Alan made no answer.  The door closed softly behind him, and slowly he went through gloom to the rail of the ship, and stood there, with the whispered moaning of the sea coming to him out of a pit of darkness.  A vast distance away he heard a low intonation of thunder.

He struggled to keep hold of himself as he returned to his cabin.  Stampede Smith was waiting for him, his dunnage packed in an oilskin bag.  Alan explained the unexpected change in his plans.  Business in Cordova would make him miss a boat and would delay him at least a month in reaching the tundras.  It was necessary for Stampede to go on to the range alone.  He could make a quick trip by way of the Government railroad to Tanana.  After that he would go to Allakakat, and thence still farther north into the Endicott country.  It would be easy for a man like Stampede to find the range.  He drew a map, gave him certain written instructions, money, and a final warning not to lose his head and take up gold-hunting on the way.  While it was necessary for him to go ashore at once, he advised Stampede not to leave the ship until morning.  And Stampede swore on oath he would not fail him.

Alan did not explain his own haste and was glad Captain Rifle had not questioned him too closely.  He was not analyzing the reasonableness of his action.  He only knew that every muscle in his body was aching for physical action and that he must have it immediately or break.  The desire was a touch of madness in his blood, a thing which he was holding back by sheer force of will.  He tried to shut out the vision of a pale face floating in the sea; he fought to keep a grip on the dispassionate calmness which was a part of him.  But the ship itself was battering down his stoic resistance.  In an hour—­since he had heard the scream of the woman—­he had come to hate it.  He wanted the feel of solid earth under his feet.  He wanted, with all his soul, to reach that narrow strip of coast where Mary Standish was drifting in.

But even Stampede saw no sign of the fire that was consuming him.  And not until Alan’s feet touched land, and Cordova lay before him like a great hole in the mountains, did the strain give way within him.  After he had left the wharf, he stood alone in the darkness, breathing deeply of the mountain smell and getting his bearings.  It was more than darkness about him.  An occasional light burning dimly here and there gave to it the appearance of a sea of ink threatening to inundate him.  The storm had not broken, but it was close, and the air was filled with a creeping warning.  The moaning of thunder was low, and yet very near, as if smothered by the hand of a mighty force preparing to take the earth unaware.