Then he saw Alan go into the cabin where Rossland
was, and softly his fingers drummed upon the ancient
tom-tom which lay at his side. His eyes fixed
themselves upon the distant mountains, and under his
breath he mumbled the old chant of battle, dead and
forgotten except in Sokwenna’s brain, and after
that his eyes closed, and again the vision grew out
of darkness like a picture for him, a vision of twisting
trails and of fighting men gathering with their faces
set for war.
At the desk in Alan’s living-room sat Rossland,
when the door opened behind him and the master of
the range came in. He was not disturbed when
he saw who it was, and rose to meet him. His coat
was off, his sleeves rolled up, and it was evident
he was making no effort to conceal his freedom with
Alan’s books and papers.
He advanced, holding out a hand. This was not
the same Rossland who had told Alan to attend to his
own business on board the Nome. His attitude
was that of one greeting a friend, smiling and affable
even before he spoke. Something inspired Alan
to return the smile. Behind that smile he was
admiring the man’s nerve. His hand met Rossland’s
casually, but there was no uncertainty in the warmth
of the other’s grip.
“How d’ do, Paris, old boy?” he
greeted good-humoredly. “Saw you going
in to Helen a few minutes ago, so I’ve been waiting
for you. She’s a little frightened.
And we can’t blame her. Menelaus is mightily
upset. But mind me, Holt, I’m not blaming
you. I’m too good a sport. Clever,
I call it—damned clever. She’s
enough to turn any man’s head. I only wish
I were in your boots right now. I’d have
turned traitor myself aboard the Nome if she
had shown an inclination.”
He proffered a cigar, a big, fat cigar with a gold
band. It was inspiration again that made Alan
accept it and light it. His blood was racing.
But Rossland saw nothing of that. He observed
only the nod, the cool smile on Alan’s lips,
the apparent nonchalance with which he was meeting
the situation. It pleased Graham’s agent.
He reseated himself in the desk-chair and motioned
Alan to another chair near him.
“I thought you were badly hurt,” said
Alan. “Nasty knife wound you got.”
Rossland shrugged his shoulders. “There
you have it again, Holt—the hell of letting
a pretty face run away with you. One of the Thlinkit
girls down in the steerage, you know. Lovely little
thing, wasn’t she? Tricked her into my
cabin all right, but she wasn’t like some other
Indian girls I’ve known. The next night
a brother, or sweetheart, or whoever it was got me
through the open port. It wasn’t bad.
I was out of the hospital within a week. Lucky
I was put there, too. Otherwise I wouldn’t
have seen Mrs. Graham one morning—through
the window. What a little our fortunes hang to
at times, eh? If it hadn’t been for the
girl and the knife and the hospital, I wouldn’t
be here now, and Graham wouldn’t be bleeding
his heart out with impatience—and you, Holt,
wouldn’t be facing the biggest opportunity that
will ever come into your life.”
