans form, and in the bow a womans, swung rhythmically to the work. Mrs. Sayther had no eyes for the woman till the canoe drove in closer and her bizarre beauty peremptorily demanded notice. A close-fitting blouse of moose-skin, fantastically beaded, outlined faithfully the well-rounded lines of her body, while a silken kerchief, gay of color and picturesquely draped, partly covered great masses of blue-black hair. But it was the face, cast belike in copper bronze, which caught and held Mrs. Saythers fleeting glance. Eyes, piercing and black and large, with a traditionary hint of obliqueness, looked forth from under clear-stencilled, clean-arching brows. Without suggesting cadaverousness, though high-boned and prominent, the cheeks fell away and met in a mouth, thin-lipped and softly strong. It was a face which advertised the dimmest trace of ancient Mongol blood, a reversion, after long centuries of wandering, to the parent stem. This effect was heightened by the delicately aquiline nose with its thin trembling nostrils, and by the general air of eagle wildness which seemed to characterize not only the face but the creature herself. She was, in fact, the Tartar type modified to idealization, and the tribe of Red Indian is lucky that breeds such a unique body once in a score of generations.
Dipping long strokes and strong, the girl, in concert with the man, suddenly whirled the tiny craft about against the current and brought it gently to the shore. Another instant and she stood at the top of the bank, heaving up by rope, hand under hand, a quarter of fresh-killed moose. Then the man followed her, and together, with a swift rush, they drew up the canoe. The dogs were in a whining mass about them, and as the girl stooped among them caressingly, the mans gaze fell upon Mrs. Sayther, who had arisen. He looked, brushed his eyes unconsciously as though his sight were deceiving him, and looked again.
Karen, he said simply, coming forward and extending his hand, I thought for the moment I was dreaming. I went snow-blind for a time, this spring, and since then my eyes have been playing tricks with me.
Mrs. Sayther, whose flush had deepened and whose heart was urging painfully, had been prepared for almost anything save this coolly extended hand; but she tactfully curbed herself and grasped it heartily with her own.
You know, Dave, I threatened often to come, and I would have, too, only only
Only I didnt give the word. David Payne laughed and watched the Indian girl disappearing into the cabin.
Oh, I understand, Dave, and had I been in your place Id most probably have done the same. But I have come now.
Then come a little bit farther, into the cabin and get something to eat, he said genially, ignoring or missing the feminine suggestion of appeal in her voice. And you must be tired too. Which way are you travelling? Up? Then you wintered in Dawson, or came in on the last ice. Your camp? He glanced at the voyageurs circled about the fire in the open, and held back the door for her to enter.
I came up on the ice from Circle City last winter, he continued, and settled down here for a while. Am prospecting some on Henderson Creek, and if that fails, have been thinking of trying my hand this fall up the Stuart River.
You arent changed much, are you? she asked irrelevantly, striving to throw the conversation upon a more personal basis.
A little less flesh, perhaps, and a little more muscle. How did you mean?
But she shrugged her shoulders and peered I through the dim light at the Indian girl, who had lighted the fire and was frying great chunks of moose meat, alternated with thin ribbons of bacon.
Did you stop in Dawson long? The man was whittling a stave of birchwood into a rude axe-handle, and asked the question without raising his head.
Oh, a few days, she answered, following the girl with her eyes, and hardly hearing. What were you saying? In Dawson? A month, in fact, and glad to get away. The arctic male is elemental, you know, and somewhat strenuous in his feelings.
Bound to be when he gets right down to the soil. He leaves convention with the spring bed at borne. But you were wise in your choice of time for leaving. Youll be out of the country before mosquito season, which is a blessing your lack of experience will not permit you to appreciate.
I suppose not. But tell me about yourself, about your life. What kind of neighbors have you? Or have you any?
While she queried she watched the girl grinding coffee in the corner of a flower sack upon the hearthstone. With a steadiness and skill which predicated nerves as primitive as the method, she crushed the imprisoned berries with a heavy fragment of quartz. David Payne noted his visitors gaze, and the shadow of a smile drifted over his lips.
I did have some, he replied. Missourian chaps, and a couple of Cornishmen, but they went down to Eldorado to work at wages for a grubstake.
Mrs. Sayther cast a look of speculative regard upon the girl. But of course there are plenty of Indians about?
Every mothers son of them down to Dawson long ago. Not a native in the whole country, barring Winapie here, and shes a Koyokuk lass, comes from a thousand miles or so down the river.
Mrs. Sayther felt suddenly faint; and though the smile of interest in no wise waned, the face of the man seemed to draw away to a telescopic distance, and the tiered logs of the cabin to whirl drunkenly about. But she was bidden draw up to the table, and during the meal discovered time and space in which to find herself. She talked little, and that principally about the land and weather, while the man wandered off into a long description of the difference between the shallow summer diggings of the Lower Country and the deep winter diggings of the Upper Country.
You do not ask why I came north? she asked. Surely you know. They had moved back from the table, and David Payne had returned to his axe-handle. Did you get my letter?
A last one? No, I dont think so. Most probably its trailing around the Birch Creek Country or lying in some traders shack on the Lower River. The way they run the mails in here is shameful. No order, no system, no
Dont be wooden, Dave! Help me! She spoke sharply now, with an assumption of authority which rested upon the past. Why dont you ask me about myself? About those we knew in the old times? Have you no longer any interest in the world? Do you know that my husband is dead?
Indeed, I am sorry. How long
David! She was ready to cry with vexation, but the reproach she threw into her voice eased her.
Did you get any of my letters? You must have got some of them, though you never answered.
Well, I didnt get the last one, announcing, evidently, the death of your husband, and most likely others went astray; but I did get some. I er read them aloud to Winapie as a warning that is, you know, to impress upon her the wickedness of her white sisters. And I er think she profited by it. Dont you?
She disregarded the sting, and went on. In the last letter, which you did not receive, I told, as you have guessed, of Colonel Saythers death. That was a year ago. I also said that if you did not come out to me, I would go in to you. And as I had often promised, I came.
I know of no promise.
In the earlier letters?