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The Yukon Trail, a novel by William MacLeod Raine |
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Chapter 31. Sheba Digs |
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_ CHAPTER XXXI. SHEBA DIGS The weather had moderated a good deal, but the trail was a protected forest one. The two teams now going down had come up, so that the path was packed fairly hard and smooth. Holt lay propped on his own sled against the sleeping-bags. Sheba mushed behind Gordon. She chatted with them both, but ignored entirely the existence of Macdonald, who followed with his prize-winning Siberian dogs. Though she tried not to let her lover know it, Sheba was troubled at heart. Gordon was practically the prisoner of a man who hated him bitterly, who believed him guilty of murder, and who would go through fire to bring punishment home to him. She knew the power of Macdonald. With the money back of him, he had for two years fought against and almost prevailed over a strong public opinion in the United States. He was as masterful in his hatred as in his love. The dominant, fighting figure in the Northwest, he trod his sturdy way through opposition like a Colossus. Nor did she any longer have any illusions about him. He could be both ruthless and unscrupulous when it suited his purpose. As the day wore toward noon, her spirits drooped. She was tired physically, and this reacted upon her courage. The warmer weather was spoiling the trail. It became so soft and mushy that though snowshoes were needed, they could not be worn on account of the heavy snow which clung to them every time a foot was lifted. They wore mukluks, but Sheba was wet to the knees. The spring had gone from her step. Her shoulders began to sag. For some time Gordon's eye had been seeking a good place for a day camp. He found it in a bit of open timber above the trail, and without a word he swung his team from the path. "Where are you going?" demanded Macdonald. "Going to rest for an hour," was Elliot's curt answer. Macdonald's jaw clamped. He strode forward through the snow beside the trail. "We'll see about that." The younger man faced him angrily. "Can't you see she is done, man? There is not another mile of travel in her until she has rested." The hard, gray eyes of the Alaskan took in the slender, weary figure leaning against the sled. On a soft and mushy trail like this, where every footstep punched a hole in the loose snow, the dogs could not travel with any extra weight. A few miles farther down they would come to a main-traveled road and the going would be better. But till then she must walk. Macdonald gave way with a gesture of his hand and turned on his heel. At the camp-fire Sheba dried her mukluks, stockings, caribou mitts, and short skirts. Too tired to eat, she forced herself to swallow a few bites and drank eagerly some tea. Gordon had brought blankets from the sled and he persuaded her to lie down for a few minutes. "You'll call me soon if I should sleep," she said drowsily, and her eyes were closed almost before the words were off her lips. When Macdonald came to order the start half an hour later, she was still asleep. "Give her another thirty minutes," he said gruffly. Youth is resilient. Sheba awoke rested and ready for work. While Gordon was untangling the dogs she was left alone for a minute with the mine-owner. The hungry look in his eyes touched her. Impulsively she held out her hand. "You're going to be fair, aren't you, Mr. Macdonald? Because you--don't like him--you won't--?" He looked straight into the dark, appealing eyes. "I'm going to be fair to Robert Milton," he told her harshly. "I'm going to see his murderers hanged if it costs me every dollar I have in the world." "None of us object to justice," she told him proudly. "Gordon has nothing to fear if only the truth is told." "Then why come to me?" he demanded. She hesitated; then with a wistful little smile, spoke what was in her heart. "I'm afraid you won't do justice to yourself. You're good--and brave--and strong. But you're very willful and set. I don't want to lose my friend. I want to know that he is all I have believed him--a great man who stands for the things that are fine and clean and just." "Then it is for my sake and not for his that you want me to drop the case against Elliot?" he asked ironically. "For yours and for his, too. You can't hurt him. Nobody can really be hurt from outside--not unless he is a traitor to himself. And Gordon Elliot isn't that. He couldn't do such a thing as this with which you charge him. It is not in his nature. He can explain everything." "I don't doubt that. He and his friend Holt are great little explainers." In spite of his bitterness Sheba felt a change in him. She seemed to have a glimpse of his turbid soul engaged in battle. He turned away without shaking hands, but it struck her that he was not implacable. While they were at luncheon half a dozen pack-mules laden with supplies for a telephone construction line outfit had passed. Their small, sharp-shod hoofs had punched sink-holes in the trail at every step. Instead of a smooth bottom the dogs found a slushy bog cut to pieces. At the end of an hour of wallowing Macdonald called a halt. "There is a cutoff just below here. It will save us nearly two miles, but we'll have to break trail. Swing to the right just below the big willow," he told Elliot. "I'll join you presently and relieve you on the job. But first Miss O'Neill and I are going for a little side trip." All three of them looked at him in sharp surprise. Gordon opened his lips to answer and closed them again without speaking. Sheba had flashed a warning to him. "I hope this trip