Part 14 (1/2)

”'Tain't a dish you'd call for in a restauraw, and I reckon procupine's got much the same flavor of damp dog. How did you get the Chinaman down?”

”I rigged up a travois when he could travel and hauled him to the cabin, where's he's waiting now. We are nearly out of grub, so I had to come.”

Of the fierce hunger, the wearing, unceasing fight against Arctic cold, and, when weakened and exhausted by both, the dumb, instinctive struggle for life against the combination, Bruce said nothing; but in a dozen commonplace sentences described physical sufferings sufficient for a lifetime--which is the western way.

He walked to the desk, where the gifted tenor, clerk and post-master stood pleased and expectant, pen in hand, waiting for him to register.

”Is there any mail for me?” He tried to speak casually but, to himself the eager note in his voice seemed to shriek and vibrate. Making every allowance for delays and changed addresses he had calculated that by now he should have an answer from Slim's mother or sister. He did not realize how positively he had counted on a letter until the clerk shook his head.

”Nothing?” Bruce looked at him blankly.

”Nothing.” The answer seemed to take the last sc.r.a.p of his vitality. He moved to the nearest chair and sat down heavily.

The thought of a.s.suming Slim's responsibilities, of making up for his own futile years, and bringing to pa.s.s at least a few of his mother's dreams for him, had become a kind of obsession since that first night of horror after his quarrel with Slim. It had kept him going, hanging on doggedly, when, as he since believed, he might have given up. It seemed to have needed the ghastly, unexpected happening in the lonely cabin to have aroused in him the ambition which was his inheritance from his mother. But it was awake at last, the stronger perhaps for having lain so long dormant.

Failures, humiliating moments, hasty, ungenerous words, heartless deeds, have a way of coming back with startling vividness in the still solitude of mountains, and out of the pa.s.sing of painful panoramas had grown Bruce's desire to ”make good.” Now, in the first shock of his intense disappointment he felt that without a tangible incentive he was done before he had started.

”Mistah Bruce, if you'll jest step out and take what they is,” announced Ma Snow from the doorway. ”And watch out foah yoah laig in this hole heah.” She called over her shoulder: ”Mistah Hinds, I want you should get to work and fix that place to-morrow or I'll turn yoah ol' hotel back on yoah hands. You heah me?”

The threat always made Old Man Hinds jump like the close explosion of a stick of giant powder.

Bruce looked at the ”light” bread and the Oregon-grape ”jell,” the steaming coffee and the first b.u.t.ter he had seen in months, while before his plate on the white tablecloth at the ”transient” end of the table, sat a slice of ham with an egg! like a jewel--its crowning glory.

Ma Snow whispered confidentially:

”One of the hins laid day 'fore yistiddy.” The prize had been filched from Mr. Snow, one of whose diversions was listening for a hen to cackle.

From his height Bruce looked down upon the work-stooped little woman and he saw, not her churn-like contour nor her wrinkled face, but the light of a kind heart s.h.i.+ning in her pale eyes. He wanted to cry--he--Bruce Burt! He fought the inclination furiously. It was too ridiculous--weak, sentimental, to be so sensitive to kindness. But he was so tired, so lonely, so disappointed. He touched Ma Snow's ginger-colored hair caressingly with his finger tips and the impulsive, boyish action made for Bruce a loyal friend.

In the office, Mr. Dill was noticeably abstracted. His smiling suavity, his gracious manner, had given place to taciturnity and Ore City's choicest _bon mots_, its time-tested pleasantries, fell upon inattentive ears. As a matter of fact, his bones ached like a tooth from three long, hard days in the mail-carrier's sledges, and also he recognized certain symptoms which told him that he was in for an attack of dyspepsia due to his enforced diet en route, of soda-biscuit, ham, and bacon. But these were minor troubles as compared to the loss of the fee which in his mind he had already spent. The most he could hope for, he supposed, was compensation for his time and his expenses.

He sat in a grumpy silence until Bruce came out of the dining-room, then he stated his intention of going to bed and asked for a lamp. As he said good-night curtly he noticed Uncle Bill eyeing him hard, as he had observed him doing before, but this time there was distinct hostility in the look.

”What's the matter with that old rooster?” he asked himself crossly as he clumped upstairs to bed.

”I know that young duck now,” said Uncle Bill in an undertone, as Bruce sat down beside him. ”He's a mining and civil engineer--a good one, too--but crooked as they come. He's a beat.”

”He's an engineer?” Bruce asked in quick interest.

”He's anything that suits, when it comes to pulling off a mining deal.

He'd 'salt' his own mother, he'd sell out his grandmother, but in his profession there's none better if he'd stay straight. I knowed him down in Southern Oregon--he was run out.”

”Have you heard yet from Sprudell?”

”Yes,” Uncle Bill answered grimly. ”As you might say, indirectly. I want you should take a look at this.”

He felt for his leather wallet and handed Bruce the clipping.

”Don't skip any,” he said acidly. ”It's worth a careful peruse.”

There was a little likelihood of that after Bruce had read the headlines.