CHAPTER XIX
THE STORE-HOUSE
Steve pushed back from the table in An-ina's kitchen. The woman wasstanding ready to minister to his lightest demands. She had waited onhim throughout the meal, and remained standing the whole time. It was ahabit, which, throughout their years of life together, Steve had beenpowerless to break her of. It was her pride thus to wait upon him.
Her soft, watchful eyes were observing him closely as he filled and lithis pipe. There was something approaching anxiety in their depths. Itmay have been the dull yellow lamplight that robbed the man's face ofits usual look of robust health. But if the shadows wrought upon it andthe curious pasty yellow tint of the skin were due to the lamplight,certainly the hollows about the eyes, the cheeks, which had becomealmost alarmingly drawn, and the sunken lines about the firm mouth couldnot have been attributed to a similar cause.
An-ina understood this. She understood more. She had realized, duringthe weeks that had elapsed since Steve's return from the heart of Unaga,a curious growing bodily lassitude in the man. It was somethingapproaching inertia, and she knew its cause. Fear had grown up in hersimple Indian mind and heart. She wanted to speak. She wanted to offerher warning. But somehow Steve's will was her law, and she knew thatwill was driving him now in a fashion that would only leave her wordswasted. So, while her lips remained silent, her feelings were clearlyenough expressed in her eyes.
"Just a draw or two at the old pipe, An-ina," Steve said, with hisflicker of a smile that was full of gentleness. "Guess you can't knowthe relief of being rid of the mask for awhile. The taste of everybreath I draw through it makes me well-nigh sick. Still, it's got to be.It's that or quick death. And I'm not yearning to 'cash in' yet. There'smore than two weeks of it still. We brought a hell of a cargo of thestuff. More than I guessed. I'd like to get through with it beforeMarcel gets back with--this Keeko."
An-ina nodded. Something of her anxiety became absorbed by her tendersmile at the reference to Marcel and Keeko.
"The thaw him no come," she said. "Maybe him not find Keeko. Maybe itlong--heap long time. Oh, yes?"
Steve stood up and turned his back to the cook-stove. His sunken eyeswere reflective.
"No. The thaw's quit, and a sharp spell's closed down again," he said."He guessed the girl was coming up the river." He shook his head."There'll be no river open for weeks yet."
He passed across to the door and flung it open. Outside the night wascoldly bright, and the still air had a bitter snap in it. He remainedonly a moment, then he closed the door again.
"We'll get no change till the next moon," he said as he returned."Anyway, I'll need to get things through before he comes. I don't wantthe boy to take a hand in the packing. It's a big risk."
"Yes. Boss Steve take all risk. An-ina know." The woman sighed. "An-inamak' pack. Oh, no! Much big risk. She not mak' pack. So Boss Steve himsay. Boss Steve die all up bimeby. Leave An-ina. Leave him Marcel--an'this Keeko. All mak' big weep. Oh, yes."
Steve's eyes smiled gently. He came over to the woman's side. One hand,that seemed to have lost much of its muscular shape, rested gently onher shoulder.
"Don't you just worry a thing, An-ina," he said. "Guess I know. WhenMarcel gets back I'll be around all right. I reckon to get throughquick. That's why I work late into the night. After I get through, andget quit of the masks, I'll eat good, and be as I was. I just get sickwith the dope on the mask, that's all. I'll get right on now."
He laid aside his pipe and passed out of the kitchen. And, as he went,the woman's eyes gazed yearningly after him.
* * * * *
Steve had lit his lamp. It burned up. It flooded the great store-roomwith its rank light. He watched it till it settled into full flame, halfhis strong face hidden up under the mask saturated with its nauseating"dope." Habit forced him to a swift upward glance at the threeventilators in the roof. They were all set wide open. Then he glancedround him surveying the work that occupied his working-day, and half thenight he would gladly have devoted to much-needed rest.
It was a curious scene. It was full of fascination in that itrepresented the complete triumph which for so many years had beenwithheld from him.
The great store-house, built with so much care and close study of itspurposes, and which had stood for so long empty, a pathetic expressionof man's hope deferred, was filled to its capacity. A greater part ofits shelving was groaning under bales of closely pressed Adresol inhermetically-sealed wrappings, while the floor was piled with vastquantities of the deadly plant awaiting the process that would render itcomparatively harmless to those who had yet to handle it.
