Brent was silent for a moment: "But, he must not hear--yet. I'll make another strike, one of these days--and then-----"

"Did you make a strike?" asked Reeves.

Brent nodded. "Yes, I was on the very peak of the first stampede. Did you, by chance, ever hear of Ace-In-The-Hole?"

Reeves smiled: "Yes--notorious gambler, wasn't he? Were you here when he was? Made a big strike, somewhere, and then gambled away ten or twenty million, didn't he, and then--I never did hear what became of him."

Brent smiled: "Yes, he made a strike. Then, I suppose, he was just what you said--a notorious gambler--his losses were grossly exaggerated, they were not over two millions at the outside."

"A mere trifle," laughed Reeves, "What ever became of him."

"Just at this moment he is seated at a dining table, talking with a generous host, and a most charming hostess----"

"Are _you_ Ace-In-The-Hole?"

"So designated upon the Yukon," smiled Brent.

Mrs. Reeves leaned suddenly forward: "Oh, why don't you--why don't you brace up? Let liquor alone, and----"

Brent interrupted her with a wave of the hand: "Theoretically a very good suggestion," he smiled, "But, practically--it won't work.

Personally, I do not think I drink enough to hurt me any--but we will waive that point--if I do, it is my own fault." He was about to add that he was as good a man as he ever was, but something saved him that sophistry, and when he looked into the face of his hostess his muddy eyes twinkled humorously. "At least," he said, "I have succeeded in eliminating one fault--I have not gambled in quite some time."

"And you never will gamble again?"

Brent laughed: "I didn't say that. However I see very little chance of doing so in the immediate future."

"Promise me that you never will?" she asked, "You might, at least, promise me that, if you won't give up the other."

"What a.s.surance would you have that I would keep my promise?" parried the man.

Quick as a flash came the reply, "The word of a Brent!"

Unconsciously the man's shoulders straightened: He hesitated a moment while he regarded the woman gravely: "Yes," he said, "I will promise you that, if it will please you, 'Upon the word of a Brent.'" He turned abruptly to Reeves, "We had better be getting at that job again, or we won't finish it before dark," he said, and with a bow to Mrs. Reeves, "You will excuse us, I know." The woman nodded and as her husband was about to follow Brent from the room she detained him.

"Who is he?" asked Reeves, as the door closed behind him.

"Who is he!" exclaimed his wife, "Why he's Carter Brent! The very last of the Brents! Anyone in the South can tell you what that means. They're the bluest of the blue bloods. His father, the old General, owns the bank, and about everything else that's worth owning in Plantersville, and half the county besides! And oh, it's a shame! A shame! We've got to do something! You've got to do something! He's a mining engineer, too. I recognized him before he told me, and when I mentioned Plantersville, did you see his hand tremble? I was sure then. Oh, can't you give him a position?"

Reeves considered: "Why, yes, I could use a good mining engineer.

But--he's too far gone. He couldn't stay away from the booze. I don't think there's any use trying."

"There is, I tell you! The blood is there--and when the blood is there it is _never_ too late! Didn't you notice the air with which he gave me his promise not to gamble 'Upon the word of a Brent.' He would die before he would break that promise--you see."

"But--he wouldn't promise to let liquor alone. The gambling--in his circ.u.mstances is more or less a joke."

"But, when he gets on his feet again it won't be a joke!" she insisted.

"You mark my words, he is going to make good. I can _feel_ it. And that is why I got him to promise not to gamble. If you can make him promise to let liquor alone you can depend on it he will let it alone. You'll try--won't you dear?"

"Yes, little girl, I'll try," smiled Reeves, kissing his young wife, "But I'll tell you beforehand, you are a good deal more sanguine of success than I am." And he pa.s.sed out and joined Brent who was busily loading a wheelbarrow.

CHAPTER XI

JOE PETE

Several times during the afternoon as they worked side by side, Reeves endeavored to engage Brent in conversation, but the latter's replies were short to the verge of curtness, and Reeves gave it up and devoted his energy to the task in hand. The fitful snow flurries of the forenoon settled into a steady fall of wind-driven flakes that cut the air in long horizontal slants and lay an ever-thickening white blanket upon the frozen surface of the ground. Darkness fell early, and the job was finished by lantern light. When the last barrow of earth had been placed, the two made a tour of inspection which ended at the kitchen door.

