The Unexpected
IT is a simple matter to see the obvious, to do the expected. Thetendency of the individual life is to be static rather thandynamic, and this tendency is made into a propulsion bycivilization, where the obvious only is seen, and the unexpectedrarely happens. When the unexpected does happen, however, and whenit is of sufficiently grave import, the unfit perish. They do notsee what is not obvious, are unable to do the unexpected, areincapable of adjusting their well-grooved lives to other andstrange grooves. In short, when they come to the end of their owngroove, they die.On the other hand, there are those that make toward survival, thefit individuals who escape from the rule of the obvious and theexpected and adjust their lives to no matter what strange groovesthey may stray into, or into which they may be forced. Such anindividual was Edith Whittlesey. She was born in a rural districtof England, where life proceeds by rule of thumb and the unexpectedis so very unexpected that when it happens it is looked upon as animmorality. She went into service early, and while yet a youngwoman, by rule-of-thumb progression, she became a lady's maid.The effect of civilization is to impose human law upon environmentuntil it becomes machine-like in its regularity. The objectionableis eliminated, the inevitable is foreseen. One is not even madewet by the rain nor cold by the frost; while death, instead ofstalking about grewsome and accidental, becomes a prearrangedpageant, moving along a well-oiled groove to the family vault,where the hinges are kept from rusting and the dust from the air isswept continually away.Such was the environment of Edith Whittlesey. Nothing happened.It could scarcely be called a happening, when, at the age oftwenty-five, she accompanied her mistress on a bit of travel to theUnited States. The groove merely changed its direction. It wasstill the same groove and well oiled. It was a groove that bridgedthe Atlantic with uneventfulness, so that the ship was not a shipin the midst of the sea, but a capacious, many-corridored hotelthat moved swiftly and placidly, crushing the waves into submissionwith its colossal bulk until the sea was a mill-pond, monotonouswith quietude. And at the other side the groove continued on overthe land - a well-disposed, respectable groove that supplied hotelsat every stopping-place, and hotels on wheels between the stopping-places.In Chicago, while her mistress saw one side of social life, EdithWhittlesey saw another side; and when she left her lady's serviceand became Edith Nelson, she betrayed, perhaps faintly, her abilityto grapple with the unexpected and to master it. Hans Nelson,immigrant, Swede by birth and carpenter by occupation, had in himthat Teutonic unrest that drives the race ever westward on itsgreat adventure. He was a large-muscled, stolid sort of a man, inwhom little imagination was coupled with immense initiative, andwho possessed, withal, loyalty and affection as sturdy as his ownstrength."When I have worked hard and saved me some money, I will go toColorado," he had told Edith on the day after their wedding. Ayear later they were in Colorado, where Hans Nelson saw his firstmining and caught the mining-fever himself. His prospecting ledhim through the Dakotas, Idaho, and eastern Oregon, and on into themountains of British Columbia. In camp and on trail, Edith Nelsonwas always with him, sharing his luck, his hardship, and his toil.The short step of the house-reared woman she exchanged for the longstride of the mountaineer. She learned to look upon danger clear-eyed and with understanding, losing forever that panic fear whichis bred of ignorance and which afflicts the city-reared, makingthem as silly as silly horses, so that they await fate in frozenhorror instead of grappling with it, or stampede in blind self-destroying terror which clutters the way with their crushedcarcasses.Edith Nelson met the unexpected at every turn of the trail, and shetrained her vision so that she saw in the landscape, not theobvious, but the concealed. She, who had never cooked in her life,learned to make bread without the mediation of hops, yeast, orbaking-powder, and to bake bread, top and bottom, in a frying-panbefore an open fire. And when the last cup of flour was gone andthe last rind of bacon, she was able to rise to the occasion, andof moccasins and the softer-tanned bits of leather in the outfit tomake a grub-stake substitute that somehow held a man's soul in hisbody and enabled him to stagger on. She learned to pack a horse aswell as a man, - a task to break the heart and the pride of anycity-dweller, and she knew how to throw the hitch best suited forany particular kind of pack. Also, she could build a fire of wetwood in a downpour of rain and not lose her temper. In short, inall its guises she mastered the unexpected. But the GreatUnexpected was yet to come into her life and put its test upon her.The gold-seeking tide was flooding northward into Alaska, and itwas inevitable that Hans Nelson and his wife should he caught up bythe stream and swept toward the Klondike. The fall of 1897 foundthem at Dyea, but without the money to carry an outfit acrossChilcoot Pass and float it down to Dawson. So Hans Nelson workedat his trade that winter and helped rear the mushroom outfitting-town of Skaguay.He was on the edge of things, and throughout the winter he heardall Alaska calling to him. Latuya