Part 11 (1/2)

”Well, that's--er--talkin' it out kind of plain----”

”You can go to h.e.l.l!” exclaimed Brent, ”and that's talking it out kind of plain, too.”

Cuter laughed: ”Don't git sore about it. Business is business, an' I'm into it to git the money, one way an' another. If you don't want to deal, how about goin' behind the bar? That's a square enough game.” He paused and grinned. ”An' I wouldn't mind fer onct havin' someone handlin' my dust that I wouldn't feel like friskin' every time he went out the door to see how much of it had stuck to him.”

And so Brent began tending bar in the notorious ”Klondike Palace,” and Kitty, as she faced him for the first time with her dancing partner and called for a drink, addressed him in words that to her partner meant nothing: ”Your toboggan is going good, now--ain't it, Ace-In-The-Hole?

You're most there, now--most to the b.u.mp that lays at the end of the trail.” And Brent served the drinks, and answered nothing.

The ”Klondike Palace” was the wildest and most notorious of all the dives of the big camp. Unlike Stoell's and ”The Nugget,” everything downstairs was in one big room. The bar occupied a whole side, the gambling tables and devices were in the rear, and the remainder of the wide floor s.p.a.ce was given over to dancing. At the rear of the bar a flight of stairs led upward to the rooms of the painted women.

And it was concerning one of these painted women that, three weeks later, Brent had his first ”run in” with Cuter Malone. It was bitter cold and snowing thickly, and Brent, with lowered head, was boring through the white smother on his way to work. He paused in the light that shone dully through the heavily frosted windows of Malone's and was about to push open the door, when from the thick darkness around the side of the building he heard a woman scream. It was a sharp, terrible scream, that ended in a half-m.u.f.fled shriek. And without an instant's hesitation, Brent dashed around the corner. The ”Klondike Palace” was located well upon the edge of the big camp, beyond it being only a few scattered cabins. Scarcely fifty feet from the street he came upon a man standing over a woman who was cowering in the snow. Neither saw him, and even as he looked the man struck with a coiled dog whip. Again the woman screamed, and the man jumped upon her and started to kick her first with one foot then with the other as she lay in the snow. Like an avalanche Brent hurled himself upon the man, his fist catching him squarely upon the side of the head and sending him sprawling. Without waiting for him to get up, Brent jerked the woman to her feet and pushed her toward the street. He saw then that she was one of the girls who roomed over Malone's, and that she was clad in the thinnest of silk stockings, and the flimsiest of semi-transparent gowns. One of her high-heeled slippers had been lost in the snow. Scarce able to stand, the girl staggered whimpering toward the light. Turning upon the man who had regained his feet Brent found himself looking into the muzzle of a forty-five. So close was the man that even in the darkness he could see his face. It was Johnnie Claw, and Brent saw that the recognition was mutual. Claw's thick lips writhed back in a grin of hate, and Brent could hear his breath sucking heavily between his clenched teeth. Eye to eye they stared as Brent's lips moved in a sneer: ”Well--you--d.a.m.ned--pimp--why don't you shoot?” To his intense surprise, the gun wavered, dropped to the man's side and, jamming it into the pocket of his fur coat, Claw pushed past him toward the street, mumbling thick curses.

Later, that night, when business was a little slack during a dance Malone motioned him aside: ”Say, what the h.e.l.l be you b.u.t.tin' in on other folks business fer?”

”What do you mean?”

”You know what I mean. What did you go knockin' Johnnie Claw down fer, when he was givin' that d.a.m.n Violet what was comin' to her, fer holdin'

out on him?”

”Giving her what was coming! My G.o.d, man, he would have kicked her to death there in the snow--that's what he would have done!”

”Well, what if he did--she's hisn, ain't she?”

A surge of swift anger almost overcame Brent. His fists clenched, and it was with difficulty that he refrained from striking Malone down where he stood. Instead, he leaned a trifle closer to the man: ”Just let this stick to you, Malone,” he said, ”What pa.s.ses between me and Claw, or me and anyone else, when it isn't on your premises and on your time, is my business--see?”

Malone laughed, shortly, and with a shrug, turned away, while Brent served drinks to a couple who had left the dance and sauntered to the bar. The couple were Kitty, and a strapping young _chechako_ called Moosehide Charlie, the name referring to an incident that had occurred early in the winter when he had skinned out a moose and, finding himself far from camp and no blankets, had wrapped himself in the green hide and gone to sleep. In the morning he awoke to find himself encased in an iron-hard coffin of frozen moosehide unable to move hand or foot.

Luckily a party of hunters found him and spent half a day thawing him out over a roaring fire.

Said Kitty to Moosehide Charlie, as she sipped at the liquid that by courtesy was called port wine: ”That's Johnnie Claw over there by the door. He's one-two-three with Cuter Malone--some say they're pardners.”

Her companion swallowed his liquor and glanced indifferently toward the object of the girl's remarks. ”It ain't worryin' me none who he's pardners with. I don't like the looks of him, nohow.”

”Sh-sh-sh,” warned Kitty, ”What a man learns in this country don't hurt him any. I was just telling you so if you ever happened to run foul of Claw, you'd know enough to keep your eye on Malone, too.”

”Guess I ain't goin' to run foul of him. Come on, let's dance.”

Kitty had not even favored him by so much as a glance, but as Brent removed the gla.s.ses from the bar, he smiled.

The days were rapidly lengthening on the Yukon. At noon each day the sun was higher in the heavens and its increased heat was heralded by little streams of snow water that trickled over the ice of the creeks.

One evening when the grip of winter had broken and the feel of spring was in the air, Moosehide Charlie stood at the bar drinking with Johnnie Claw. It was too early for the dancers and three or four of the girls sat idly along the opposite wall. As Brent served the drinks, he noticed that Claw appeared to be urging the younger man into a deal of some kind--he, caught a word now and then, of reference to dumps, slucings, and water heads. Moosehide seemed to be holding out. He was a man who drank little, and after two drinks he turned from the bar shaking his head. ”Come on,” urged Claw, ”Have another.”

”No, two or three's my limit. I don't aim to git drunk.”

”Drunk, h.e.l.l!” laughed Claw, ”I don't nuther. You've only had two. Make it three, an' I'll tell you what I'll do, I'll throw off a leetle on that claim. I ain't got time to fool with it, noways.”

Moosehide returned to the bar: ”Well, one more, then, an' that's all.

But you'll have to throw off more'n just a little on that property, fer me to touch it.”