The Great Interrogation
To say the least, Mrs. Sayther's career in Dawson was meteoric.She arrived in the spring, with dog sleds and French-Canadianvoyageurs, blazed gloriously for a brief month, and departed upthe river as soon as it was free of ice. Now womanless Dawsonnever quite understood this hurried departure, and the local FourHundred felt aggrieved and lonely till the Nome strike was madeand 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 atheel any number of Eldorado Kings, officials, and adventuringyounger sons, whose ears were yearning for the frou-frou of awoman's skirts.The mining engineers revered the memory of her husband, the lateColonel Sayther, while the syndicate and promoter representativesspoke awesomely of his deals and manipulations; for he was knowndown in the States as a great mining man, and as even a greaterone in London. Why his widow, of all women, should have come intothe country, was the great interrogation. But they were apractical breed, the men of the Northland, with a wholesomedisregard for theories and a firm grip on facts. And to not a fewof them Karen Sayther was a most essential fact. That she did notregard the matter in this light, is evidenced by the neatness andcelerity with which refusal and proposal tallied off during herfour weeks' stay. And with her vanished the fact, and only theinterrogation remained.To the solution, Chance vouchsafed one clew. Her last victim,Jack Coughran, having fruitlessly laid at her feet both his heartand a five-hundred-foot creek claim on Bonanza, celebrated themisfortune by walking all of a night with the gods. In themidwatch of this night he happened to rub shoulders with PierreFontaine, none other than head man of Karen Sayther's voyageurs.This rubbing of shoulders led to recognition and drinks, andultimately involved both men in a common muddle of inebriety."Heh?" Pierre Fontaine later on gurgled thickly. "Vot for MadameSayther mak visitation to thees country? More better you spik wither. I know no t'ing 'tall, only all de tam her ask one man'sname. 'Pierre,' her spik wit me; 'Pierre, you moos' find theesmans, and I gif you mooch--one thousand dollar you find theesmans.' Thees mans? Ah, oui. Thees man's name--vot you call--Daveed Payne. Oui, m'sieu, Daveed Payne. All de tam her spik dasname. And all de tam I look rount vaire mooch, work lak hell, butno 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, dosemens know thees mans. Him Birch Creek, dey spik. And madame?Her say 'Bon!' and look happy lak anyt'ing. And her spik wit me.'Pierre,' her spik, 'harness de dogs. We go queek. We find theesmans I gif you one thousand dollar more.' And I say, 'Oui, queek!Allons, madame!'"For sure, I t'ink, das two thousand dollar mine. Bully boy! Denmore 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, m'sieu. Thees day madame spik. 'Pierre,' her spik, and gifme five hundred dollar, 'go buy poling-boat. To-morrow we go upde river.' Ah, oui, to-morrow, up de river, and das dam SitkaCharley mak me pay for de poling-boat five hundred dollar. Dam!"Thus it was, when Jack Coughran unburdened himself next day, thatDawson fell to wondering who was this David Payne, and in what wayhis existence bore upon Karen Sayther's. But that very day, asPierre Fontaine had said, Mrs. Sayther and her barbaric crew ofvoyageurs towed up the east bank to Klondike City, shot across tothe west bank to escape the bluffs, and disappeared amid the mazeof islands to the south.
II"Oui, madame, thees is de place. One, two, t'ree island belowStuart River. Thees is t'ree island."As he spoke, Pierre Fontaine drove his pole against the bank andheld the stern of the boat against the current. This thrust thebow in, till a nimble breed climbed ashore with the painter andmade fast."One leel tam, madame, I go look see."A chorus of dogs marked his disappearance over the edge of thebank, but a minute later he was back again."Oui, madame, thees is de cabin. I mak investigation. No canfind mans at home. But him no go vaire far, vaire long, or him noleave dogs. Him come queek, you bet!""Help me out, Pierre. I'm tired all over from the boat. Youmight have made it softer, you know."From a nest of furs amidships, Karen Sayther rose to her fullheight of slender fairness. But if she looked lily-frail in herelemental environment, she was belied by the grip she put uponPierre's hand, by the knotting of her woman's biceps as it tookthe weight of her body, by the splendid