GLENISTER gazed out over the harbor, agleam with the lights of anchored ships, then up at the crenelated mountains, black against the sky. He drank the cool air burdened with its taints of the sea, while the blood of his boyhood leaped within him.

“Oh, it’s fine—fine,” he murmured, “and this is my country—my country, after all, Dex. It’s in my veins, this hunger for the North. I grow. I expand.”

“Careful you don’t bust,” warned Dextry. “I’ve seen men get plumb drunk on mountain air. Don’t expand too strong in one spot.” He went back abruptly to his pipe, its villanous fumes promptly averting any danger of the air’s too tonic quality.

“Gad! What a smudge!” sniffed the younger man. “You ought to be in quarantine.”

“I’d ruther smell like a man than talk like a kid. You desecrate the hour of meditation with rhapsodies on nature when your Æsthetics ain’t honed up to the beauties of good tobacco.”

The other laughed, inflating his deep chest. In the gloom he stretched his muscles restlessly, as though an excess of vigor filled him.

They were lounging upon the dock, while before them lay the Santa Maria ready for her midnight sailing. Behind slept Unalaska, quaint, antique, and Russian, rusting amid the fogs of Bering Sea. Where, a week before, mild-eyed natives had dried their cod among the old bronze cannon, now a frenzied horde of gold-seekers paused in their rush to the new El Dorado. They had come like a locust cloud, thousands strong, settling on the edge of the Smoky Sea, waiting the going of the ice that barred them from their Golden Fleece—from Nome the new, where men found fortune in a night.

The mossy hills back of the village were ridged with graves of those who had died on the out-trip the fall before, when a plague had gripped the land—but what of that? Gold glittered in the sands, so said the survivors; therefore men came in armies. Glenister and Dextry had left Nome the autumn previous, the young man raving with fever. Now they returned to their own land.

“This air whets every animal instinct in me,” Glenister broke out again. “Away from the cities I turn savage. I feel the old primitive passions—the fret for fighting.”

“Mebbe you’ll have a chance.”

“How so?”

“Well, it’s this way. I met Mexico Mullins this mornin’. You mind old Mexico, don’t you? The feller that relocated Discovery Claim on Anvil Creek last summer?”

“You don’t mean that ‘tin-horn’ the boys were going to lynch for claim-jumping?”

“Identical! Remember me tellin’ you about a good turn I done him once down Guadalupe way?”

“Greaser shooting-scrape, wasn’t it?”

“Yep! Well, I noticed first off that he’s gettin’ fat; high-livin’ fat, too, all in one spot, like he was playin’ both ends ag’in the centre. Also he wore di’mon’s fit to handle with ice-tongs.

“Says I, lookin’ at his side elevation, ‘What’s accented your middle syllable so strong, Mexico?’

“‘Prosperity, politics, an’ the Waldorf-Astorier,’ says he. It seems Mex hadn’t forgot old days. He claws me into a corner an’ says, ‘Bill, I’m goin’ to pay you back for that Moralez deal.’

“‘It ain’t comin’ to me,’ says I. ‘That’s a bygone!’

“‘Listen here,’ says he, an’, seein’ he was in earnest, I let him run on.

“‘How much do you value that claim o’ yourn at?’

“‘Hard tellin’,’ says I. ‘If she holds out like she run last fall, there’d ought to be a million clear in her.’

“‘How much ’ll you clean up this summer?’

“‘’Bout four hundred thousand, with luck.’

“‘Bill,’ says he, ‘there’s hell a-poppin’ an’ you’ve got to watch that ground like you’d watch a rattle-snake. Don’t never leave ’em get a grip on it or you’re down an’ out.’

“He was so plumb in earnest it scared me up, ’cause Mexico ain’t a gabby man.

“‘What do you mean?’ says I.

“‘I can’t tell you nothin’ more. I’m puttin’ a string on my own neck, sayin’ this much. You’re a square man, Bill, an’ I’m a gambler, but you saved my life oncet, an’ I wouldn’t steer you wrong. For God’s sake, don’t let ’em jump your ground, that’s all.’