Bay called loudest, so that thesummer of 1898 found him and his wife threading the mazes of thebroken coast-line in seventy-foot Siwash canoes. With them wereIndians, also three other men. The Indians landed them and theirsupplies in a lonely bight of land a hundred miles or so beyondLatuya Bay, and returned to Skaguay; but the three other menremained, for they were members of the organized party. Each hadput an equal share of capital into the outfitting, and the profitswere to he divided equally. In that Edith Nelson undertook to cookfor the outfit, a man's share was to be her portion.First, spruce trees were cut down and a three-room cabinconstructed. To keep this cabin was Edith Nelson's task. The taskof the men was to search for gold, which they did; and to findgold, which they likewise did. It was not a startling find, merelya low-pay placer where long hours of severe toil earned each manbetween fifteen and twenty dollars a day. The brief Alaskan summerprotracted itself beyond its usual length, and they took advantageof the opportunity, delaying their return to Skaguay to the lastmoment. And then it was too late. Arrangements had been made toaccompany the several dozen local Indians on their fall tradingtrip down the coast. The Siwashes had waited on the white peopleuntil the eleventh hour, and then departed. There was no courseleft the party but to wait for chance transportation. In themeantime the claim was cleaned up and firewood stocked in.The Indian summer had dreamed on and on, and then, suddenly, withthe sharpness of bugles, winter came. It came in a single night,and the miners awoke to howling wind, driving snow, and freezingwater. Storm followed storm, and between the storms there was thesilence, broken only by the boom of the surf on the desolate shore,where the salt spray rimmed the beach with frozen white.All went well in the cabin. Their gold-dust had weighed upsomething like eight thousand dollars, and they could not but becontented. The men made snowshoes, hunted fresh meat for thelarder, and in the long evenings played endless games of whist andpedro. Now that the mining had ceased, Edith Nelson turned overthe fire-building and the dish-washing to the men, while she darnedtheir socks and mended their clothes.There was no grumbling, no bickering, nor petty quarrelling in thelittle cabin, and they often congratulated one another on thegeneral happiness of the party. Hans Nelson was stolid and easy-going, while Edith had long before won his unbounded admiration byher capacity for getting on with people. Harkey, a long, lankTexan, was unusually friendly for one with a saturnine disposition,and, as long as his theory that gold grew was not challenged, wasquite companionable. The fourth member of the party, MichaelDennin, contributed his Irish wit to the gayety of the cabin. Hewas a large, powerful man, prone to sudden rushes of anger overlittle things, and of unfailing good-humor under the stress andstrain of big things. The fifth and last member, Dutchy, was thewilling butt of the party. He even went out of his way to raise alaugh at his own expense in order to keep things cheerful. Hisdeliberate aim in life seemed to be that of a maker of laughter.No serious quarrel had ever vexed the serenity of the party; and,now that each had sixteen hundred dollars to show for a shortsummer's work, there reigned the well-fed, contented spirit ofprosperity.And then the unexpected happened. They had just sat down to thebreakfast table. Though it was already eight o'clock (latebreakfasts had followed naturally upon cessation of the steady workat mining) a candle in the neck of a bottle lighted the meal.Edith and Hans sat at each end of the table. On one side, withtheir backs to the door, sat Harkey and Dutchy. The place on theother side was vacant. Dennin had not yet come in.Hans Nelson looked at the empty chair, shook his head slowly, and,with a ponderous attempt at humor, said: "Always is he first atthe grub. It is very strange. Maybe he is sick.""Where is Michael?" Edith asked."Got up a little ahead of us and went outside," Harkey answered.Dutchy's face beamed mischievously. He pretended knowledge ofDennin's absence, and affected a mysterious air, while theyclamored for information. Edith, after a peep into the men's bunk-room, returned to the table. Hans looked at her, and she shook herhead."He was never late at meal-time before," she remarked."I cannot understand," said Hans. "Always has he the greatappetite like the horse.""It is too bad," Dutchy said, with a sad shake of his head.They were beginning to make merry over their comrade's absence."It is a great pity!" Dutchy volunteered."What?" they demanded in chorus."Poor Michael," was the mournful reply."Well, what's wrong with Michael?" Harkey asked."He is not hungry no more," wailed Dutchy. "He has lost derappetite. He do not like der grub.""Not from the way he pitches into it up to his ears," remarkedHarkey."He does dot shust to be politeful to Mrs. Nelson," was Dutchy'squick retort. "I know, I know, and it is too pad. Why is he nothere? Pecause he haf gone out. Why haf he gone out? For derdefelopment of der appetite. How does he defelop der appetite? Hewalks barefoots in der snow. Ach! don't I know? It is der way derrich peoples chases after der appetite when it is no more and isrunning away. Michael haf sixteen hundred dollars. He is richpeoples. He haf no