LATE in July it grows dark as midnight approaches, so that the many lights from doorway and window seem less garish and strange than they do a month earlier. In the Northern there was good business doing. The new bar fixtures, which had cost a king’s ransom, or represented the one night’s losings of a Klondike millionaire, shone rich, dark, and enticing, while the cut glass sparkled with iridescent hues, reflecting, in a measure, the prismatic moods, the dancing spirits of the crowd that crushed past, halting at the gambling games, or patronizing the theatre in the rear. The old bar furniture, brought down by dog team from “Up River,” was established at the rear extremity of the long building, just inside the entrance to the dance-hall, where patrons of the drama might, with a modicum of delay and inconvenience, quaff as deeply of the beaker as of the ballet.

Now, however, the show had closed, the hall had been cleared of chairs and canvas, exposing a glassy, tempting surface, and the orchestra had moved to the stage. They played a rollicking, blood-stirring two-step, while the floor swam with dancers.

At certain intervals the musicians worked feverishly up to a crashing crescendo, supported by the voices of the dancers, until all joined at the top note in a yell, while the drummer fired a .44 Colt into a box of wet sawdust beside his chair—all in time, all in the swinging spirit of the tune.

The men, who were mostly young, danced like college boys, while the women, who were all young and good dancers, floated through the measures with the ease of rose-leaves on a summer stream. Faces were flushed, eyes were bright, and but rarely a voice sounded that was not glad. Most of the noise came from the men, and although one caught, here and there, a hint of haggard lines about the girlish faces, and glimpsed occasional eyes that did not smile, yet as a whole the scene was one of genuine enjoyment.

Suddenly the music ceased and the couples crowded to the bar. The women took harmless drinks; the men, mostly whiskey. Rarely was the choice of potations criticised, though occasionally some ruddy eschewer of sobriety insisted that his lady “take the same,” avowing that “hootch,” having been demonstrated beneficial in his case, was good for her also. Invariably the lady accepted without dispute, and invariably the man failed to note her glance at the bartender, or the silent substitution by that capable person of ginger-ale for whiskey or of plain water for gin. In turn, the mixers collected one dollar from each man, flipping to the girl a metal percentage-check which she added to her store. In the curtained boxes overhead, men bought bottles with foil about the corks, and then subterfuge on the lady’s part was idle, but, on the other hand, she was able to pocket for each bottle a check redeemable at five dollars.

A stranger, straight from the East, would have remarked first upon the good music, next upon the good looks of the women, and then upon the shabby clothes of the men—for some of them were in “mukluk,” others in sweaters with huge initials and winged emblems, and all were collarless.

Outside in the main gambling-room there were but few women. Men crowded in dense masses about the faro lay-out, the wheel, craps, the Klondike game, pangingi, and the card-tables. They talked of business, of home, of women, bought and sold mines, and bartered all things from hams to honor. The groomed and clean, the unkempt and filthy jostled shoulder to shoulder, equally affected by the license of the gold-fields and the exhilaration of the New. The mystery of the North had touched them all. The glad, bright wine of adventure filled their veins, and they spoke mightily of things they had resolved to do, or recounted with simple diffidence the strange stories of their accomplishment.

The “Bronco Kid,” familiar from Atlin to Nome as the best “bank” dealer on the Yukon, worked the shift from eight till two. He was a slender man of thirty, dexterous in movement, slow to smile, soft of voice, and known as a living flame among women. He had dealt the biggest games of the early days, and had no enemies. Yet, though many called him friend, they wondered inwardly.

It was a strong play the Kid had to-night, for Swede Sam, of Dawson, ventured many stacks of yellow chips, and he was a quick, aggressive gambler. A Jew sat at the king end with ten neatly creased one-thousand-dollar bills before him, together with piles of smaller currency. He adventured viciously and without system, while outsiders to the number of four or five cut in sporadically with small bets. The game was difficult to follow; consequently the lookout, from his raised dais, was leaning forward, chin in hand, while the group was hedged about by eager on-lookers.

Faro is a closed book to most people, for its intricacies are confusing. Lucky is he who has never persevered in solving its mysteries nor speculated upon the “systems” of beating it. From those who have learned it, the game demands practice, dexterity, and coolness. The dealer must run the cards, watch the many shifting bets, handle the neatly piled checks, figure, lightning-like, the profits and losses. It was his unerring, clock like regularity in this that had won the Kid his reputation. This night his powers were taxed. He dealt silently, scowlingly, his long white fingers nervously caressing the cards.

This preoccupation prevented his noticing the rustle and stir of a new-comer who had crowded up behind him, until he caught the wondering glances of those in front and saw that the Israelite was staring past him, his money forgotten, his eyes beady and sharp, his ratlike teeth showing in a grin of admiration. Swede Sam glared from under his unkempt shock and felt uncertainly towards the open collar of his flannel shirt where a kerchief should have been. The men who were standing gazed at the new-comer, some with surprise, others with a half smile of recognition.

Bronco glanced quickly over his shoulder, and as he did so the breath caught in his throat—but for only an instant. A girl stood so close beside him that the lace of her gown brushed his sleeve. He was shuffling at the moment and dropped a card, then nodded to her, speaking quietly, as he stooped to regain the pasteboard:

“Howdy, Cherry?”