“‘Let who jump it? Congress has give us judges an’ courts an’ marshals—’ I begins.

“‘That’s just it. How you goin’ to buck that hand? Them’s the best cards in the deck. There’s a man comin’ by the name of McNamara. Watch him clost. I can’t tell you no more. But don’t never let ’em get a grip on your ground.’ That’s all he’d say.”

“Bah! He’s crazy! I wish somebody would try to jump the Midas; we’d enjoy the exercise.”

The siren of the Santa Maria interrupted, its hoarse warning throbbing up the mountain.

“We’ll have to get aboard,” said Dextry.

“Sh-h! What’s that?” the other whispered.

At first the only sound they heard was a stir from the deck of the steamer. Then from the water below them came the rattle of rowlocks and a voice cautiously muffled.

“Stop! Stop there!”

A skiff burst from the darkness, grounding on the beach beneath. A figure scrambled out and up the ladder leading to the wharf. Immediately a second boat, plainly in pursuit of the first one, struck on the beach behind it.

As the escaping figure mounted to their level the watchers perceived with amazement that it was a young woman. Breath sobbed from her lungs, and, stumbling, she would have fallen but for Glenister, who ran forward and helped her to her feet.

“Don’t let them get me,” she panted.

He turned to his partner in puzzled inquiry, but found that the old man had crossed to the head of the landing ladder up which the pursuers were climbing.

“Just a minute—you there! Back up or I’ll kick your face in.” Dextry’s voice was sharp and unexpected, and in the darkness he loomed tall and menacing to those below.

“Get out of the way. That woman’s a runaway,” came from the one highest on the ladder.

“So I jedge.”

“She broke qu—”

“Shut up!” broke in another. “Do you want to advertise it? Get out of the way, there, ye damn fool! Climb up, Thorsen.” He spoke like a bucko mate, and his words stirred the bile of Dextry.

Thorsen grasped the dock floor, trying to climb up, but the old miner stamped on his fingers and the sailor loosened his hold with a yell, carrying the under men with him to the beach in his fall.

“This way! Follow me!” shouted the mate, making up the bank for the shore end of the wharf.

“You’d better pull your freight, miss,” Dextry remarked; “they’ll be here in a minute.”

“Yes, yes! Let us go! I must get aboard the Santa Maria. She’s leaving now. Come, come!”

Glenister laughed, as though there were a humorous touch in her remark, but did not stir.

“I’m gettin’ awful old an’ stiff to run,” said Dextry, removing his mackinaw, “but I allow I ain’t too old for a little diversion in the way of a rough-house when it comes nosin’ around.” He moved lightly, though the girl could see in the half-darkness that his hair was silvery.

“What do you mean?” she questioned, sharply.

“You hurry along, miss; we’ll toy with ’em till you’re aboard.” They stepped across to the dock-house, backing against it. The girl followed.

Again came the warning blast from the steamer, and the voice of an officer:

“Clear away that stern line!”

“Oh, we’ll be left!” she breathed, and somehow it struck Glenister that she feared this more than the men whose approaching feet he heard.

“You can make it all right,” he urged her, roughly. “You’ll get hurt if you stay here. Run along and don’t mind us. We’ve been thirty days on shipboard, and were praying for something to happen.” His voice was boyishly glad, as if he exulted in the fray that was to come; and no sooner had he spoken than the sailors came out of the darkness upon them.

During the space of a few heart-beats there was only a tangle of whirling forms with the sound of fist on flesh, then the blot split up and forms plunged outward, falling heavily. Again the sailors rushed, attempting to clinch. They massed upon Dextry only to grasp empty air, for he shifted with remarkable agility, striking bitterly, as an old wolf snaps. It was baffling work, however, for in the darkness his blows fell short or overreached.