isn't very far off the trail," she said quietly. "I'm just a wee bit tired." "It's not far," the mine-owner said curtly. He was busy unpacking his sled. Presently he found the dog moccasins for which he had been looking, repacked his sled, and fitted the shoes to the bleeding feet of the team leader. Elliot, suspicious and uncertain what to do, watched him at work, but at a signal from Sheba turned reluctantly away and drove down to the cutoff. Macdonald turned his dogs out of the trail and followed a little ridge for perhaps a quarter of a mile. Sheba trudged behind him. She was full of wonder at what he meant to do, but she asked no questions. Some wise instinct was telling her to do exactly as he said. From the sled he took a shovel and gave it to the young woman. "Dig just this side of the big rock--close to the root of the tree," he told her. Sheba dug, and at the second stroke of the spade struck something hard. He stooped and pulled out a sack. "Open it," he said. "Rip it with this knife." She ran the knife along the coarse weave of the cloth. Fifteen or twenty smaller sacks lay exposed. Sheba looked up at Macdonald, a startled question in her eyes. He nodded. "You've guessed it. This is part of the gold for which Robert Milton was murdered." "But--how did it get here?" "I buried it there yesterday. Come." He led her around the rock. Back of it lay something over which was spread a long bit of canvas. The heart of Sheba was beating wildly. The Scotchman looked at her from a rock-bound face. "Underneath this canvas is the body of one of the men who murdered Milton. He died more miserably than the man he shot. Half the gold stolen from the bank is in that gunnysack you have just dug up. If you'll tell me who has the other half, I'll tell you who helped him rob the bank." "This man--who is he?" asked Sheba, almost in a whisper. She was trembling with excitement and nervousness. Macdonald drew back the cloth and showed the rough, hard face of a workingman. "His name was Trelawney. I kicked him out of our camps because he was a trouble-maker." "He was one of the men that robbed you later!" she exclaimed. "Yes. And now he has tried to rob me again and has paid for it with his life." Her mind flashed back over the past. "Then his partner in this last crime must have been the same man--what's his name?--that was with him last time." "Northrup." He nodded slowly. "I hate to believe it, but it is probably true. And he, too, is lying somewhere in this park covered with snow--if our guess is right." "And Gordon--you admit he didn't do it?" Again he nodded, sulkily. "No. He didn't do it." Joy lilted in her voice. "So you've brought me here to tell me. Oh, I am glad, my friend, that you were so good. And it is like you to do it. You have always been the good friend to me." The Scotchman smiled, a little wistfully. "You take a mean advantage of a man. You nurse him when he is ill--and are kind to him when he is well--and try to love him, though he is twice your age and more. Then, when his enemy is in his power, he finds he can't strike him down without striking you too. Take your young man, Sheba O'Neill, and marry him, and for God's sake, get him out of Alaska before I come to grips with him again. I'm not a patient man, and he's tried me sair. They say I'm a good hater, and I always thought it true. But what's the use of hating a man when your soft arms are round him for an armor?" The fine eyes of the girl were wells of warm light. Her gladness was not for herself and her lover only, but for the friend that had been so nearly lost and was now found. He believed he had done it for her, but Sheba was sure his reasons lay deeper. He was too much of a man to hide evidence and let his rival be falsely accused of murder. It was not in him to do a cheap thing like that. When it came to the pinch, he was too decent to stab in the back. But she was willing to take him on his own ground. "I'll always be thanking you for your goodness to me," she told him simply. He brushed that aside at once. "There's one thing more, lass. I'll likely not be seeing you again alone, so I'll say it now. Don't waste any tears on Colby Macdonald. Don't fancy any story-book foolishness about spoiling his life. That may be true of halfling boys, maybe, but a man goes his ain gait even when he gets a bit facer." "Yes," she agreed. And in a flash she saw what would happen, that in the reaction from his depression he would turn to Genevieve Mallory and marry her. "You're too young for me, anyhow,--too soft and innocent. Once you told me that you couldn't keep step with me. It's true. You can't. It was a daft dream." He took a deep breath, seemed to shake himself out of it, and smiled cheerfully upon her. "We'll put our treasure-trove on the sled and go back to your friends," he continued briskly. "To-morrow I'll send men up to scour the hills for Northrup's body." Sheba drew the canvas back over the face of the dead man. As she followed Macdonald back to the trail, tears filled her eyes. She was remembering that the white, stinging death that had crept upon these men so swiftly had missed her by a hair's breadth. The strong, lusty life had been stricken out of the big Cornishman and probably of his partner in crime. Perhaps they had left mothers or wives or sweethearts to mourn them. Macdonald relieved Elliot at breaking trail and the young man went back to the gee-pole. They had discarded mukluks and wore moccasins and snowshoes. It was hard, slow work, for the trail-breaker had to fight his way through snow along the best route he could find. The moon was high when at last they reached the roadhouse. _ |
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