In its raw, limp state the plant was unwholesome enough to look at. Itspale foliage had something of the rubbery look of seaweed. But thecrushed blooms, oozing thick sap from their wounds, were somethingalmost evil for eyes that had knowledge behind them. Even in his mosttriumphant mood Steve was not without a feeling of repulsion at thesight. His mask held him impervious to the deadly fumes of the oozingsap, but well enough he knew that, in such a presence, it was only thatingenious contrivance that stood between him and swift death.
He turned to the window to see that it was secure. The door, too, hetried to assure himself that it was shut tight. He was fearful lest theheavy escaping fumes should reach those beyond. The ventilators werebuilt high, chimneys that carried the fumes well up into the night air,where their diffusion was assured, leaving them robbed of their deadlypoison. But the window and door were dangerous outlets that needed closewatch.
Finally he passed to the far end of the room where his lamp stood on thebench beside the baling machine, and the rolls of curious-looking cloth,almost like oilskin, or some rubber-proofed material, and the largevessel of sealing solution with its brush for application sticking up init. And forthwith he set to work at the scales upon which he measuredhis quantities. The organization of it all was perfect. It was Stevethrough and through, and his calm method seemed to rob the whole processof any sense of danger.
But Steve was sick. He knew it. He knew it was a race between hiscondition and the completion of the work. He was living in an atmosphereof contending poisons, breathing one to nullify the effects of theother. There were moments when he wondered how long his body couldendure the struggle which he knew must go on to the end, whatever thatend might be.
His determination remained unweakening. He knew that An-ina had becomeaware of his condition, and it only made him the more urgent that histask should be completed before Marcel's return. Whatever happenedMarcel must not be permitted to participate in the danger. So, for allhis appearance of calm, he worked with a feverish energy in the deadlyatmosphere.
Whatever Steve's bodily condition mentally he was fully alert. It evenseemed as if his bodily weakness stimulated the clear activity of hismental powers. Working through the long hours of voiceless solitude heheld under almost microscopic review every aspect of the situation hisfinal triumph had created. Everything must fall out--provided his sickbody endured--just as he had calculated. There was only one thing thatdisturbed the perfect smoothness of the road that lay open before him.It was the story he had listened to from the lips of An-ina. It wasMarcel, and this girl with the Indian name of--"Keeko."
The thought was in his mind now. He was uneasy. The whole possibility ofMarcel's encountering such a woman in Unaga had seemed so absurdlyremote. A white girl! And yet An-ina had assured him it was true, andthe manner of her assurance left it impossible for him to doubt.
Who was this Keeko? How came she in those far remotenesses which he knewMarcel hunted? He could not think, unless--His searching mind offeredhim only one solution. It seemed remote enough. It even seemedextravagant. Lorson Harris was the evil genius he had to fear. And hesought to connect him with the mystery of it all. Was this Keeko someDelilah seeking to betray the secret he had fought to retain so long?Had she discovered Marcel for the sole purpose of serving Lorson Harris?Was she one of those beautiful lost souls haunting the vice-riddenshores
of Seal Bay? It was just possible. There were such women, cleverenough, hardy enough to accomplish such a task. It looked like the onlysolution of the mystery. And he smiled to himself as he thought of thetender soul who had told him the story of it all with such appreciationof its romance.
He realized only too well the fascination such a woman must exerciseover a boy of Marcel's years. He would be clay in her hands. Chivalrous,honourable, unsuspicious, what an easy prey he must prove! It was toopitifully easy once the woman discovered him. But even with thisrealization he was by no means dismayed. He remembered poignantly thatAn-ina had assured him that Marcel would bring the woman to the fort.Well, if that happened Lorson Harris was by no means likely to havethings all his own way. He, Steve, had learned his lesson of women, andwas not likely to----
Steve was in the act of bearing down upon the lever of the balingmachine. He paused, with the lever pressed only half way home. He stoodlistening, his bent figure unmoving. There was a sound beyond the door.It might have been the sound of a snowfall from the roof above him. Itmight have found its source in many things. Yet it was unusual enough tohold the man listening acutely.
Presently, as there was no repetition of it, he dismissed the matter. Hewas always fearful of possible approach. A moment's thoughtlessness onthe part of An-ina, on the part of his Indians, and the mischief wouldbe done. Even there was always the risk of Marcel's return, and theattraction of the light of the lamp through the window. He dared not forhis own sake bar the door. There was always the risk of his mask failinghim.