Glenister, on the other hand, stood carelessly, beating the men off as they came to him. He laughed gloatingly, deep in his throat, as though the encounter were merely some rough sport. The girl shuddered, for the desperate silence of the attacking men terrified

her more than a din, and yet she stayed, crouched against the wall.

Dextry swung at a dim target, and, missing it, was whirled off his balance. Instantly his antagonist grappled with him, and they fell to the floor, while a third man shuffled about them. The girl throttled a scream.

“I’m goin’ to kick ’im, Bill,” the man panted hoarsely. “Le’ me fix ’im.” He swung his heavy shoe, and Bill cursed with stirring eloquence.

“Ow! You’re kickin’ me! I’ve got ’im, safe enough. Tackle the big un.”

Bill’s ally then started towards the others, his body bent, his arms flexed yet hanging loosely. He crouched beside the girl, ignoring her, while she heard the breath wheezing from his lungs; then silently he leaped. Glenister had hurled a man from him, then stepped back to avoid the others, when he was seized from behind and felt the man’s arms wrapped about his neck, the sailor’s legs locked about his thighs. Now came the girl’s first knowledge of real fighting. The two spun back and forth so closely entwined as to be indistinguishable, the others holding off. For what seemed many minutes they struggled, the young man striving to reach his adversary, till they crashed against the wall near her and she heard her champion’s breath coughing in his throat at the tightening grip of the sailor. Fright held her paralyzed, for she had never seen men thus. A moment and Glenister would be down beneath their stamping feet—they Would kick his life out with their heavy shoes. At thought of it, the necessity of action smote her like a blow in the face. Her terror fell away, her shaking muscles stiffened, and before realizing what she did she had acted.

The seaman’s back was to her. She reached out and gripped him by the hair, while her fingers, tense as talons, sought his eyes. Then the first loud sound of the battle arose. The man yelled in sudden terror; and the others as suddenly fell back. The next instant she felt a hand upon her shoulder and heard Dextry’s voice.

“Are ye hurt? No? Come on, then, or we’ll get left.” He spoke quietly, though his breath was loud, and, glancing down, she saw the huddled form of the sailor whom he had fought.

“That’s all right—he ain’t hurt. It’s a Jap trick I learned. Hurry up!”

They ran swiftly down the wharf, followed by Glenister and by the groans of the sailors in whom the lust for combat had been quenched. As they scrambled up the Santa Maria’s gang-plank, a strip of water widened between the boat and the pier.

“Close shave, that,” panted Glenister, feeling his throat gingerly, “but I wouldn’t have missed it for a spotted pup.”

“I’ve been through b’iler explosions and snow-slides, not to mention a triflin’ jail-delivery, but fer real sprightly diversions I don’t recall nothin’ more pleasin’ than this.” Dextry’s enthusiasm was boylike.

“What kind of men are you?” the girl laughed nervously, but got no answer.

They led her to their deck cabin, where they switched on the electric light, blinking at each other and at their unknown guest.

They saw a graceful and altogether attractive figure in a trim, short skirt and long, tan boots. But what Glenister first saw was her eyes; large and gray, almost brown under the electric light. They were active eyes, he thought, and they flashed swift, comprehensive glances at the two men. Her hair had fallen loose and crinkled to her waist, all agleam. Otherwise she showed no sign of her recent ordeal.

Glenister had been prepared for the type of beauty that follows the frontier; beauty that may stun, but that has the polish and chill of a new-ground bowie. Instead, this girl with the calm, reposeful face struck a note almost painfully different from her surroundings, suggesting countless pleasant things that had been strange to him for the past few years.

Pure admiration alone was patent in the older man’s gaze.

“I make oration,” said he, “that you’re the gamest little chap I ever fought over, Mexikin, Injun, or white. What’s the trouble?”

“I suppose you think I’ve done something dreadful, don’t you?” she said. “But I haven’t. I had to get away from the Ohio to-night for—certain reasons. I’ll tell you all about it to-morrow. I haven’t stolen anything, nor poisoned the crew—really I haven’t.” She smiled at them, and Glenister found it impossible not to smile with her, though dismayed by her feeble explanation.