appetite. Derefore, pecause, he is chasing derappetite. Shust you open der door und you will see his barefootsin der snow. No, you will not see der appetite. Dot is shust histrouble. When he sees der appetite he will catch it und come topreak-fast."They burst into loud laughter at Dutchy's nonsense. The sound hadscarcely died away when the door opened and Dennin came in. Allturned to look at him. He was carrying a shot-gun. Even as theylooked, he lifted it to his shoulder and fired twice. At the firstshot Dutchy sank upon the table, overturning his mug of coffee, hisyellow mop of hair dabbling in his plate of mush. His forehead,which pressed upon the near edge of the plate, tilted the plate upagainst his hair at an angle of forty-five degrees. Harkey was inthe air, in his spring to his feet, at the second shot, and hepitched face down upon the floor, his "My God!" gurgling and dyingin his throat.It was the unexpected. Hans and Edith were stunned. They sat atthe table with bodies tense, their eyes fixed in a fascinated gazeupon the murderer. Dimly they saw him through the smoke of thepowder, and in the silence nothing was to be heard save the drip-drip of Dutchy's spilled coffee on the floor. Dennin threw openthe breech of the shot-gun, ejecting the empty shells. Holding thegun with one hand, he reached with the other into his pocket forfresh shells.He was thrusting the shells into the gun when Edith Nelson wasaroused to action. It was patent that he intended to kill Hans andher. For a space of possibly three seconds of time she had beendazed and paralysed by the horrible and inconceivable form in whichthe unexpected had made its appearance. Then she rose to it andgrappled with it. She grappled with it concretely, making a cat-like leap for the murderer and gripping his neck-cloth with bothher hands. The impact of her body sent him stumbling backwardseveral steps. He tried to shake her loose and still retain hishold on the gun. This was awkward, for her firm-fleshed body hadbecome a cat's. She threw herself to one side, and with her gripat his throat nearly jerked him to the floor. He straightenedhimself and whirled swiftly. Still faithful to her hold, her bodyfollowed the circle of his whirl so that her feet left the floor,and she swung through the air fastened to his throat by her hands.The whirl culminated in a collision with a chair, and the man andwoman crashed to the floor in a wild struggling fall that extendeditself across half the length of the room.Hans Nelson was half a second behind his wife in rising to theunexpected. His nerve processed and mental processes were slowerthan hers. His was the grosser organism, and it had taken him halfa second longer to perceive, and determine, and proceed to do. Shehad already flown at Dennin and gripped his throat, when Hanssprang to his feet. But her coolness was not his. He was in ablind fury, a Berserker rage. At the instant he sprang from hischair his mouth opened and there issued forth a sound that was halfroar, half bellow. The whirl of the two bodies had alreadystarted, and still roaring, or bellowing, he pursued this whirldown the room, overtaking it when it fell to the floor.Hans hurled himself upon the prostrate man, striking madly with hisfists. They were sledge-like blows, and when Edith felt Dennin'sbody relax she loosed her grip and rolled clear. She lay on thefloor, panting and watching. The fury of blows continued to raindown. Dennin did not seem to mind the blows. He did not evenmove. Then it dawned upon her that he was unconscious. She criedout to Hans to stop. She cried out again. But he paid no heed toher voice. She caught him by the arm, but her clinging to itmerely impeded his effort.It was no reasoned impulse that stirred her to do what she thendid. Nor was it a sense of pity, nor obedience to the "Thou shaltnot" of religion. Rather was it some sense of law, an ethic of herrace and early environment, that compelled her to interpose herbody between her husband and the helpless murderer. It was notuntil Hans knew he was striking his wife that he ceased. Heallowed himself to be shoved away by her in much the same way thata ferocious but obedient dog allows itself to be shoved away by itsmaster. The analogy went even farther. Deep in his throat, in ananimal-like way, Hans's rage still rumbled, and several times hemade as though to spring back upon his prey and was only preventedby the woman's swiftly interposed body.Back and farther back Edith shoved her husband. She had never seenhim in such a condition, and she was more frightened of him thanshe had been of Dennin in the thick of the struggle. She could notbelieve that this raging beast was her Hans, and with a shock shebecame suddenly aware of a shrinking, instinctive fear that hemight snap her hand in his teeth like any wild animal. For someseconds, unwilling to hurt her, yet dogged in his desire to returnto the attack, Hans dodged back and forth. But she resolutelydodged with him, until the first glimmerings of reason returned andhe gave over.Both crawled to their feet. Hans staggered back against the wall,where he leaned, his face working, in his throat the deep andcontinuous rumble that died away with the seconds and at lastceased. The time for the reaction had come. Edith stood in themiddle of the floor, wringing her hands, panting and gasping, herwhole body trembling violently.Hans looked at nothing, but Edith's eyes wandered