"Where is she now?"

"Hunting."

Father Ambrose laughed: "And I predict that she will not return until she has brought down her caribou, or her moose. Would your white maiden of nineteen be off hunting alone in the hills with her rifle? No. By our very contentions we have established the dual nature of her. In her the traits of civilization and savagery are not blended, but each in turn dominate and order her thoughts and actions. Hers is what one might term an alternating ego. And it is a thing that troubles me sore. What will happen down there--down at the convent, where they will not understand her, and where there is no hunting? To what end will this marvelous energy exert itself? For, it will not remain pent up within her breast.

It will seek outlet. And then?"

"Who can tell?" answered the Nun, thoughtfully. "At least, I shall be glad indeed to know that she will be far from the baleful influence of Henri of the White Water. For, devil that he is, there is no gainsaying the fact that there is something attractive about him, with his bold free manner, and his handsome face, and gay clothing. He is a figure that might well attract a more sophisticated woman than our little Snowdrift. As yet, though, I think he has failed to rouse in her more than a pa.s.sing interest. If she cared for him she would not be away hunting while everyone else is eagerly watching for the brigade."

Father Ambrose shrugged: "'Tis past understanding--the way of a maid with a man. But see, here she comes, now." Both watched the lithe form that swung across the clearing from the bush. The girl was hatless, her ma.s.s of black hair, caught up and held in place by an ingenious twist of bark. Her face and full rounded throat that rose gracefully from the open collar of a buckskin hunting shirt showed a rich hazel brown in the slanting rays of the sun. Buckskin gloves protected her hands from the ever present mosquitoes. A knee-length skirt of heavy cloth, a pair of deer skin leggings tanned with the hair on, and Indian moccasins completed her costume.

"What luck?" greeted the priest.

The girl paused before them and flashing a smile, disclosed a set of teeth that gleamed like wet pearls: "Good luck," she answered, "A young bull caribou, and two wolves that were just closing in on a cow with a young calf. Every bullet went true. I shot three times. Has the brigade pa.s.sed?"

The priest shook his head: "No, not yet. They will have camped before this for the night." As he spoke the girl's eyes strayed to the river, and at the extreme reach of glistening water, they held: "Look!" she cried, "They are coming, now!" Around the bend into view shot a scow, and another, and another, until the whole surface of the river seemed black with the scows. The playing children had seen them too, and with wild whoops of delight they were racing for the bank, followed by the older Indian girls, and by Father Ambrose. For the annual coming of the brigade is an event in the North, bringing as it does the mail and the supplies for the whole year to these lonely dwellers of the far outlands.

Sister Mercedes remained seated upon her bench and standing her rifle against the wall, Snowdrift sat down beside her, and in silence the two watched the scows swing sh.o.r.eward in response to the strokes of the heavy steering sweeps, and listened to the exchange of shouted greetings.

Of all the rivermen, the bravest figure was that of Henri of the White Water. The two women could see him striding back and forth issuing orders regarding the mooring of scows and the unloading of freight. They saw him pause suddenly in his restless pacing up and down, and eagerly scan the faces of the a.s.sembled group. Then, his glance travelled back from the river and rested upon the two silent figures beside the door, and with a wave of his hand, he tossed the sack of mail to the waiting priest, and stepping past him strode rapidly up the bank in the direction of the mission.

The face of Sister Mercedes hardened as she noted the flaunting air of the approaching man, his stocking cap of brilliant blue, his snow-white _capote_ thrown open to reveal the flannel shirt of vivid red and black checks.

With a royal bow, he swept the blue stocking cap from his head and saluted the two upon the bench: "Ah-ha, greetings, _ma cheres_! From Henri of the White Water to the fairest flower of the North, and her--ah, guardian angel--_non_?" His lips flashed a smile, and he continued: "But, there are times when even a guardian angel is not desired to be. Come with me, Snowdrift, and we will walk yonder to the edge of the bank, where we will still be within sight of the ever watching eye of the church, but well out of hearing of its ever listening ear. You see, Sister _religieuse_, I am a respecter of your little laws!" He laughed aloud, "Ah, yes Henri of the White Water is a great respecter of laws, _voila_!"

