The Man with the Gash
Jacob Kent had suffered from cupidity all the days of his life.This, in turn, had engendered a chronic distrustfulness, and hismind and character had become so warped that he was a verydisagreeable man to deal with. He was also a victim tosomnambulic propensities, and very set in his ideas. He had beena weaver of cloth from the cradle, until the fever of Klondike hadentered his blood and torn him away from his loom. His cabinstood midway between Sixty Mile Post and the Stuart River; and menwho made it a custom to travel the trail to Dawson, likened him toa robber baron, perched in his fortress and exacting toll from thecaravans that used his ill-kept roads. Since a certain amount ofhistory was required in the construction of this figure, the lesscultured wayfarers from Stuart River were prone to describe himafter a still more primordial fashion, in which a command ofstrong adjectives was to be chiefly noted.This cabin was not his, by the way, having been built severalyears previously by a couple of miners who had got out a raft oflogs at that point for a grub-stake. They had been mosthospitable lads, and, after they abandoned it, travelers who knewthe route made it an object to arrive there at nightfall. It wasvery handy, saving them all the time and toil of pitching camp;and it was an unwritten rule that the last man left a neat pile offirewood for the next comer. Rarely a night passed but from halfa dozen to a score of men crowded into its shelter. Jacob Kentnoted these things, exercised squatter sovereignty, and moved in.Thenceforth, the weary travelers were mulcted a dollar per headfor the privilege of sleeping on the floor, Jacob Kent weighingthe dust and never failing to steal the down-weight. Besides, heso contrived that his transient guests chopped his wood for himand carried his water. This was rank piracy, but his victims werean easy-going breed, and while they detested him, they yetpermitted him to flourish in his sins.One afternoon in April he sat by his door,--for all the world likea predatory spider,--marvelling at the heat of the returning sun,and keeping an eye on the trail for prospective flies. The Yukonlay at his feet, a sea of ice, disappearing around two great bendsto the north and south, and stretching an honest two miles frombank to bank. Over its rough breast ran the sled-trail, a slendersunken line, eighteen inches wide and two thousand miles inlength, with more curses distributed to the linear foot than anyother road in or out of all Christendom.Jacob Kent was feeling particularly good that afternoon. Therecord had been broken the previous night, and he had sold hishospitality to no less than twenty-eight visitors. True, it hadbeen quite uncomfortable, and four had snored beneath his bunk allnight; but then it had added appreciable weight to the sack inwhich he kept his gold dust. That sack, with its glitteringyellow treasure, was at once the chief delight and the chief baneof his existence. Heaven and hell lay within its slender mouth.In the nature of things, there being no privacy to his one-roomeddwelling, he was tortured by a constant fear of theft. It wouldbe very easy for these bearded, desperate-looking strangers tomake away with it. Often he dreamed that such was the case, andawoke in the grip of nightmare. A select number of these robbershaunted him through his dreams, and he came to know them quitewell, especially the bronzed leader with the gash on his rightcheek. This fellow was the most persistent of the lot, and,because of him, he had, in his waking moments, constructed severalscore of hiding-places in and about the cabin. After aconcealment he would breathe freely again, perhaps for severalnights, only to collar the Man with the Gash in the very act ofunearthing the sack. Then, on awakening in the midst of the usualstruggle, he would at once get up and transfer the bag to a newand more ingenious crypt. It was not that he was the directvictim of these phantasms; but he believed in omens and thought-transference, and he deemed these dream-robbers to be the astralprojection of real personages who happened at those particularmoments, no matter where they were in the flesh, to be harboringdesigns, in the spirit, upon his wealth. So he continued to bleedthe unfortunates who crossed his threshold, and at the same timeto add to his trouble with every ounce that went into the sack.As he sat sunning himself, a thought came to Jacob Kent thatbrought him to his feet with a jerk. The pleasures of life hadculminated in the continual weighing and reweighing of his dust;but a shadow had been thrown upon this pleasant avocation, whichhe had hitherto failed to brush aside. His gold-scales were quitesmall; in fact, their maximum was a pound and a