“Well, I’ll wake up the steward and find a place for you to go,” he said at length. “You’ll have to double up with some of the women, though; it’s awfully crowded aboard.”

She laid a detaining hand on his arm. He thought he felt her tremble.

“No, no! I don’t want you to do that. They mustn’t see me to-night. I know I’m acting strangely and all that, but it’s happened so quickly I haven’t found myself yet. I’ll tell you to-morrow, though, really. Don’t let any one see me or it will spoil everything. Wait till to-morrow, please.”

She was very white, and spoke with eager intensity.

“Help you? Why, sure Mike!” assured the impulsive Dextry, “an’, see here, Miss—you take your time on explanations. We don’t care a cuss what you done. Morals ain’t our long suit, ’cause ‘there’s never a law of God or man runs north of Fifty-three,’ as the poetry man remarked, an’ he couldn’t have spoke truer if he’d knowed what he was sayin’. Everybody is privileged to ‘look out’ his own game up here. A square deal an’ no questions asked.”

She looked somewhat doubtful at this till she caught the heat of Glenister’s gaze. Some boldness of his look brought home to her the actual situation, and a stain rose in her cheek. She noted him more carefully; noted his heavy shoulders and ease of bearing, an ease and looseness begotten of perfect muscular control. Strength was equally suggested in his face, she thought, for he carried a marked young countenance, with thrusting chin, aggressive thatching brows, and mobile mouth that whispered all the changes from strength to abandon. Prominent was a look of reckless energy. She considered him handsome in a heavy, virile, perhaps too purely physical fashion.

“You want to stowaway?” he asked.

“I’ve had a right smart experience in that line,” said Dextry, “but I never done it by proxy. What’s your plan?”

“She will stay here to-night,” said Glenister quickly. “You and I will go below. Nobody will see her.”

“I can’t let you do that,” she objected. “Isn’t there some place where I can hide?” But they reassured her and left.

When they had gone, she crouched trembling upon her seat for a long time, gazing fixedly before her. “I’m afraid!” she whispered; “I’m afraid. What am I getting into? Why do men look so at me? I’m frightened. Oh, I’m sorry I undertook it.” At last she rose wearily. The close cabin oppressed her; she felt the need of fresh air. So, turning out the lights, she stepped forth into the night. Figures loomed near the rail and she slipped astern, screening herself behind a life-boat, where the cool breeze fanned her face.

The forms she had seen approached, speaking earnestly. Instead of passing, they stopped abreast of her hiding-place; then, as they began to talk, she saw that her retreat was cut off and that she must not stir.

“What brings her here?” Glenister was echoing a question of Dextry’s. “Bah! What brings them all? What brought ‘the Duchess,’ and Cherry Malotte, and all the rest?”

“No, no,” said the old man. “She ain’t that kind—she’s too fine, too delicate—too pretty.”

“That’s just it—too pretty! Too pretty to be alone—or anything except what she is.”

Dextry growled sourly. “This country has plumb ruined you, boy. You think they’re all alike—an’ I don’t know but they are—all but this girl. Seems like she’s different, somehow—but I can’t tell.”

Glenister spoke musingly:

“I had an ancestor who buccaneered among the Indies, a long time ago—so I’m told. Sometimes I think I have his disposition. He comes and whispers things to me in the night. Oh, he was a devil, and I’ve got his blood in me—untamed and hot—I can hear him saying something now—something about the spoils of war. Ha, ha! Maybe he’s right. I fought for her to-night—Dex—the way he used to fight for his sweethearts along the Mexicos. She’s too beautiful to be good—and ‘there’s never a law of God or man runs north of Fifty-three.’”

They moved on, his vibrant, cynical laughter stabbing the girl till she leaned against the yawl for support.

She held herself together while the blood beat thickly in her ears, then fled to the cabin, hurling herself into her berth, where she writhed silently, beating the pillow with hands into which her nails had bitten, staring the while into the darkness with dry and aching eyes.