She did not answer—only continued to look at the “lay-out.” “What a woman!” he thought. She was not too tall, with smoothly rounded bust and hips, and long waist, all well displayed by her perfectly fitting garments. Her face was oval, the mouth rather large, the eyes of dark, dark-blue, prominently outlined under thin, silken lids. Her dull-gold hair was combed low over the ears, and her smile showed rows of sparkling teeth before it dived into twin dimples. Strangest of all, it was an innocent face, the face and smile of a school-girl.

The Kid finished his shuffling awkwardly and slid the cards into the box. Then the woman spoke:

“Let me have your place, Bronco.”

The men gasped, the Jew snickered, the lookout straightened in his chair.

“Better not. It’s a hard game,” said the Kid, but her voice was imperious as she commanded him:

“Hurry up. Give me your place.”

Bronco arose, whereupon she settled in his chair, tucked in her skirts, removed her gloves, and twisted into place the diamonds on her hands.

“What the devil’s this?” said the lookout, roughly. “Are you drunk, Bronco? Get out of that chair, miss.”

She turned to him slowly. The innocence had fled from her features and the big eyes flashed warningly. A change had coarsened her like a puff of air on a still pool. Then, while she stared at him, her lids drooped dangerously and her lip curled.

“Throw him out, Bronco,” she said, and her tones held the hardness of a mistress to her slave.

“That’s all right,” the Kid reassured the lookout. “She’s a better dealer than I am. This is Cherry Malotte.”

Without noticing the stares this evoked, the girl commenced. Her hands, beautifully soft and white, flashed over the board. She dealt rapidly, unfalteringly, with the finish of one bred to the cards, handling chips and coppers with the peculiar mannerisms that spring from long practice. It was seen that she never looked at her check-rack, but, when a bet required paying, picked up a stack without turning her head; and they saw further that she never reached twice, nor took a large pile and sized it up against its mate, removing the extra disks, as is the custom. When she stretched forth her hand she grasped the right number unerringly. This is considered the acme of professional finish, and the Bronco Kid smiled delightedly as he saw the wonder spread from the lookout to the spectators and heard the speech of the men who stood on chairs and tables for sight of the woman dealer.

For twenty minutes she continued, until the place became congested, and never once did the lookout detect an error.

While she was busy, Glenister entered the front-door and pushed his way back towards the theatre. He was worried and distrait, his manner perturbed and unnatural. Silently and without apparent notice he passed friends who greeted him.

“What ails Glenister to-night?” asked a by-stander. “He acts funny.”

“Ain’t you heard? Why, the Midas has been jumped. He’s in a bad way—all broke up.”

The girl suddenly ceased without finishing the deck, and arose.

“Don’t stop,” said the Kid, while a murmur of dismay came from the spectators. She only shook her head and drew on her gloves with a show of ennui.

Gliding through the crowd, she threaded about aimlessly, the recipient of many stares though but few greetings, speaking with no one, a certain dignity serving her as a barrier even here. She stopped a waiter and questioned him.

“He’s up-stairs in a gallery box.”

“Alone?”

“Yes’m. Anyhow, he was a minute ago, unless some of the rustlers has broke in on him.”

A moment later Glenister, watching the scene below, was aroused from his gloomy absorption by the click of the box door and the rustle of silken skirts.

“Go out, please,” he said, without turning. “I don’t want company.” Hearing no answer, he began again, “I came here to be alone”—but there he ceased, for the girl had come forward and laid her two hot hands upon his cheeks.

“Boy,” she breathed—and he arose swiftly.

“Cherry! When did you come?”

“Oh, days ago,” she said, impatiently, “from Dawson. They told me you had struck it. I stood it as long as I could—then I came to you. Now, tell me about yourself. Let me see you first, quick!”

She pulled him towards the light and gazed upward, devouring him hungrily with her great, languorous eyes.

She held to his coat lapels, standing close beside him, her warm breath beating up into his face.

“Well,” she said, “kiss me!”

He took her wrists in his and loosed her hold, then looked down on her gravely and said:

“No—that’s all over. I told you so when I left Dawson.”

“All over! Oh no, it isn’t, boy. You think so, but it isn’t—it can’t be. I love you too much to let you go.”

“Hush!” said he. “There are people in the next box.”

“I don’t care! Let them hear,” she cried, with feminine recklessness. “I’m proud of my love for you. I’ll tell it to them—to the whole world.”

“Now, see here, little girl,” he said, quietly, “we had a long talk in Dawson and agreed that it was best to divide our ways. I was mad over you once, as a good many other men have been, but I came to my senses. Nothing could ever result from it, and I told you so.”

“Yes, yes—I know. I thought I could give you up, but I didn’t realize till you had gone how I wanted you. Oh, it’s been a torture to me every day for the past two years.” There was no semblance now to the cold creature she had appeared upon entering the gambling-hall. She spoke rapidly, her whole body tense with emotion, her voice shaken with passion. “I’ve seen men and men and men, and they’ve loved me, but I never cared for anybody in the world till I saw you. They ran after me, but you were cold. You made me come to you. Perhaps that was it. Anyhow, I can’t stand it. I’ll give up everything—I’ll do anything just to be where you are. What do you think of a woman who will beg? Oh, I’ve lost my pride—I’m a fool—a fool—but I can’t help it.”