half,--eighteenounces,--while his hoard mounted up to something like three and athird times that. He had never been able to weigh it all at oneoperation, and hence considered himself to have been shut out froma new and most edifying coign of contemplation. Being deniedthis, half the pleasure of possession had been lost; nay, he feltthat this miserable obstacle actually minimized the fact, as itdid the strength, of possession. It was the solution of thisproblem flashing across his mind that had just brought him to hisfeet. He searched the trail carefully in either direction. Therewas nothing in sight, so he went inside.In a few seconds he had the table cleared away and the scales setup. On one side he placed the stamped disks to the equivalent offifteen ounces, and balanced it with dust on the other. Replacingthe weights with dust, he then had thirty ounces preciselybalanced. These, in turn, he placed together on one side andagain balanced with more dust. By this time the gold wasexhausted, and he was sweating liberally. He trembled withecstasy, ravished beyond measure. Nevertheless he dusted the sackthoroughly, to the last least grain, till the balance was overcomeand one side of the scales sank to the table. Equilibrium,however, was restored by the addition of a pennyweight and fivegrains to the opposite side. He stood, head thrown back,transfixed. The sack was empty, but the potentiality of thescales had become immeasurable. Upon them he could weigh anyamount, from the tiniest grain to pounds upon pounds. Mammon laidhot fingers on his heart. The sun swung on its westering way tillit flashed through the open doorway, full upon the yellow-burdenedscales. The precious heaps, like the golden breasts of a bronzeCleopatra, flung back the light in a mellow glow. Time and spacewere not."Gawd blime me! but you 'aye the makin' of several quid there,'aven't you?"Jacob Kent wheeled about, at the same time reaching for hisdouble-barrelled shot-gun, which stood handy. But when his eyeslit on the intruder's face, he staggered back dizzily. It was theface of the man with the gash!The man looked at him curiously."Oh, that's all right," he said, waving his hand deprecatingly."You needn't think as I'll 'arm you or your blasted dust."You're a rum 'un, you are," he added reflectively, as he watchedthe sweat pouring from off Kent's face and the quavering of hisknees."W'y don't you pipe up an' say somethin'?" he went on, as theother struggled for breath. "Wot's gone wrong o' your gaff?Anythink the matter?""W--w--where'd you get it?" Kent at last managed to articulate,raising a shaking forefinger to the ghastly scar which seamed theother's cheek."Shipmate stove me down with a marlin-spike from the main-royal.An' now as you 'aye your figger'ead in trim, wot I want to knowis, wot's it to you? That's wot I want to know--wot's it to you?Gawd blime me! do it 'urt you? Ain't it smug enough for the likeso' you? That's wot I want to know!""No, no," Kent answered, sinking upon a stool with a sickly grin."I was just wondering.""Did you ever see the like?" the other went on truculently."No.""Ain't it a beute?""Yes." Kent nodded his head approvingly, intent on humoring thisstrange visitor, but wholly unprepared for the outburst which wasto follow his effort to be agreeable."You blasted, bloomin', burgoo-eatin' son-of-a-sea-swab! Wot doyou mean, a sayin' the most onsightly thing Gawd Almighty ever puton the face o' man is a beute? Wot do you mean, you--"And thereat this fiery son of the sea broke off into a string ofOriental profanity, mingling gods and devils, lineages and men,metaphors and monsters, with so savage a virility that Jacob Kentwas paralyzed. He shrank back, his arms lifted as though to wardoff physical violence. So utterly unnerved was he that the otherpaused in the mid-swing of a gorgeous peroration and burst intothunderous laughter."The sun's knocked the bottom out o' the trail," said the Man withthe Gash, between departing paroxysms of mirth. "An' I only 'opeas you'll appreciate the hoppertunity of consortin' with a man o'my mug. Get steam up in that fire-box o' your'n. I'm goin' tounrig the dogs an' grub 'em. An' don't be shy o' the wood, mylad; there's plenty more where that come from, and it's you've gotthe time to sling an axe. An' tote up a bucket o' water whileyou're about it. Lively! or I'll run you down, so 'elp me!"Such a thing was unheard of. Jacob Kent was making the fire,chopping wood, packing water--doing menial tasks for a guest!When Jim Cardegee left Dawson, it was with his head filled withthe iniquities of this roadside Shylock; and all along the trailhis numerous victims had added to the sum of his crimes. Now, JimCardegee, with the sailor's love for a sailor's joke, haddetermined, when he pulled into the