wildly fromdetail to detail of what had taken place. Dennin lay withoutmovement. The overturned chair, hurled onward in the mad whirl,lay near him. Partly under him lay the shot-gun, still broken openat the breech. Spilling out of his right hand were the twocartridges which he had failed to put into the gun and which he hadclutched until consciousness left him. Harkey lay on the floor,face downward, where he had fallen; while Dutchy rested forward onthe table, his yellow mop of hair buried in his mush-plate, theplate itself still tilted at an angle of forty-five degrees. Thistilted plate fascinated her. Why did it not fall down? It wasridiculous. It was not in the nature of things for a mush-plate toup-end itself on the table, even if a man or so had been killed.She glanced back at Dennin, but her eyes returned to the tiltedplate. It was so ridiculous! She felt a hysterical impulse tolaugh. Then she noticed the silence, and forgot the plate in adesire for something to happen. The monotonous drip of the coffeefrom the table to the floor merely emphasized the silence. Why didnot Hans do something? say something? She looked at him and wasabout to speak, when she discovered that her tongue refused itswonted duty. There was a peculiar ache in her throat, and hermouth was dry and furry. She could only look at Hans, who, inturn, looked at her.Suddenly the silence was broken by a sharp, metallic clang. Shescreamed, jerking her eyes back to the table. The plate had fallendown. Hans sighed as though awakening from sleep. The clang ofthe plate had aroused them to life in a new world. The cabinepitomized the new world in which they must thenceforth live andmove. The old cabin was gone forever. The horizon of life wastotally new and unfamiliar. The unexpected had swept its wizardryover the face of things, changing the perspective, juggling values,and shuffling the real and the unreal into perplexing confusion."My God, Hans!" was Edith's first speech.He did not answer, but stared at her with horror. Slowly his eyeswandered over the room, for the first time taking in its details.Then he put on his cap and started for the door. "Where are you going?" Edith demanded, in an agony ofapprehension.His hand was on the door-knob, and he half turned as he answered,"To dig some graves.""Don't leave me, Hans, with - " her eyes swept the room - "withthis.""The graves must be dug sometime," he said."But you do not know how many," she objected desperately. Shenoted his indecision, and added, "Besides, I'll go with you andhelp."Hans stepped back to the table and mechanically snuffed the candle.Then between them they made the examination. Both Harkey andDutchy were dead - frightfully dead, because of the close range ofthe shot-gun. Hans refused to go near Dennin, and Edith was forcedto conduct this portion of the investigation by herself."He isn't dead," she called to Hans.He walked over and looked down at the murderer."What did you say?" Edith demanded, having caught the rumble ofinarticulate speech in her husband's throat."I said it was a damn shame that he isn't dead," came the reply.Edith was bending over the body."Leave him alone," Hans commanded harshly, in a strange voice.She looked at him in sudden alarm. He had picked up the shot-gundropped by Dennin and was thrusting in the shells."What are you going to do?" she cried, rising swiftly from herbending position.Hans did not answer, but she saw the shot-gun going to hisshoulder. She grasped the muzzle with her hand and threw it up."Leave me alone!" he cried hoarsely.He tried to jerk the weapon away from her, but she came in closerand clung to him."Hans! Hans! Wake up!" she cried. "Don't be crazy!""He killed Dutchy and Harkey!" was her husband's reply; "and I amgoing to kill him.""But that is wrong," she objected. "There is the law."He sneered his incredulity of the law's potency in such a region,but he merely iterated, dispassionately, doggedly, "He killedDutchy and Harkey."Long she argued it with him, but the argument was one-sided, for hecontented himself with repeating again and again, "He killed Dutchyand Harkey." But she could not escape from her childhood trainingnor from the blood that was in her. The heritage of law was hers,and right conduct, to her, was the fulfilment of the law. Shecould see no other righteous course to pursue. Hans's taking thelaw in his own hands was no more justifiable than Dennin's deed.Two wrongs did not make a right, she contended, and there was onlyone way to punish Dennin, and that was the legal way arranged bysociety. At last Hans gave in to her."All right," he said. "Have it your own way. And to-morrow ornext day look to see him kill you and me."She shook her head and held out her hand for the shot-gun. Hestarted to hand it to her, then hesitated."Better let me shoot him," he pleaded.Again she shook her head, and again he started to pass her the gun,when the door opened, and an Indian, without knocking, came in. Ablast of wind and flurry of snow came in with him. They turned andfaced him, Hans still holding the shot-gun. The intruder took inthe scene without a quiver. His eyes embraced the dead and woundedin a sweeping glance. No surprise showed in his face, not evencuriosity. Harkey lay at his feet, but he took no notice of him.So far as he was concerned, Harkey's body did not exist."Much wind," the Indian remarked by way of salutation. "All well?Very well?"Hans, still