effort of her limbs asthey held her out from the perpendicular bank while she made theascent. Though shapely flesh clothed delicate frame, her body wasa seat of strength.Still, for all the careless ease with which she had made thelanding, there was a warmer color than usual to her face, and aperceptibly extra beat to her heart. But then, also, it was witha 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 thewoodpile. "Him fresh--two, t'ree 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 itblocked vision. Failing this, she went round to the door, halflifted the rude latch to enter, but changed her mind and let itfall back into place. Then she suddenly dropped on one knee andkissed the rough-hewn threshold. If Pierre Fontaine saw, he gaveno sign, and the memory in the time to come was never shared. Butthe next instant, one of the boatmen, placidly lighting his pipe,was startled by an unwonted harshness in his captain's voice."Hey! You! Le Goire! You mak'm soft more better," Pierrecommanded. "Plenty bear-skin; plenty blanket. Dam!"But the nest was soon after disrupted, and the major portiontossed up to the crest of the shore, where Mrs. Sayther lay downto wait in comfort.Reclining on her side, she looked out and over the wide-stretchingYukon. Above the mountains which lay beyond the further shore,the sky was murky with the smoke of unseen forest fires, andthrough this the afternoon sun broke feebly, throwing a vagueradiance to earth, and unreal shadows. To the sky-line of thefour quarters--spruce-shrouded islands, dark waters, and ice-scarred rocky ridges--stretched the immaculate wilderness. Nosign of human existence broke the solitude; no sound thestillness. The land seemed bound under the unreality of theunknown, wrapped in the brooding mystery of great spaces.Perhaps it was this which made Mrs. Sayther nervous; for shechanged her position constantly, now to look up the river, nowdown, or to scan the gloomy shores for the half-hidden mouths ofback channels. After an hour or so the boatmen were sent ashoreto pitch camp for the night, but Pierre remained with his mistressto watch."Ah! him come thees tam," he whispered, after a long silence, hisgaze bent up the river to the head of the island.A canoe, with a paddle flashing on either side, was slipping downthe current. In the stern a man's form, and in the bow a woman's,swung rhythmically to the work. Mrs. Sayther had no eyes for thewoman till the canoe drove in closer and her bizarre beautyperemptorily demanded notice. A close-fitting blouse of moose-skin, fantastically beaded, outlined faithfully the well-roundedlines of her body, while a silken kerchief, gay of color andpicturesquely draped, partly covered great masses of blue-blackhair. But it was the face, cast belike in copper bronze, whichcaught and held Mrs. Sayther's fleeting glance. Eyes, piercingand black and large, with a traditionary hint of obliqueness,looked forth from under clear-stencilled, clean-arching brows.Without suggesting cadaverousness, though high-boned andprominent, the cheeks fell away and met in a mouth, thin-lippedand softly strong. It was a face which advertised the dimmesttrace of ancient Mongol blood, a reversion, after long centuriesof wandering, to the parent stem. This effect was heightened bythe delicately aquiline nose with its thin trembling nostrils, andby the general air of eagle wildness which seemed to characterizenot only the face but the creature herself. She was, in fact, theTartar type modified to idealization, and the tribe of Red Indianis lucky that breeds such a unique body once in a score ofgenerations.Dipping long strokes and strong, the girl, in concert with theman, suddenly whirled the tiny craft about against the current andbrought it gently to the shore. Another instant and she stood atthe top of the bank, heaving up by rope, hand under hand, aquarter of fresh-killed moose. Then the man followed her, andtogether, with a swift rush, they drew up the canoe. The dogswere in a whining mass about them, and as the girl stooped amongthem caressingly, the man's gaze fell upon Mrs. Sayther, who hadarisen. He looked, brushed his eyes unconsciously as though hissight were deceiving him, and looked again."Karen," he said simply, coming forward and extending his hand, "Ithought for the moment I was dreaming. I went snow-blind for atime, this spring, and since then my eyes have been playing trickswith me."Mrs. Sayther, whose flush had deepened