cabin, to bring its inmatedown a peg or so. That he had succeeded beyond expectation hecould not help but remark, though he was in the dark as to thepart the gash on his cheek had played in it. But while he couldnot understand, he saw the terror it created, and resolved toexploit it as remorselessly as would any modern trader a choicebit of merchandise."Strike me blind, but you're a 'ustler," he said admiringly, hishead cocked to one side, as his host bustled about. "You never'ort to 'ave gone Klondiking. It's the keeper of a pub' you waslaid out for. An' it's often as I 'ave 'eard the lads up an' downthe river speak o' you, but I 'adn't no idea you was so jollynice."Jacob Kent experienced a tremendous yearning to try his shotgun onhim, but the fascination of the gash was too potent. This was thereal Man with the Gash, the man who had so often robbed him in thespirit. This, then, was the embodied entity of the being whoseastral form had been projected into his dreams, the man who had sofrequently harbored designs against his hoard; hence--there couldbe no other conclusion--this Man with the Gash had now come in theflesh to dispossess him. And that gash! He could no more keephis eyes from it than stop the beating of his heart. Try as hewould, they wandered back to that one point as inevitably as theneedle to the pole."Do it 'urt you?" Jim Cardegee thundered suddenly, looking up fromthe spreading of his blankets and encountering the rapt gaze ofthe other. "It strikes me as 'ow it 'ud be the proper thing foryou to draw your jib, douse the glim, an' turn in, seein' as 'owit worrits you. Jes' lay to that, you swab, or so 'elp me I'lltake a pull on your peak-purchases!"Kent was so nervous that it took three puffs to blow out theslush-lamp, and he crawled into his blankets without even removinghis moccasins. The sailor was soon snoring lustily from his hardbed on the floor, but Kent lay staring up into the blackness, onehand on the shotgun, resolved not to close his eyes the wholenight. He had not had an opportunity to secrete his five poundsof gold, and it lay in the ammunition box at the head of his bunk.But, try as he would, he at last dozed off with the weight of hisdust heavy on his soul. Had he not inadvertently fallen asleepwith his mind in such condition, the somnambulic demon would nothave been invoked, nor would Jim Cardegee have gone mining nextday with a dish-pan.The fire fought a losing battle, and at last died away, while thefrost penetrated the mossy chinks between the logs and chilled theinner atmosphere. The dogs outside ceased their howling, and,curled up in the snow, dreamed of salmon-stocked heavens wheredog-drivers and kindred task-masters were not. Within, the sailorlay like a log, while his host tossed restlessly about, the victimof strange fantasies. As midnight drew near he suddenly threw offthe blankets and got up. It was remarkable that he could do whathe then did without ever striking a light. Perhaps it was becauseof the darkness that he kept his eyes shut, and perhaps it was forfear he would see the terrible gash on the cheek of his visitor;but, be this as it may, it is a fact that, unseeing, he opened hisammunition box, put a heavy charge into the muzzle of the shotgunwithout spilling a particle, rammed it down with double wads, andthen put everything away and got back into bed.Just as daylight laid its steel-gray fingers on the parchmentwindow, Jacob Kent awoke. Turning on his elbow, he raised the lidand peered into the ammunition box. Whatever he saw, or whateverhe did not see, exercised a very peculiar effect upon him,considering his neurotic temperament. He glanced at the sleepingman on the floor, let the lid down gently, and rolled over on hisback. It was an unwonted calm that rested on his face. Not amuscle quivered. There was not the least sign of excitement orperturbation. He lay there a long while, thinking, and when hegot up and began to move about, it was in a cool, collectedmanner, without noise and without hurry.It happened that a heavy wooden peg had been driven into theridge-pole just above Jim Cardegee's head. Jacob Kent, workingsoftly, ran a piece of half-inch manila over it, bringing bothends to the ground. One end he tied about his waist, and in theother he rove a running noose. Then he cocked his shotgun andlaid it within reach, by the side of numerous moose-hide thongs.By an effort of will he bore the sight of the scar, slipped thenoose over the sleeper's head, and drew it taut by throwing backon his weight, at the same time seizing the gun and bringing it tobear.Jim Cardegee awoke, choking, bewildered, staring down the twinwells of steel."Where is it?" Kent asked, at the same time slacking on the rope."You blasted--ugh--"Kent merely threw back his