"It means this," the Count informed him. "I have effected a complete reconciliation with my adorable wife. Women are all alike--they fear the iron, they kiss the hand that smites them. I have made her my obedient slave, mon ami. That's what it means."

"It don't look good to me," Joe said, morosely. "She's got an ace buried somewhere."

"Eh? What are you trying to say?"

"I've got a hunch she's salving you, Count. She's stuck on Phillips, like I told you, and she's trying to get a peek at your hole card."

It was characteristic of Courteau that he should take instant offense at this reflection upon his sagacity, this doubt of his ability as a charmer.

"You insult my intelligence," he cried, stiffly, "and, above all, I possess intelligence. You--do not. No. You are coa.r.s.e, you are gross. I am full of sentiment--"

"Rats!" McCaskey growled. "I get that way myself sometimes.

Sentiment like yours costs twenty dollars a quart. But this ain't the time for a spree; we got business on our hands."

The Count eyed his friend with a frown. "It is a personal affair and concerns our business not in the least. I am a revengeful person; I have pride and I exact payment from those who wound it.

I brought my wife here as a punishment and I propose to make her drink with you. Your company is not agreeable at any time, my friend, and she does you an honor--"

"Cut out that tony talk," Joe said, roughly. "You're a broken- hipped stiff and you're trying to grab her bank-roll. Don't you s'pose I'm on? My company was all right until you got your hand in the hotel cash-drawer; now I'm coa.r.s.e. Maybe she's on the square-- she fell for you once--but I bet she's working you. Make sure of this, my high and mighty n.o.bleman"--for emphasis the speaker laid a heavy hand upon the Count's shoulder and thrust his disagreeable face closer--"that you keep your mouth shut. Savvy? Don't let her sweat you--"

The admonitory words ended abruptly, for the door of the box reopened and Joe found the Countess Courteau facing him. For an instant their glances met and in her eyes the man saw an expression uncomfortably reminiscent of that day at Sheep Camp when she had turned public wrath upon his brother Jim's head. But the look was fleeting; she turned it upon her husband, and the Count, with an apology for his delay, entered the box, dragging McCaskey with him.

Frank, it appeared, shared his brother's suspicions; the two exchanged glances as Joe entered; then when the little party had adjusted itself to the cramped quarters they watched the Countess curiously, hoping to a.n.a.lyze her true intent. But in this they were unsuccessful. She treated both of them with a cool, impartial formality, quite natural under the circ.u.mstances, but in no other way did she appear conscious of that clash on the Chilkoot trail.

It was not a pleasant situation at best, and Joe especially was ill at ease, but Courteau continued his spendthrift role, keeping the waiters busy, and under the influence of his potations the elder McCaskey soon regained some of his natural sang-froid. All three men drank liberally, and by the time the lower floor had been cleared for dancing they were in a hilarious mood. They laughed loudly, they shouted greetings across to other patrons of the place, they flung corks at the whirling couples below.

Meanwhile, they forced the woman to imbibe with them. Joe, in spite of his returning confidence, kept such close watch of her that she could not spill her gla.s.s into the bucket, except rarely.

Hilda hated alcohol and its effect; she was not accustomed to drinking. As she felt her intoxication mounting she became fearful that the very medium upon which she had counted for success would prove to be her undoing. Desperately she battled to retain her wits. More than once, with a reckless defiance utterly foreign to her preconceived plans, she was upon the point of hurling the bubbling contents of her gla.s.s into the flushed faces about her and telling these men how completely she was shamming, but she managed to resist the temptation. That she felt such an impulse at all made her fearful of committing some action equally rash, of dropping some word that would prove fatal.

It was a hideous ordeal. She realized that already the cloak of decency, of respectability, which she had been at such pains to preserve during these difficult years, was gone, lost for good and all. She had made herself a Lady G.o.diva; by this night of conspicuous revelry she had undone everything. Not only had she condoned the sins and the shortcomings of her dissolute husband, but also she had put herself on a level with him and with the fallen women of the town--his customary a.s.sociates. Courteau had done this to her. It had been his proposal. She could have throttled him where he sat.

The long night dragged on interminably. Like leeches the two McCaskeys clung to their prodigal host, and not until the early hours of morning, when the Count had become sodden, sullen, stupefied, and when they were in a condition little better, did they permit him to leave them. How Hilda got him home she scarcely knew, for she, too, had all but lost command of her senses. There were moments when she fought unavailingly against a mental numbness, a stupor that rolled upward and suffused her like a cloud of noxious vapors, leaving her knees weak, her hands clumsy, her vision blurred; again waves of deathly illness surged over her. Under and through it all, however, her subconscious will to conquer remained firm. Over and over she told herself:

"I'll have the truth and then--I'll make him pay."

Courteau followed his wife into her room, and there his maudlin manner changed. He roused himself and smiled at her fatuously; into his eyes flamed a desire, into his cheeks came a deeper flush. He pawed at her caressingly; he voiced thick, pa.s.sionate protestations. Hilda had expected nothing less; it was for this that she had bled her flesh and crucified her spirit these many hours.

"You're--wonderful woman," the man mumbled as he swayed with her in his arms. "Got all the old charm and more. Game, too!" He laughed foolishly, then in drunken gravity a.s.serted: "Well, I'm the man, the stronger vessel. To turn hate into love, that--"

"You've taken your price. You've had your hour," she told him. Her head was thrown back, her eyes were closed, her teeth were clenched as if in a final struggle for self-restraint.