and whose heart was urgingpainfully, had been prepared for almost anything save this coollyextended hand; but she tactfully curbed herself and grasped itheartily with her own."You know, Dave, I threatened often to come, and I would have,too, only--only--""Only I didn't give the word." David Payne laughed and watchedthe Indian girl disappearing into the cabin."Oh, I understand, Dave, and had I been in your place I'd mostprobably have done the same. But I have come--now.""Then come a little bit farther, into the cabin and get somethingto eat," he said genially, ignoring or missing the femininesuggestion 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 thevoyageurs circled about the fire in the open, and held back thedoor 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 onHenderson Creek, and if that fails, have been thinking of tryingmy hand this fall up the Stuart River.""You aren't 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 didyou mean?"But she shrugged her shoulders and peered I through the dim lightat the Indian girl, who had lighted the fire and was frying greatchunks of moose meat, alternated with thin ribbons of bacon."Did you stop in Dawson long?" The man was whittling a stave ofbirchwood into a rude axe-handle, and asked the question withoutraising 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, youknow, and somewhat strenuous in his feelings.""Bound to be when he gets right down to the soil. He leavesconvention with the spring bed at borne. But you were wise inyour choice of time for leaving. You'll be out of the countrybefore mosquito season, which is a blessing your lack ofexperience 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 thecorner of a flower sack upon the hearthstone. With a steadinessand skill which predicated nerves as primitive as the method, shecrushed the imprisoned berries with a heavy fragment of quartz.David Payne noted his visitor's gaze, and the shadow of a smiledrifted over his lips."I did have some," he replied. "Missourian chaps, and a couple ofCornishmen, but they went down to Eldorado to work at wages for agrubstake."Mrs. Sayther cast a look of speculative regard upon the girl."But of course there are plenty of Indians about?""Every mother's son of them down to Dawson long ago. Not a nativein the whole country, barring Winapie here, and she's a Koyokuklass,--comes from a thousand miles or so down the river."Mrs. Sayther felt suddenly faint; and though the smile of interestin no wise waned, the face of the man seemed to draw away to atelescopic distance, and the tiered logs of the cabin to whirldrunkenly about. But she was bidden draw up to the table, andduring the meal discovered time and space in which to findherself. She talked little, and that principally about the landand weather, while the man wandered off into a long description ofthe difference between the shallow summer diggings of the LowerCountry 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 returnedto his axe-handle. "Did you get my letter?""A last one? No, I don't think so. Most probably it's trailingaround the Birch Creek Country or lying in some trader's shack onthe Lower River. The way they run the mails in here is shameful.No order, no system, no--""Don't be wooden, Dave! Help me!" She spoke sharply now, with anassumption of authority which rested upon the past. "Why don'tyou 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 myhusband is dead?""Indeed, I am sorry. How long--""David!" She was ready to cry with vexation, but the reproach shethrew 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 didn't get the last one, announcing, evidently, the deathof your husband, and most likely others went astray; but I did getsome. 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. Don't you?"She disregarded the sting, and went on. "In the last letter,which you did not receive, I told, as you have guessed, of ColonelSayther's death. That was a year ago. I also said that if youdid not come out to me, I would go in to you. And as I had oftenpromised, I came.""I know of no promise.""In the earlier letters?""Yes, you promised, but as I neither asked nor answered, it wasunratified. So I do not know of any such promise. But I do knowof another, which you, too, may remember. It was very long ago."He dropped the axe-handle to the floor and raised his head. "Itwas so very long ago, yet I remember it distinctly, the day, thetime, every detail. We were in a rose garden, you and I,--yourmother's rose garden. All things were budding, blossoming, andthe sap of spring was in our blood. And I drew you over--it wasthe first--and kissed you full on the lips. Don't you remember?""Don't go over it, Dave, don't! I know every shameful line of it.How often have I wept! If you only knew how I have suffered--""You promised me then--ay, and a thousand times in the sweet daysthat followed. Each look of your eyes, each touch of your hand,each syllable that fell from your lips, was a promise. And then--how shall I say?