grasping the gun, felt sure that the Indian attributedto him the mangled corpses. He glanced appealingly at his wife."Good morning, Negook," she said, her voice betraying her effort."No, not very well. Much trouble.""Good-by, I go now, much hurry", the Indian said, and withoutsemblance of haste, with great deliberation stepping clear of a redpool on the floor, he opened the door and went out.The man and woman looked at each other."He thinks we did it," Hans gasped, "that I did it."Edith was silent for a space. Then she said, briefly, in abusinesslike way:"Never mind what he thinks. That will come after. At present wehave two graves to dig. But first of all, we've got to tie upDennin so he can't escape."Hans refused to touch Dennin, but Edith lashed him securely, handand foot. Then she and Hans went out into the snow. The groundwas frozen. It was impervious to a blow of the pick. They firstgathered wood, then scraped the snow away and on the frozen surfacebuilt a fire. When the fire had burned for an hour, several inchesof dirt had thawed. This they shovelled out, and then built afresh fire. Their descent into the earth progressed at the rate oftwo or three inches an hour.It was hard and bitter work. The flurrying snow did not permit thefire to burn any too well, while the wind cut through their clothesand chilled their bodies. They held but little conversation. Thewind interfered with speech. Beyond wondering at what could havebeen Dennin's motive, they remained silent, oppressed by the horrorof the tragedy. At one o'clock, looking toward the cabin, Hansannounced that he was hungry."No, not now, Hans," Edith answered. "I couldn't go back aloneinto that cabin the way it is, and cook a meal."At two o'clock Hans volunteered to go with her; but she held him tohis work, and four o'clock found the two graves completed. Theywere shallow, not more than two feet deep, but they would serve thepurpose. Night had fallen. Hans got the sled, and the two deadmen were dragged through the darkness and storm to their frozensepulchre. The funeral procession was anything but a pageant. Thesled sank deep into the drifted snow and pulled hard. The man andthe woman had eaten nothing since the previous day, and were weakfrom hunger and exhaustion. They had not the strength to resistthe wind, and at times its buffets hurled them off their feet. Onseveral occasions the sled was overturned, and they were compelledto reload it with its sombre freight. The last hundred feet to thegraves was up a steep slope, and this they took on all fours, likesled-dogs, making legs of their arms and thrusting their hands intothe snow. Even so, they were twice dragged backward by the weightof the sled, and slid and fell down the hill, the living and thedead, the haul-ropes and the sled, in ghastly entanglement."To-morrow I will put up head-boards with their names," Hans said,when the graves were filled in.Edith was sobbing. A few broken sentences had been all she wascapable of in the way of a funeral service, and now her husband wascompelled to half-carry her back to the cabin.Dennin was conscious. He had rolled over and over on the floor invain efforts to free himself. He watched Hans and Edith withglittering eyes, but made no attempt to speak. Hans still refusedto touch the murderer, and sullenly watched Edith drag him acrossthe floor to the men's bunk-room. But try as she would, she couldnot lift him from the floor into his bunk."Better let me shoot him, and we'll have no more trouble," Hanssaid in final appeal.Edith shook her head and bent again to her task. To her surprisethe body rose easily, and she knew Hans had relented and washelping her. Then came the cleansing of the kitchen. But thefloor still shrieked the tragedy, until Hans planed the surface ofthe stained wood away and with the shavings made a fire in thestove.The days came and went. There was much of darkness and silence,broken only by the storms and the thunder on the beach of thefreezing surf. Hans was obedient to Edith's slightest order. Allhis splendid initiative had vanished. She had elected to deal withDennin in her way, and so he left the whole matter in her hands.The murderer was a constant menace. At all times there was thechance that he might free himself from his bonds, and they werecompelled to guard him day and night. The man or the woman satalways beside him, holding the loaded shot-gun. At first, Edithtried eight-hour watches, but the continuous strain was too great,and afterwards she and Hans relieved each other every four hours.As they had to sleep, and as the watches extended through thenight, their whole waking time was expended in guarding Dennin.They had barely time left over for the preparation of meals and thegetting of firewood.Since Negook's inopportune visit, the Indians had avoided thecabin. Edith sent Hans to their cabins to get them to take Dennindown the coast in a canoe to the nearest white settlement ortrading post, but the errand was fruitless. Then Edith wentherself and interviewed Negook. He was head man of the littlevillage, keenly aware of his responsibility, and he elucidated hispolicy thoroughly in few words."It is white man's trouble", he said, "not Siwash trouble. Mypeople help you, then will it be Siwash trouble too. When whiteman's trouble and Siwash trouble come together and make a trouble,it is a great trouble, beyond understanding and without end.Trouble no good. My people