"Snug and tight for the winter!" exclaimed Reeves, "And just in time!"

"Yes," answered Brent, "Winter is here."

The door opened and the face of Mrs. Reeves was framed for a moment in the yellow lamp light: "Supper is ready!" she called, cheerily.

"Come in," invited Reeves, heartily, "We'll put that supper where it will do the most good, and then we'll----"

Brent interrupted him: "Thank you, I'll go home."

"Oh, come, now!" insisted the other. "Mrs. Reeves is expecting you. She will be really disappointed if you run off that way."

"Disappointed--_h.e.l.l_!" cried Brent, so fiercely that Reeves stared at him in surprise. "Do you think for a minute that it was easy for me to sit at a table--the table of a southern lady--in these rags? Would you care to try it--to try and play the role of a gentleman behind a six weeks' growth of beard, and with your hair uncut for six months? It would have been an ordeal at any table, but to find out suddenly--at a moment when you were straining every nerve in your body to carry it through, that your hostess was one you had known--in other days--and who had known you--I tell you man it was h.e.l.l! What I've got to have is not food, but whiskey--enough whiskey to make me drunk--very drunk. And the h.e.l.l I've gone through is not a circ.u.mstance to the h.e.l.l I've got to face when that same whiskey begins to die out--lying there in the bunk staring wide-eyed into the thick dark--seeing things that aren't there--hearing voices that were, and are forever stilled, and voices that never were--the voices of the d.a.m.ned--taunting, reviling, mocking your very soul, asking you what you have done with your millions? And where do you go from here? And your hands shaking so that you can't draw the cork from the bottle to drown the d.a.m.ned voices and still them till you have to wake up again, hoping when you do it will be daylight--it's easier in daylight. I tell you man that's _h.e.l.l_! It isn't the h.e.l.l that comes after he dies a man fears--it's the h.e.l.l that comes in the dark. A h.e.l.l born of whiskey, and only whiskey will quench the fires of it--and more whiskey--and more----"

Reeves grasped his hand in a mighty grip: "I think I understand, old man--a little," he said. "I'll make excuse to Mrs. Reeves."

"Tell her the truth if you want to," growled Brent, turning away, "We'll never meet again."

"You've forgotten something," called Reeves as he extended a hand which held a crisp bill.

Brent examined it. It was a twenty. "What is this--wages or charity?" he asked.

"Wages--and you've earned every cent of it."

"Shoveling dirt, or play acting?" There was a sneer in the man's voice, which Reeves was quick to resent.

"Shoveling dirt," he replied, shortly.

"Men shovel dirt in this camp now for eight or ten."

"I think I am quite capable of judging what a man's services are worth to me," answered Reeves, "Good bye." He turned to the door, and Brent crumpled the bill into his pocket and disappeared in the whirling snow.

Arriving at his cabin he carefully deposited two quarts of liquor upon the table, lighted his smoky lamp, and built a roaring fire in the stove. Seating himself in a chair, he carefully removed the cork from the bottle and took a long, long drink. He realized suddenly that the unwonted physical exercise had made him very tired and hungry. The greater part of a link of bologna sausage lay upon the table, a remnant of a previous meal. He took the sausage in his hand and devoured it, pausing now and then to drink from the bottle. When the last fragment had been consumed he settled himself in his chair and, with the bottle at his elbow, stared for a long time at the log wall. "Winter is here,"

he muttered, at length, "And I've got to hit the trail." He took a drink, and carefully replaced the bottle upon the table, and again for a long time he stared at the logs. A knock on the door startled him.

"Come in," he called. He felt better now. The liquor was taking hold.

Reeves stamped the snow noisily from his feet and closed the door behind him. Brent rose and motioned for the man to draw the other chair closer to the stove. He turned up the murky lamp a trifle, then turned it down again because it smoked.