Seating themselves upon the high bank of the river the two watched the sun dip slowly behind the scrub timber. And, as the twilight deepened, the man talked rapidly and earnestly, while the girl listened in silence. "And so," he concluded, "When the scows return, in one month from now, you shall leave this place forever. We shall go away and be married, and we will journey far, far up the rivers to the cities of the white men, and only upon occasion will we make flying trips into the North--to the trade."

"It is said that you trade hooch," said the girl, "I will not marry any man who trades hooch. I hate the traders of hooch."

"Ah-ha! _Ma chere!_ Yes, I have now and then traded hooch. You see, I do not deny. Henri of the White Water must have adventure. But upon my soul, if you do not want me to trade hooch, I shall never trade another drop--_non_."

"When the scows return in a month, I shall go with them," answered the girl dispa.s.sionately, "But, not to be married. I am going to school----"

"To school! _Mon Dieu!_ Have you not had enough of school? It is time you were finished with such foolishness. You, who are old enough to be the mother of children, talking of going to school! Bah! It is to laugh!

And where would you go--to school?"

"To the convent, at Montreal."

"The devil take these meddlers!" cried the man, rising and pacing rapidly up and down before the girl. Then suddenly he paused and looking down upon her, laughed aloud. "Ha, ha! You would go to Montreal! And what will you do when you get there? What will you say when they ask you who is your father? Eh, what will you tell them?"

The girl looked at him in wide-eyed surprise. "Why, what do you mean? I shall tell them the truth--that my father is dead. Why should I not tell them that my father is dead. He was a good man. My mother has told me."

Again the man laughed, his laugh of cruel derision: "Such innocence! It is unbelievable! They will have nothing to do with you in the land of the white men. They will scorn you and look down upon you. You never had a father----"

The girl was upon her feet, now, facing him with flashing eyes: "It is a lie! I did have a father! And he was a good man. He was not like the father of you, old Boussard, the drunken and thieving old hanger-on about the posts!"

"Aye, I grant you that the old devil is nothing to brag of. I do not point to him with the finger of pride, but he is nevertheless a produceable father. He and my Indian mother were married. I at least am no _enfant natural_--no _batarde_! No one can poke at me the finger of scorn, and draw aside in the pa.s.sing, as from a thing unclean!"

The girl's face flamed red, and tears of rage welled from her eyes: "I do not know what you mean!" she cried, "But I do know that I hate you! I will find out what you mean--and then maybe I will kill you." In her rage she sprang at the man's throat with her bare hands, but he easily thrust her aside, and sobbing she ran toward the mission.

It was long after midnight that Snowdrift emerged from the room of Sister Mercedes. The girl had gone straight to the Nun and asked questions, nor would she be denied their answers. And so explaining, comforting, as best she could, the good Sister talked till far into the night. Snowdrift had gone into the room an unsophisticated girl--she came out from it a woman--but, a woman whose spirit, instead of being crushed and broken by the weight of her shame, rose triumphant and defiant above that shame. For in her heart was bitter hatred against the white men, whose code of ethics brought shame upon the innocent head of one whose very existence was due to the l.u.s.t of a man of their own race.

Silently the girl crossed the clearing to the building in which was her room, and very silently she made up a pack of her belongings. Then, taking the pack, and her rifle, she stole silently out the door and crossing the broad open s.p.a.ce, entered the bush. At the edge of the clearing she turned, and stood for a long time looking back at the mission with its little buildings huddled together in the moonlight. And then, with a choking sob that forced itself past her tight-pressed lips, she turned and plunged into the timber.

CHAPTER IV

ACE-IN-THE-HOLE

On the outskirts of Dawson, city of the tents and log buildings, Brent pitched his own tent, paid off his Indian canoeman, and within the hour was sucked into the mad maelstrom of carousal that characterized the early days of the big gold camp.