do no wrong. What for they help youand have trouble?"So Edith Nelson went back to the terrible cabin with its endlessalternating four-hour watches. Sometimes, when it was her turn andshe sat by the prisoner, the loaded shot-gun in her lap, her eyeswould close and she would doze. Always she aroused with a start,snatching up the gun and swiftly looking at him. These weredistinct nervous shocks, and their effect was not good on her.Such was her fear of the man, that even though she were wide awake,if he moved under the bedclothes she could not repress the startand the quick reach for the gun.She was preparing herself for a nervous break-down, and she knewit. First came a fluttering of the eyeballs, so that she wascompelled to close her eyes for relief. A little later the eyelidswere afflicted by a nervous twitching that she could not control.To add to the strain, she could not forget the tragedy. Sheremained as close to the horror as on the first morning when theunexpected stalked into the cabin and took possession. In herdaily ministrations upon the prisoner she was forced to grit herteeth and steel herself, body and spirit.Hans was affected differently. He became obsessed by the idea thatit was his duty to kill Dennin; and whenever he waited upon thebound man or watched by him, Edith was troubled by the fear thatHans would add another red entry to the cabin's record. Always hecursed Dennin savagely and handled him roughly. Hans tried toconceal his homicidal mania, and he would say to his wife: "By andby you will want me to kill him, and then I will not kill him. Itwould make me sick." But more than once, stealing into the room,when it was her watch off, she would catch the two men glaringferociously at each other, wild animals the pair of them, in Hans'sface the lust to kill, in Dennin's the fierceness and savagery ofthe cornered rat. "Hans!" she would cry, "wake up!" and he wouldcome to a recollection of himself, startled and shamefaced andunrepentant.So Hans became another factor in the problem the unexpected hadgiven Edith Nelson to solve. At first it had been merely aquestion of right conduct in dealing with Dennin, and rightconduct, as she conceived it, lay in keeping him a prisoner untilhe could be turned over for trial before a proper tribunal. Butnow entered Hans, and she saw that his sanity and his salvationwere involved. Nor was she long in discovering that her ownstrength and endurance had become part of the problem. She wasbreaking down under the strain. Her left arm had developedinvoluntary jerkings and twitchings. She spilled her food from herspoon, and could place no reliance in her afflicted arm. Shejudged it to be a form of St. Vitus's dance, and she feared theextent to which its ravages might go. What if she broke down? Andthe vision she had of the possible future, when the cabin mightcontain only Dennin and Hans, was an added horror.After the third day, Dennin had begun to talk. His first questionhad been, "What are you going to do with me?" And this question herepeated daily and many times a day. And always Edith replied thathe would assuredly be dealt with according to law. In turn, sheput a daily question to him, - "Why did you do it?" To this henever replied. Also, he received the question with out-bursts ofanger, raging and straining at the rawhide that bound him andthreatening her with what he would do when he got loose, which hesaid he was sure to do sooner or later. At such times she cockedboth triggers of the gun, prepared to meet him with leaden death ifhe should burst loose, herself trembling and palpitating and dizzyfrom the tension and shock.But in time Dennin grew more tractable. It seemed to her that hewas growing weary of his unchanging recumbent position. He beganto beg and plead to be released. He made wild promises. He woulddo them no harm. He would himself go down the coast and givehimself up to the officers of the law. He would give them hisshare of the gold. He would go away into the heart of thewilderness, and never again appear in civilization. He would takehis own life if she would only free him. His pleadings usuallyculminated in involuntary raving, until it seemed to her that hewas passing into a fit; but always she shook her head and deniedhim the freedom for which he worked himself into a passion.But the weeks went by, and he continued to grow more tractable.And through it all the weariness was asserting itself more andmore. "I am so tired, so tired," he would murmur, rolling his headback and forth on the pillow like a peevish child. At a littlelater period he began to make impassioned pleas for death, to begher to kill him, to beg Hans to put him our of his misery so thathe might at least rest comfortably.The situation was fast becoming impossible. Edith's nervousnesswas increasing, and she knew her break-down might come any time.She could not even get her proper rest, for she was haunted by thefear that Hans would yield to his mania and kill Dennin while sheslept. Though January had already come, months would have toelapse before any trading schooner was even likely to put into thebay. Also, they had not expected to winter in the cabin, and thefood was running low; nor could Hans add to the supply by hunting.They were chained to the cabin by the necessity of guarding theirprisoner.Something must be done, and she knew it. She forced herself to goback into a reconsideration of the problem. She