--there came a man. He was old--old enough tohave begotten you--and not nice to look upon, but as the worldgoes, clean. He had done no wrong, followed the letter of thelaw, was respectable. Further, and to the point, he possessedsome several paltry mines,--a score; it does not matter: and heowned a few miles of lands, and engineered deals, and clippedcoupons. He--""But there were other things," she interrupted, "I told you.Pressure--money matters--want--my people--trouble. You understoodthe whole sordid situation. I could not help it. It was not mywill. I was sacrificed, or I sacrificed, have it as you wish.But, my God! Dave, I gave you up! You never did me justice.Think what I have gone through!""It was not your will? Pressure? Under high heaven there was nothing to will you to this man's bed or that.""But I cared for you all the time," she pleaded."I was unused to your way of measuring love. I am still unused.I do not understand.""But now! now!""We were speaking of this man you saw fit to marry. What mannerof man was he? Wherein did he charm your soul? What potentvirtues were his? True, he had a golden grip,--an almighty goldengrip. He knew the odds. He was versed in cent per cent. He hada narrow wit and excellent judgment of the viler parts, whereby hetransferred this man's money to his pockets, and that man's money,and the next man's. And the law smiled. In that it did notcondemn, our Christian ethics approved. By social measure he wasnot a bad man. But by your measure, Karen, by mine, by ours ofthe rose garden, what was he?""Remember, he is dead.""The fact is not altered thereby. What was he? A great, gross,material creature, deaf to song, blind to beauty, dead to thespirit. He was fat with laziness, and flabby-cheeked, and theround of his belly witnessed his gluttony--""But he is dead. It is we who are now--now! now! Don't you hear?As you say, I have been inconstant. I have sinned. Good. Butshould not you, too, cry peccavi? If I have broken promises, havenot you? Your love of the rose garden was of all time, or so yousaid. Where is it now?""It is here! now!" he cried, striking his breast passionately withclenched hand. "It has always been.""And your love was a great love; there was none greater," shecontinued; "or so you said in the rose garden. Yet it is not fineenough, large enough, to forgive me here, crying now at yourfeet?"The man hesitated. His mouth opened; words shaped vainly on hislips. She had forced him to bare his heart and speak truths whichhe had hidden from himself. And she was good to look upon,standing there in a glory of passion, calling back oldassociations and warmer life. He turned away his head that hemight not see, but she passed around and fronted him."Look at me, Dave! Look at me! I am the same, after all. And soare you, if you would but see. We are not changed."Her hand rested on his shoulder, and his had half-passed, roughly,about her, when the sharp crackle of a match startled him tohimself. Winapie, alien to the scene, was lighting the slow wickof the slush lamp. She appeared to start out against a backgroundof utter black, and the flame, flaring suddenly up, lighted herbronze beauty to royal gold."You see, it is impossible," he groaned, thrusting the fair-hairedwoman gently from him. "It is impossible," he repeated. "It isimpossible.""I am not a girl, Dave, with a girl's illusions," she said softly,though not daring to come back to him. "It is as a woman that Iunderstand. Men are men. A common custom of the country. I amnot shocked. I divined it from the first. But--ah!