“I’m sorry you feel this way,” said Glenister. “It isn’t my fault, and it isn’t of any use.”

For an instant she stood quivering, while the light died out of her face; then, with a characteristic change, she smiled till the dimples laughed in her cheeks. She sank upon a seat beside him and pulled together the curtains, shutting out the sight below.

“Very well”—then she put his hand to her cheek and cuddled it. “I’m glad to see you just the same, and you can’t keep me from loving you.”

With his other hand he smoothed her hair, while, unknown to him and beneath her lightness, she shrank and quivered at his touch like a Barbary steed under the whip.

“Things are very bad with me,” he said. “We’ve had our mine jumped.”

“Bah! You know what to do. You aren’t a cripple—you’ve got five fingers on your gun hand.”

“That’s it! They all tell me that—all the old-timers; but I don’t know what to do. I thought I did—but I don’t. The law has come into this country and I’ve tried to meet it half-way. They jumped us and put in a receiver—a big man—by the name of McNamara. Dex wasn’t there and I let them do it. When the old man learned of it he nearly went crazy. We had our first quarrel. He thought I was afraid—”

“Not he,” said the girl. “I know him and he knows you.”

“That was a week ago. We’ve hired the best lawyer in Nome—Bill Wheaton—and we’ve tried to have the injunction removed. We’ve offered bond in any sum, but the Judge refuses to accept it. We’ve argued for leave to appeal, but he won’t give us the right. The more I look into it the worse it seems, for the court wasn’t convened in accordance with law, we weren’t notified to appear in our own behalf, we weren’t allowed a chance to argue our own case—nothing. They simply slapped on a receiver, and now they refuse to allow us redress. From a legal stand-point, it’s appalling, I’m told; but what’s to be done? What’s the game? That’s the thing. What are they up to? I’m nearly out of my mind, for it’s all my fault. I didn’t think it meant anything like this or I’d have made a fight for possession and stood them off at least. As it is, my partner’s sore and he’s gone to drinking—first time in twelve years. He says I gave the claim away, and now it’s up to me and the Almighty to get it back. If he gets full he’ll drive a four-horse wagon into some church, or go up and pick the Judge to pieces with his fingers to see what makes him go round.”

“What’ve they got against you and Dextry—some grudge?” she questioned.

“No, no! We’re not the only ones in trouble; they’ve jumped the rest of the good mines and put this McNamara in as receiver on all of them, but that’s small comfort. The Swedes are crazy; they’ve hired all the lawyers in town, and are murdering more good American language than would fill Bering Strait. Dex is in favor of getting our friends together and throwing the receiver off. He wants to kill somebody, but we can’t do that. They’ve got the soldiers to fall back on. We’ve been warned that the troops are instructed to enforce the court’s action. I don’t know what the plot is, for I can’t believe the old Judge is crooked—the girl wouldn’t let him.”

“Girl?”

Cherry Malotte leaned forward where the light shone on the young man’s worried face.

“The girl? What girl? Who is she?”

Her voice had lost its lazy caress, her lips had thinned. Never was a woman’s face more eloquent, mused Glenister as he noted her. Every thought fled to this window to peer forth, fearful, lustful, hateful, as the case might be. He had loved to play with her in the former days, to work upon her passions and watch the changes, to note her features mirror every varying emotion from tenderness to flippancy, from anger to delight, and, at his bidding, to see the pale cheeks glow with love’s fire, the eyes grow heavy, the dainty lips invite kisses. Cherry was a perfect little spoiled animal, he reflected, and a very dangerous one.

“What girl?” she questioned again, and he knew beforehand the look that went with it.

“The girl I intend to marry,” he said, slowly, looking her between the eyes.

He knew he was cruel—he wanted to be—it satisfied the clamor and turmoil within him, while he also felt that the sooner she knew and the colder it left her the better. He could not note the effect of the remark on her, however, for, as he spoke, the door of the box opened and the head of the Bronco Kid appeared, then retired instantly with apologies.

“Wrong stall,” he said, in his slow voice. “Looking for another party.” Nevertheless, his eyes had covered every inch of them—noted the drawn curtains and the breathless poise of the woman—while his ears had caught part of Glenister’s speech.

“You won’t marry her,” said Cherry, quietly. “I don’t know who she is, but I won’t let you marry her.”

She rose and smoothed her skirts.

“It’s time nice people were going now.” She said it with a sneer at herself. “Take me out through this crowd. I’m living quietly and I don’t want these beasts to follow me.”

As they emerged from the theatre the morning air was cool and quiet, while the sun was just rising. The Bronco Kid lighted a cigar as they passed, nodding silently at their greeting. His eyes followed them, while his hands were so still that the match burned through to his fingers-then when they had gone his teeth met and ground savagely through the tobacco so that the cigar fell, while he muttered:

“So that’s the girl you intend to marry? We’ll see, by God!”