Courteau pressed his lips to hers; then in a sudden frenzy he crushed her closer and fell to kissing her cheeks, her neck, her throat. He mistook her shudder of abhorrence for a thrill responsive to his pa.s.sion, and hiccoughed:

"You're mine again, all mine, and--I'm mad about you. I'm aflame.

This is like the night of our marriage, what?"

"Are you satisfied, now that you've made me suffer? Do you still imagine I care for that foolish boy?"

"Phillips? Bah! A noisy swine." Again the Count chuckled, but this time his merriment ran away with him until he shook and until tears came to his eyes.

Without reason Hilda joined in his laughter. Together they stood rocking, giggling, snickering, as if at some excruciating jest.

"He--he tried to steal you--from me. From ME. Imagine it! Then he struck me. Well, where is he now, eh?"

"I never dreamed that you cared enough for me to--do what you did.

To risk so much."

"Risk?"

Hilda nodded, and her loose straw-gold hair brushed Courteau's cheek. "Don't pretend any longer. I knew from the start. But you were jealous. When a woman loses the power to excite jealousy it's a sign she's growing old and ugly and losing her fire. She can face anything except that."

"Fire!" Henri exclaimed. "Parbleu! Don't I know you to be a volcano?"

"How did you manage the affair--that fellow's ruin? It frightens me to realize that you can accomplish such things."

The Count pushed his wife away. "What are you talking about?" he demanded.

"Oh, very well! Carry it out if you wish," she said, with a careless shrug. "But you're not fooling me in the least. On the contrary, I admire your spirit. Now then, I'm thirsty. And you are, too." With a smile she evaded his outstretched arms and left the room. She was back in a moment with a bottle and two gla.s.ses.

The latter she filled; her own she raised with a gesture, and Courteau blindly followed suit.

In spite of his deep intoxication the man still retained the embers of suspicion, and when she spoke of Pierce Phillips they began to glow and threatened to burst into flame. Cunningly, persistently she played upon him, however. She enticed, she coquetted, she cajoled; she maddened him with her advances; she teased him with her repulses; she drugged him with her smiles, her fragrant charms. Time and again he was upon the point of surrender, but caught himself in time.

She won at last. She dragged the story from him, bit by bit, playing upon his vanity, until he gabbled boastfully and took a c.r.a.pulent delight in repeating the details. It was a tale distorted and confused, but the truth was there. She made an excuse to leave him, finally, and remained out of the room for a long time. When she returned it was to find him sprawled across her bed and fast asleep.

For a moment she held dizzily to the bedpost and stared down at him. Her mask had slipped now, her face was distorted with loathing, and so deep were her feelings that she could not bear to touch him, even to cover him over. Leaving him spread-eagled as he was, she staggered out of his unclean presence.

Hilda was deathly sick; objects were gyrating before her eyes; she felt a hideous nightmare sensation of unreality, and was filled with an intense contempt, a tragic disgust for herself. Pausing at the foot of the stairs, she strove to gather herself together; then slowly, pa.s.sionately she cursed the name of Pierce Phillips.

CHAPTER XXVI

Tom Linton and Jerry Quirk toiled slowly up the trail toward their cabin. Both men were bundled thickly in clothing, both bewhiskered visages bore grotesque breath-masks of ice; even their eyebrows were h.o.a.ry with frost. The partners were very tired.

Pausing in the chip-littered s.p.a.ce before their door, they gazed down the trail to a mound of gravel which stood out raw and red against the universal whiteness. This mound was in the form of a truncated cone and on its level top was a windla.s.s and a pole bucket track. From beneath the windla.s.s issued a cloud of smoke which mounted in billows, as if breathed forth from a concealed chimney--smoke from the smothered drift fires laid against the frozen face of pay dirt forty feet below the surface. Evidently this fire was burning to suit the partners; after watching it a moment, Tom took a buck-saw and fell stiffly to work upon a dry spruce log which lay on the saw-buck; Jerry spat on his mittens and began to split the blocks as they fell.

Darkness was close at hand, but both men were so f.a.gged that they found it impossible to hurry. Neither did they speak. Patiently, silently they sawed and chopped, then carried the wood into the chilly cabin; while one lit the lamp and went for a sack of ice, the other kindled a fire. These tasks accomplished, by mutual consent, but still without exchanging a word, they approached the table. From the window-sill Tom took a coin and balanced it upon his thumb and forefinger; then, in answer to his bleak, inquiring glance, Jerry nodded and he snapped the piece into the air. While it was still spinning Jerry barked, sharply:

"Tails!"

Both gray heads bent and near-sightedly examined the coin.

"Tails she is," Tom announced. He replaced the silver piece, crossed the room to his bunk, seated himself upon it, and remained there while Jerry, with a sudden access of cheerfulness, hustled to the stove, warmed himself, and then began culinary preparations.

These preparations were simple, but precise; also they were deliberate. Jerry cut one slice of ham, he measured out just enough coffee for one person, he opened one can of corn, and he mixed a half-pan of biscuits. Tom watched him from beneath a frown, meanwhile tugging moodily at the icicles which still clung to his lips. His corner of the cabin was cold, hence it was a painful process. When he had disposed of the last lump and when he could no longer restrain his irritation, he broke out:

"Of course you had to make BREAD, didn't you? Just because you know I'm starving."

"It come tails, didn't it?" Jerry inquired, with aggravating pleasantness. "It ain't my fault you're starving, and you got all night to cook what YOU want--after I'm done. _I_ don't care if you bake a layer cake and freeze ice-cream. You can put your front feet in the trough and champ your swill; you can root and waller in it, for all of ME. _I_ won't hurry you, not in the least."