--it is only amarriage of the country--not a real marriage?""We do not ask such questions in Alaska," he interposed feebly."I know, but--""Well, then, it is only a marriage of the country--nothing else.""And there are no children?""No.""Nor--""No, no; nothing--but it is impossible.""But it is not." She was at his side again, her hand touchinglightly, caressingly, the sunburned back of his. "I know thecustom of the land too well. Men do it every day. They do notcare to remain here, shut out from the world, for all their days;so they give an order on the P. C. C. Company for a year'sprovisions, some money in hand, and the girl is content. By theend of that time, a man--" She shrugged her shoulders. "And sowith the girl here. We will give her an order upon the company,not for a year, but for life. What was she when you found her? Araw, meat-eating savage; fish in summer, moose in winter, feastingin plenty, starving in famine. But for you that is what she wouldhave remained. For your coming she was happier; for your going,surely, with a life of comparative splendor assured, she will behappier than if you had never been.""No, no," he protested. "It is not right.""Come, Dave, you must see. She is not your kind. There is norace affinity. She is an aborigine, sprung from the soil, yetclose to the soil, and impossible to lift from the soil. Bornsavage, savage she will die. But we--you and I--the dominant,evolved race--the salt of the earth and the masters thereof! Weare made for each other. The supreme call is of kind, and we areof kind. Reason and feeling dictate it. Your very instinctdemands it. That you cannot deny. You cannot escape thegenerations behind you. Yours is an ancestry which has survivedfor a thousand centuries, and for a hundred thousand centuries,and your line must not stop here. It cannot. Your ancestry willnot permit it. Instinct is stronger than the will. The race ismightier than you. Come, Dave, let us go. We are young yet, andlife is good. Come."Winapie, passing out of the cabin to feed the dogs, caught hisattention and caused him to shake his head and weakly toreiterate. But the woman's hand slipped about his neck, and hercheek pressed to his. His bleak life rose up and smote him,--thevain struggle with pitiless forces; the dreary years of frost andfamine; the harsh and jarring contact with elemental life; theaching void which mere animal existence could not fill. Andthere, seduction by his side, whispering of brighter, warmerlands, of music, light, and joy, called the old times back again.He visioned it unconsciously. Faces rushed in upon him; glimpsesof forgotten scenes, memories of merry hours; strains of song andtrills of laughter -"Come, Dave, Come. I have for both. The way is soft." Shelooked about her at the bare furnishings of the cabin. "I havefor both. The world is at our feet, and all joy is ours. Come!come!"She was in his arms, trembling, and he held her tightly. He roseto his feet . . . But the snarling of hungry dogs, and the shrillcries of Winapie bringing about peace between the combatants, camemuffled to his ear through the heavy logs. And another sceneflashed before him. A struggle in the forest,--a bald-facegrizzly, broken-legged, terrible; the snarling of the dogs and theshrill cries of Winapie as she urged them to the attack; himselfin the midst of the crush, breathless, panting, striving to holdoff red death; broken-backed, entrail-ripped dogs howling inimpotent anguish and desecrating the snow; the virgin whiterunning scarlet with the blood of man and beast; the bear,ferocious, irresistible, crunching, crunching down to the core ofhis life; and Winapie, at the last, in the thick of the frightfulmuddle, hair flying, eyes flashing, fury incarnate, passing thelong hunting knife again and again--Sweat started to his forehead.He shook off the clinging woman and staggered back to the wall.And she, knowing that the moment had come, but unable to divinewhat was passing within him, felt all she had gained slippingaway."Dave! Dave!" she cried. "I will not give you up! I will notgive you up! If you do not wish to come, we will stay. I willstay with you. The world is less to me than are you. I will be aNorthland wife to you. I will cook your food, feed your dogs,break trail for you, lift a paddle with you. I can do it.Believe me, I am strong."Nor did he doubt it, looking upon her and holding her off fromhim; but his face had grown stern and gray, and the warmth haddied out of his eyes."I will pay off Pierre and the boatmen, and let them go. And Iwill stay with you, priest or no priest, minister or no minister;go with you, now, anywhere! Dave! Dave! Listen to me! You sayI did you wrong in the past--and I did--let me make up for it, letme atone. If I did not rightly measure love before, let me showthat I can now."She