could not shakeoff the legacy of her race, the law that was of her blood and thathad been trained into her. She knew that whatever she did she mustdo according to the law, and in the long hours of watching, theshot-gun on her knees, the murderer restless beside her and thestorms thundering without, she made original sociologicalresearches and worked out for herself the evolution of the law. Itcame to her that the law was nothing more than the judgment and thewill of any group of people. It mattered not how large was thegroup of people. There were little groups, she reasoned, likeSwitzerland, and there were big groups like the United States.Also, she reasoned, it did not matter how small was the group ofpeople. There might be only ten thousand people in a country, yettheir collective judgment and will would be the law of thatcountry. Why, then, could not one thousand people constitute sucha group? she asked herself. And if one thousand, why not onehundred? Why not fifty? Why not five? Why not - two?She was frightened at her own conclusion, and she talked it overwith Hans. At first he could not comprehend, and then, when hedid, he added convincing evidence. He spoke of miners' meetings,where all the men of a locality came together and made the law andexecuted the law. There might be only ten or fifteen menaltogether, he said, but the will of the majority became the lawfor the whole ten or fifteen, and whoever violated that will waspunished.Edith saw her way clear at last. Dennin must hang. Hans agreedwith her. Between them they constituted the majority of thisparticular group. It was the group-will that Dennin should behanged. In the execution of this will Edith strove earnestly toobserve the customary forms, but the group was so small that Hansand she had to serve as witnesses, as jury, and as judges - also asexecutioners. She formally charged Michael Dennin with the murderof Dutchy and Harkey, and the prisoner lay in his bunk and listenedto the testimony, first of Hans, and then of Edith. He refused toplead guilty or not guilty, and remained silent when she asked himif he had anything to say in his own defence. She and Hans,without leaving their seats, brought in the jury's verdict ofguilty. Then, as judge, she imposed the sentence. Her voiceshook, her eyelids twitched, her left arm jerked, but she carriedit out."Michael Dennin, in three days' time you are to be hanged by theneck until you are dead."Such was the sentence. The man breathed an unconscious sigh ofrelief, then laughed defiantly, and said, "Thin I'm thinkin' thedamn bunk won't be achin' me back anny more, an' that's aconsolation."With the passing of the sentence a feeling of relief seemed tocommunicate itself to all of them. Especially was it noticeable inDennin. All sullenness and defiance disappeared, and he talkedsociably with his captors, and even with flashes of his old-timewit. Also, he found great satisfaction in Edith's reading to himfrom the Bible. She read from the New Testament, and he took keeninterest in the prodigal son and the thief on the cross.On the day preceding that set for the execution, when Edith askedher usual question, "Why did you do it?" Dennin answered, "'Tisvery simple. I was thinkin' - "But she hushed him abruptly, asked him to wait, and hurried toHans's bedside. It was his watch off, and he came out of hissleep, rubbing his eyes and grumbling."Go," she told him, "and bring up Negook and one other Indian.Michael's going to confess. Make them come. Take the rifle alongand bring them up at the point of it if you have to."Half an hour later Negook and his uncle, Hadikwan, were usheredinto the death chamber. They came unwillingly, Hans with his rifleherding them along."Negook," Edith said, "there is to be no trouble for you and yourpeople. Only is it for you to sit and do nothing but listen andunderstand."Thus did Michael Dennin, under sentence of death, make publicconfession of his crime. As he talked, Edith wrote his story down,while the Indians listened, and Hans guarded the door for fear thewitnesses might bolt.He had not been home to the old country for fifteen years, Denninexplained, and it had always been his intention to return withplenty of money and make his old mother comfortable for the rest ofher days."An' how was I to be doin' it on sixteen hundred?" he demanded."What I was after wantin' was all the goold, the whole eightthousan'. Thin I cud go back in style. What ud be aisier, thinksI to myself, than to kill all iv yez, report it at Skaguay for anIndian-killin', an' thin pull out for Ireland? An' so I started into kill all iv yez, but, as Harkey was fond of sayin', I cut outtoo large a chunk an' fell down on the swallowin' iv it. An'that's me confession. I did me duty to the devil, an' now, Godwillin', I'll do me duty to God.""Negook and Hadikwan, you have heard the white man's words," Edithsaid to the Indians. "His words are here on this paper, and it isfor you to make a sign, thus, on the paper, so that white men tocome after will know that you have heard."The two Siwashes put crosses opposite their signatures, received asummons to appear on the morrow with all their tribe for a furtherwitnessing of things, and were allowed to go.Dennin's hands were released long enough for him to sign thedocument. Then a silence fell in the room. Hans was restless, andEdith felt uncomfortable. Dennin lay on his back, staring straightup at the