weight, shutting off the other's wind."Bloomin'--Bur--ugh--""Where is it?" Kent repeated."Wot?" Cardegee asked, as soon as he had caught his breath."The gold-dust.""Wot gold-dust?" the perplexed sailor demanded."You know well enough,--mine.""Ain't seen nothink of it. Wot do ye take me for? A safe-deposit? Wot 'ave I got to do with it, any'ow?""Mebbe you know, and mebbe you don't know, but anyway, I'm goingto stop your breath till you do know. And if you lift a hand,I'll blow your head off!""Vast heavin'!" Cardegee roared, as the rope tightened.Kent eased away a moment, and the sailor, wriggling his neck asthough from the pressure, managed to loosen the noose a bit andwork it up so the point of contact was just under the chin."Well?" Kent questioned, expecting the disclosure.But Cardegee grinned. "Go ahead with your 'angin', you bloomin'old pot-wolloper!"Then, as the sailor had anticipated, the tragedy became a farce.Cardegee being the heavier of the two, Kent, throwing his bodybackward and down, could not lift him clear of the ground. Strainand strive to the uttermost, the sailor's feet still stuck to thefloor and sustained a part of his weight. The remaining portionwas supported by the point of contact just under his chin.Failing to swing him clear, Kent clung on, resolved to slowlythrottle him or force him to tell what he had done with the hoard.But the Man with the Gash would not throttle. Five, ten, fifteenminutes passed, and at the end of that time, in despair, Kent lethis prisoner down."Well," he remarked, wiping away the sweat, "if you won't hangyou'll shoot. Some men wasn't born to be hanged, anyway.""An' it's a pretty mess as you'll make o' this 'ere cabin floor."Cardegee was fighting for time. "Now, look 'ere, I'll tell youwot we do; we'll lay our 'eads 'longside an' reason together.You've lost some dust. You say as 'ow I know, an' I say as 'ow Idon't. Let's get a hobservation an' shape a course--""Vast heavin'!" Kent dashed in, maliciously imitating the other'senunciation. "I'm going to shape all the courses of this shebang,and you observe; and if you do anything more, I'll bore you assure as Moses!""For the sake of my mother--""Whom God have mercy upon if she loves you. Ah! Would you?" Hefrustrated a hostile move on the part of the other by pressing thecold muzzle against his forehead. "Lay quiet, now! If you liftas much as a hair, you'll get it."It was rather an awkward task, with the trigger of the gun alwayswithin pulling distance of the finger; but Kent was a weaver, andin a few minutes had the sailor tied hand and foot. Then hedragged him without and laid him by the side of the cabin, wherehe could overlook the river and watch the sun climb to themeridian."Now I'll give you till noon, and then--""Wot?""You'll be hitting the brimstone trail. But if you speak up, I'llkeep you till the next bunch of mounted police come by.""Well, Gawd blime me, if this ain't a go! 'Ere I be, innercent asa lamb, an' 'ere you be, lost all o' your top 'amper an' out o'your reckonin', run me foul an' goin' to rake me into 'ell-fire.You bloomin' old pirut! You--"Jim Cardegee loosed the strings of his profanity and fairly outdidhimself. Jacob Kent brought out a stool that he might enjoy it incomfort. Having exhausted all the possible combinations of hisvocabulary, the sailor quieted down to hard thinking, his eyesconstantly gauging the progress of the sun, which tore up theeastern slope of the heavens with unseemly haste. His dogs,surprised that they had not long since been put to harness,crowded around him. His helplessness appealed to the brutes.They felt that something was wrong, though they knew not what, andthey crowded about, howling their mournful sympathy."Chook! Mush-on! you Siwashes!" he cried, attempting, in avermicular way, to kick at them, and discovering himself to betottering on the edge of a declivity. As soon as the animals hadscattered, he devoted himself to the significance of thatdeclivity which he felt to be there but could not see. Nor was helong in arriving at a correct conclusion. In the nature ofthings, he figured, man is lazy. He does no more than he has to.When he builds a cabin he must put dirt on the roof. From thesepremises it was logical that he should carry that dirt no furtherthan was absolutely necessary. Therefore, he lay upon the edge ofthe hole from which the dirt had been taken to roof Jacob Kent'scabin. This knowledge, properly utilized, might prolong things,he thought; and he then turned his attention to the moose-hidethongs which bound him. His hands were tied behind him, andpressing against the snow, they were wet with the contact. Thismoistening of the raw-hide he knew would tend to make it stretch,and, without apparent effort, he endeavored to stretch it more andmore.He