It was the city of men gone mad. The saloon was the center of activity--and saloons there were aplenty; d.i.c.k Stoell's Place, which was "the big game" of Dawson; "The Nugget" of uproarious fame; Cuter Malone's "Klondike Palace," where, nightly, revel raged to the _n_th power--where bearded men and scarlet women gave over to debauch magnificent in its wild abandon; and many others, each with its wheels of chance, its cards, its music, and its women.

And into the whirl of it Carter Brent plunged with a zest born of youth and of muscles iron-hard from the gruelling trail. And into it he fitted as though to the manner born. No invisible lines of demarkation divided the bars of Dawson as they had divided Kelliher's bar. Millionaires in blanket coats and mukluks rubbed shoulders with penniless watery-eyed squaw-men. Sourdoughs who spilled coa.r.s.e gold from the mouths of sacks, misfit _chechakos_, and painted women, danced, and sang, and cursed, and gambled, the short nights through.

The remnant of Brent's thousand dollars was but a drop in the bucket, and he was glad when it was gone three days after his arrival. Not that he particularly wanted to be "broke." But in the spending of it, men had taken his measure--the bills and the coined gold had branded him as a man from the "outside," a _chechako_--a tenderfoot.

An hour after he had tossed his last yellow disk upon the bar in payment for a round of drinks he had hired out to Camillo Bill Waters to sluice gravel at an ounce a day. An ounce was sixteen dollars. Thereafter for the s.p.a.ce of a month he was seen no more in Dawson.

Then one day he returned. He presented a slip of paper signed by Camillo Bill to the bartender at Stoell's and received therefor thirty ounces of gold--raw gold, in dust and nuggets. He bought a round of drinks glorying in the fact that at last he, too, was spending coa.r.s.e gold. He bet ten ounces on an Indian foot race, and won. More drinks, and an hour later he bet his pile on a seven, a ten-spot, a deuce, and a king in a game of stud poker. Two players called the bet and he flipped over his hole card--it was a seven-spot and again he won.

He quit the game and danced for an hour, and between dances he drank whiskey. He got the hunch that this was his lucky day and that he could win, but the hunch called for quick big bets, and not for long continued play. He rode his hunch, and at Cuter Malone's wheel he tossed fifty ounces on Number 21. The ivory ball rolled slower and slower, hesitated on the 10 and then with a last turn settled into 21. He pocketed twenty-eight thousand dollars with a grin. The news of the bet spread swiftly and Brent became a man of sorts. Four times more that night he placed big bets--and three of the times he won.

One of these plays also in a game of stud earned him the name by which he became known in the North. With a king, and a queen, showing in his own hand he mercilessly raised an exposed pair of Jacks. Of the six other players in the game five dropped out. The holder of the Jacks stayed for the last draw and checked the bet. Brent laid fifty thousand dollars on his cards, a king, a queen, an eight spot and a four spot.

The other stared at the hand for a long time. He was a man known for his nerve and his high play, and he knew that Brent knew this. Whispers of the big bet had gone about the room and men and women crowded the table.

At length the other turned down his cards in token of surrender, and with a laugh Brent turned his hole card face up. It was the Ace of Diamonds, and an audible gasp hissed from twenty throats. Thereafter Brent was known as Ace-In-The-Hole.

The next morning he deposited one hundred and thirty thousand dollars in d.i.c.k Stoell's safe, and his pockets still bulged with dust. For two days and nights he drank and danced, but not a card did he touch, nor did he lay any bet. When questioned he answered that his hunch was not working.

The sourdoughs respected him and treated him as an equal. He spent dust lavishly but he did not throw it away.