sank to the floor and threw her arms about his knees, sobbing."And you do care for me. You do care for me. Think! The longyears I have waited, suffered! You can never know!" He stoopedand raised her to her feet."Listen," he commanded, opening the door and lifting her bodilyoutside. "It cannot be. We are not alone to be considered. Youmust go. I wish you a safe journey. You will find it tougherwork when you get up by the Sixty Mile, but you have the bestboatmen in the world, and will get through all right. Will yousay good-by?"Though she already had herself in hand, she looked at himhopelessly. "If--if--if Winapie should--" She quavered andstopped.But he grasped the unspoken thought, and answered, "Yes." Thenstruck with the enormity of it, "It cannot be conceived. There isno likelihood. It must not be entertained.""Kiss me," she whispered, her face lighting. Then she turned andwent away."Break camp, Pierre," she said to the boatman, who alone hadremained awake against her return. "We must be going."By the firelight his sharp eyes scanned the woe in her face, buthe received the extraordinary command as though it were the mostusual thing in the world. "Oui, madame," he assented. "Whichway? Dawson?""No," she answered, lightly enough; "up; out; Dyea."Whereat he fell upon the sleeping voyageurs, kicking them,grunting, from their blankets, and buckling them down to the work,the while his voice, vibrant with action, shrilling through allthe camp. In a trice Mrs. Sayther's tiny tent had been struck,pots and pans were being gathered up, blankets rolled, and the menstaggering under the loads to the boat. Here, on the banks, Mrs.Sayther waited till the luggage was made ship-shape and her nestprepared."We line up to de head of de island," Pierre explained to herwhile running out the long tow rope. "Den we tak to das backchannel, where de water not queek, and I t'ink we mak good tam."A scuffling and pattering of feet in the last year's dry grasscaught his quick ear, and he turned his head. The Indian girl,circled by a bristling ring of wolf dogs, was coming toward them.Mrs. Sayther noted that the girl's face, which had been apatheticthroughout the scene in the cabin, had now quickened into blazingand wrathful life."What you do my man?" she demanded abruptly of Mrs. Sayther. "Himlay on bunk, and him look bad all the time. I say, 'What thematter, Dave? You sick?' But him no say nothing. After that himsay, 'Good girl Winapie, go way. I be all right bimeby.' Whatyou do my man, eh? I think you bad woman."Mrs. Sayther looked curiously at the barbarian woman who sharedthe life of this man, while she departed alone in the darkness ofnight."I think you bad woman," Winapie repeated in the slow, methodicalway of one who gropes for strange words in an alien tongue. "Ithink better you go way, no come no more. Eh? What you think? Ihave one man. I Indian girl. You 'Merican woman. You good tosee. You find plenty men. Your eyes blue like the sky. Yourskin so white, so soft."Coolly she thrust out a brown forefinger and pressed the softcheek of the other woman. And to the eternal credit of KarenSayther, she never flinched. Pierre hesitated and half steppedforward; but she motioned him away, though her heart welled to himwith secret gratitude. "It's all right, Pierre," she said."Please go away."He stepped back respectfully out of earshot, where he stoodgrumbling to himself and measuring the distance in springs."Um white, um soft, like baby." Winapie touched the other cheekand withdrew her hand. "Bimeby mosquito come. Skin get sore inspot; um swell, oh, so big; um hurt, oh, so much. Plentymosquito; plenty spot. I think better you go now before mosquitocome. This way," pointing down the stream, "you go St. Michael's;that way," pointing up, "you go Dyea. Better you go Dyea. Good-by."And that which Mrs. Sayther then did, caused Pierre to marvelgreatly. For she threw her arms around the Indian girl, kissedher, and burst into tears."Be good to him," she cried. "Be good to him."Then she slipped half down the face of the bank, called back"Good-by," and dropped into the boat amidships. Pierre followedher and cast off. He shoved the steering oar into place and gavethe signal. Le Goire lifted an old French chanson; the men, likea row of ghosts in the dim starlight, bent their backs to the towline; the steering oar cut the black current sharply, and the boatswept out into the night.
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