watched the trail hungrily, and when in the direction of SixtyMile a dark speck appeared for a moment against the whitebackground of an ice-jam, he cast an anxious eye at the sun. Ithad climbed nearly to the zenith. Now and again he caught theblack speck clearing the hills of ice and sinking into theintervening hollows; but he dared not permit himself more than themost cursory glances for fear of rousing his enemy's suspicion.Once, when Jacob Kent rose to his feet and searched the trail withcare, Cardegee was frightened, but the dog-sled had struck a pieceof trail running parallel with a jam, and remained out of sighttill the danger was past."I'll see you 'ung for this," Cardegee threatened, attempting todraw the other's attention. "An' you'll rot in 'ell, jes' you seeif you don't."I say," he cried, after another pause; "d'ye b'lieve in ghosts?"Kent's sudden start made him sure of his ground, and he went on:"Now a ghost 'as the right to 'aunt a man wot don't do wot hesays; and you can't shuffle me off till eight bells--wot I mean istwelve o'clock--can you? 'Cos if you do, it'll 'appen as 'ow I'll'aunt you. D'ye 'ear? A minute, a second too quick, an' I'll'aunt you, so 'elp me, I will!"Jacob Kent looked dubious, but declined to talk."'Ow's your chronometer? Wot's your longitude? 'Ow do you knowas your time's correct?" Cardegee persisted, vainly hoping to beathis executioner out of a few minutes. "Is it Barrack's time you'ave, or is it the Company time? 'Cos if you do it before thestroke o' the bell, I'll not rest. I give you fair warnin'. I'llcome back. An' if you 'aven't the time, 'ow will you know?That's wot I want--'ow will you tell?""I'll send you off all right," Kent replied. "Got a sun-dialhere.""No good. Thirty-two degrees variation o' the needle.""Stakes are all set.""'Ow did you set 'em? Compass?""No; lined them up with the North Star.""Sure?""Sure."Cardegee groaned, then stole a glance at the trail. The sled wasjust clearing a rise, barely a mile away, and the dogs were infull lope, running lightly."'Ow close is the shadows to the line?"Kent walked to the primitive timepiece and studied it. "Threeinches," he announced, after a careful survey."Say, jes' sing out 'eight bells' afore you pull the gun, willyou?"Kent agreed, and they lapsed into silence. The thongs aboutCardegee's wrists were slowly stretching, and he had begun to workthem over his hands."Say, 'ow close is the shadows?""One inch."The sailor wriggled slightly to assure himself that he wouldtopple over at the right moment, and slipped the first turn overhis hands."'Ow close?""Half an inch." Just then Kent heard the jarring churn of therunners and turned his eyes to the trail. The driver was lyingflat on the sled and the dogs swinging down the straight stretchto the cabin. Kent whirled back, bringing his rifle to shoulder."It ain't eight bells yet!" Cardegee expostulated. "I'll 'auntyou, sure!"Jacob Kent faltered. He was standing by the sun-dial, perhaps tenpaces from his victim. The man on the sled must have seen thatsomething unusual was taking place, for he had risen to his knees,his whip singing viciously among the dogs.The shadows swept into line. Kent looked along the sights."Make ready!" he commanded solemnly. "Eight b- "But just a fraction of a second too soon, Cardegee rolled backwardinto the hole. Kent held his fire and ran to the edge. Bang!The gun exploded full in the sailor's face as he rose to his feet.But no smoke came from the muzzle; instead, a sheet of flame burstfrom the side of the barrel near its butt, and Jacob Kent wentdown. The dogs dashed up the bank, dragging the sled over hisbody, and the driver sprang off as Jim Cardegee freed his handsand drew himself from the hole."Jim!" The new-comer recognized him. "What's the matter?""Wot's the matter? Oh, nothink at all. It jest 'appens as I dolittle things like this for my 'ealth. Wot's the matter, youbloomin' idjit? Wot's the matter, eh? Cast me loose or I'll showyou wot! 'Urry up, or I'll 'olystone the decks with you!""Huh!" he added, as the other went to work with his sheath-knife."Wot's the matter? I want to know. Jes' tell me that, will you,wot's the matter? Hey?"Kent was quite dead when they rolled him over. The gun, an old-fashioned, heavy-weighted muzzle-loader, lay near him. Steel andwood had parted company. Near the butt of the right-hand barrel,with lips pressed outward, gaped a fissure several inches inlength. The sailor picked it up, curiously. A glittering streamof yellow dust ran out through the crack. The facts of the casedawned upon Jim Cardegee."Strike me standin'!" he roared; "'ere's a go! 'Ere's 'isbloomin' dust! Gawd blime me, an' you, too, Charley, if you don'trun an' get the dish-pan!"
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