Then suddenly he bought an outfit and disappeared. When the first snow flew he was back, and into d.i.c.k Stoell's safe went many sacks of raw gold. He drank harder than ever and spent gold more freely. His fame spread to other camps, and three men came up from Circle to relieve him of his pile. He was gambling regularly now, and in a game of stud he caught them at the trick by means of which they had won forty thousand dollars from him. Many miners, among them a goodly sprinkling of old timers, were watching the play, and many of them had already detected the swindle, but after the custom of the country they held their peace.

Brent never batted an eye upon discovering the trick, but when a few moments later it was repeated, things happened in Stoell's--and they happened with the rapidity of light. One minute after the trouble started there was an ominous silence in the room. A circle of men stood and stared at the wreck of a table, across which sagged the body of a man killed with his own gun. Another man with his jaw shattered lay on the floor, and a third lay white and still across him with a wide red mark on his forehead where a sack of gold dust had caught him fair. And over all stood Brent with one leg jammed through the rungs of a broken chair.

The incident placed Ace-In-The-Hole in the foremost ranks of the big men of the North. He was regarded as the equal of such men as Old Bettles, Camillo Bill Waters, Swift.w.a.ter Bill, and McMann. Sourdoughs sought his acquaintance and _chechakos_ held him in awe. When the snow lay deep he bought the best string of dogs he could find, hired an Indian musher, and again disappeared. He was back at Christmas for a two weeks carousal, and when he hit the trail again he carried with him several gallons of whiskey. The sourdoughs shook their heads and exchanged glances at this, but a man's business is his own. In July he sent his Indian down for ten men to work his sluices and much whiskey. In September he came down himself and he brought with him a half million in gold.

Others had cleaned up big during the summer, and that winter saw Dawson's highest peak of wild orgies and wild spending. Riding a hunch when he first hit town Brent doubled and trebled his pile, and then with Jimmie the Rough, McMann, Camillo Bill and a few others they inaugurated such a campaign of reckless spending as the North had never seen and never again did see.

Brent was never sober, now--and men said he never slept. He was the youngest and by far the strongest of the spenders, the urge of the game was in his blood, and he rode it as he rode his hunches--to the limit of his endurance. All men liked him--open hearted, generous to the fault, and square as a die in his dealings, he spent his money like a prince.

And where the men liked him the painted women worshipped him--but they worshipped from afar. For despite the utmost blandishments of the most intriguing of them, he treated all alike--even Kitty, whom men called "The Queen of the Yukon," failed to hold him in thrall. This dancing girl who had taken the North by storm, who was the North's darling and beautiful plaything, whose boast it was that she had never sought any man, fell violently in love with Brent. Men saw it and marvelled, for it was known in the camps that she had spurned men who had laid fortunes at her feet. It was not that he feared women, rather he sought them. He danced with them, frolicked with them--and then promptly forgot them.

His one real pa.s.sion was gambling. Any game or device whereupon big bets could be laid found him an enthusiastic devotee. And his luck became a byword in the North.

"Sometime your luck will change," warned the dancing girl as the two sat one evening in the early fall at a little table in Stoell's and drank champagne which cost Brent fifty dollars the quart. "And then you'll be broke and----"

Brent who had been idly toying with the rings upon her fingers returned the slender hand to the table. "It can't change. It's a part of me. As long as I'm me, I'll be lucky. Look, I'll show you! You want to marry me--you've told me so. Well, I don't want to marry you, or anyone else--wouldn't know what to do with you if I did marry you. You want me to go back on the claim--well, here's a bargain--just to show you that I can't lose." He pulled a buckskin sack full of gold from his pocket and held it before the girl's eyes. "See this sack. It isn't very big. It can't cover many numbers. I'm going to stand up in this chair and toss it onto the roulette table over there, and play every number it touches.

If I lose I lose the dust--Stoell will get that. But that isn't all I'll lose--I'll lose myself--to you. If one of the numbers that this sack falls on don't win, I marry you tonight, and we hit for the claim tomorrow."

The girl stared at him, fascinated: "Do you mean that--you'll quit gambling--and you'll sober up and--and live with me?"