moss-chinked roof."An' now I'll do me duty to God," he murmured. He turned his headtoward Edith. "Read to me," he said, "from the book;" then added,with a glint of playfulness, "Mayhap 'twill help me to forget thebunk."The day of the execution broke clear and cold. The thermometer wasdown to twenty-five below zero, and a chill wind was blowing whichdrove the frost through clothes and flesh to the bones. For thefirst time in many weeks Dennin stood upon his feet. His muscleshad remained inactive so long, and he was so out of practice inmaintaining an erect position, that he could scarcely stand.He reeled back and forth, staggered, and clutched hold of Edithwith his bound hands for support."Sure, an' it's dizzy I am," he laughed weakly.A moment later he said, "An' it's glad I am that it's over with.That damn bunk would iv been the death iv me, I know."When Edith put his fur cap on his head and proceeded to pull theflaps down over his ears, he laughed and said:"What are you doin' that for?""It's freezing cold outside", she answered."An' in tin minutes' time what'll matter a frozen ear or so to poorMichael Dennin?" he asked.She had nerved herself for the last culminating ordeal, and hisremark was like a blow to her self-possession. So far, everythinghad seemed phantom-like, as in a dream, but the brutal truth ofwhat he had said shocked her eyes wide open to the reality of whatwas taking place. Nor was her distress unnoticed by the Irishman."I'm sorry to be troublin' you with me foolish spache," he saidregretfully. "I mint nothin' by it. 'Tis a great day for MichaelDennin, an' he's as gay as a lark."He broke out in a merry whistle, which quickly became lugubriousand ceased."I'm wishin' there was a priest," he said wistfully; then addedswiftly, "But Michael Dennin's too old a campaigner to miss theluxuries when he hits the trail."He was so very weak and unused to walking that when the door openedand he passed outside, the wind nearly carried him off his feet.Edith and Hans walked on either side of him and supported him, thewhile he cracked jokes and tried to keep them cheerful, breakingoff, once, long enough to arrange the forwarding of his share ofthe gold to his mother in Ireland.They climbed a slight hill and came out into an open space amongthe trees. Here, circled solemnly about a barrel that stood on endin the snow, were Negook and Hadikwan, and all the Siwashes down tothe babies and the dogs, come to see the way of the white man'slaw. Near by was an open grave which Hans had burned into thefrozen earth.Dennin cast a practical eye over the preparations, noting thegrave, the barrel, the thickness of the rope, and the diameter ofthe limb over which the rope was passed."Sure, an' I couldn't iv done better meself, Hans, if it'd been foryou."He laughed loudly at his own sally, but Hans's face was frozen intoa sullen ghastliness that nothing less than the trump of doom couldhave broken. Also, Hans was feeling very sick. He had notrealized the enormousness of the task of putting a fellow-man outof the world. Edith, on the other hand, had realized; but therealization did not make the task any easier. She was filled withdoubt as to whether she could hold herself together long enough tofinish it. She felt incessant impulses to scream, to shriek, tocollapse into the snow, to put her hands over her eyes and turn andrun blindly away, into the forest, anywhere, away. It was only bya supreme effort of soul that she was able to keep upright and goon and do what she had to do. And in the midst of it all she wasgrateful to Dennin for the way he helped her."Lind me a hand," he said to Hans, with whose assistance he managedto mount the barrel.He bent over so that Edith could adjust the rope about his neck.Then he stood upright while Hans drew the rope taut across theoverhead branch."Michael Dennin, have you anything to say?" Edith asked in a clearvoice that shook in spite of her.Dennin shuffled his feet on the barrel, looked down bashfully likea man making his maiden speech, and cleared his throat."I'm glad it's over with," he said. "You've treated me like aChristian, an' I'm thankin' you hearty for your kindness.""Then may God receive you, a repentant sinner," she said."Ay," he answered, his deep voice as a response to her thin one,"may God receive me, a repentant sinner.""Good-by, Michael," she cried, and her voice sounded desperate.She threw her weight against the barrel, but it did not overturn."Hans! Quick! Help me!" she cried faintly.She could feel her last strength going, and the barrel resistedher. Hans hurried to her, and the barrel went out from underMichael Dennin.She turned her back, thrusting her fingers into her ears. Then shebegan to laugh, harshly, sharply, metallically; and Hans wasshocked as he had not been shocked through the whole tragedy.Edith Nelson's break-down had come. Even in her hysteria she knewit, and she was glad that she had been able to hold up under thestrain until everything had been accomplished. She reeled towardHans."Take me to the cabin, Hans," she managed to articulate."And let me rest," she added. "Just let me rest, and rest, andrest."With Hans's arm around her, supporting her weight and directing herhelpless steps, she went off across the snow. But the Indiansremained solemnly to watch the working of the white man's law thatcompelled a man to dance upon the air.
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