He completed his operation. The oozing weed was compressed, and thebinding cords made fast. Then the lever was raised, and the sticky masswas passed on to the outspread sheet for its final packing.
For all the cloth was spread, however, and the bundle was set in placeSteve hesitated before enfolding it. The disturbing sound still hauntedhim curiously. He could never resist the dread of the deadly atmosphereof the room. It needed only one breath--moments one might count upon thefingers of a hand. The thought occurred to him to risk all and bar thedoor. But it remained only a thought. He forced himself to continue hiswork like a man who recognizes the weakness prompting him.
He folded the cloth about the bale and reached for the solution brush.But the brush remained where it was. Distinct on the still night aircame the sound of a footstep. It was too heavy for An-ina. It hadnothing of Indian moccasins in it. It was the heavy footstep of a man, awhite man. Marcel!
Steve swung about in an agony of apprehension. But for once in his lifehis forethought had failed him. He was too late. There was the swiftopening and shutting of the door and a man stood inside the room withhis back against it. But it was not Marcel. A heavy gun was thrustingforward, and the muzzle of it was covering Steve's body. Helpless,impotent, the man who had taken and survived every chance the Northernworld could offer him, stood like any weakling awaiting the shot thatmust rob him of life in the hour of his triumph.
Steve stared wide-eyed. The man was no taller than himself. He waswhite, and above his fur clothing was a dark, brutish face with eyes ofalmost Indian blackness. For a moment they shone fiercely in thelamplight. They were alive with demoniac purpose. A purpose he had comeso many weary miles to fulfil. Then, in a moment, the whole picturechanged with the rapidity of a kaleidoscope.
The ferocious purpose in the black eyes faded to a ghastly terror. Thelids widened, and the eyeballs rolled upwards. A voiceless gasp escapedthrough wide open lips, where a moment before they had been firm setwith murderous intent. The out-held gun-arm dropped, and the weaponclattered heavily to the ground. The man reeled. He tottered forward.Then, with a sigh, a deep drawn sigh, his knees gave under him and heplunged face downwards amongst the litter of the Adresol whose secret hehad come to steal. The deadly drug had done its work.
* * * * *
Steve passed down the room. He came to a stand beside the body of theman, fallen with its face buried amidst the bruised and oozing Adresol.His features were lost in the very heart of a limply spread white bloom.It was as though he were seeking to intake the very dregs of the poisonwith which the air was laden.
Steve stooped. Seizing the heavy body in his strong arms he dragged itclear of the weed, and laid it upon its back. Then he stood up and gazeddown from behind his mask upon the lifeless face that gazed sightlesslyup at him.
In those long, silent, contemplative moments memory leapt back, bridgingthe weary years. There was neither passion nor pity in his heart. Itwas almost as if all feeling had passed from him, absorbed in a deepcuriosity at the signs which the years had set upon a once handsomeface. Even in death they remained. And only a dreadful pallor robbed itof the deeper signs which debauchery had impressed.
Yes. Death had been merciful in that it had restored the features tosomething of their early good looks. Those good looks, which, backed bythe subtle tongue of the seducer, had been sufficient to attract theweak vessel of a foolish woman's heart from the path of virtue that hadbeen marked out for it.
Oh, yes. Steve recognized that ghastly, lifeless face. And just for onemoment he hoped that as Death secured its stranglehold the dead creaturehad recognized his. He wondered.
"Garstaing! Hervey Garstaing!"
The words sounded faintly in the heavy atmosphere. It was Steve's voicehushed to something like a whisper. It was a passionless whisper. Therewas neither contempt nor hatred in it. Neither was there a shadow ofpity.
He turned back to the lamp. He picked it up, and brought it towards thedoor. The body of his would-be murderer lay sprawled across the floorbarring his way. He thrust out a foot and pushed it aside. Then hepassed on.
Without one backward glance he turned out the light, and, passing out,made fast the door and removed his dreadful mask.
But, for a while at least, he did not return to the woman who wasawaiting him. He moved on to the great gateway of the stockade. Then heleant against one of the gate-posts and stood breathing the pure, coldnight air, while his thoughts drifted back over a hundred scenes,which, until that moment, had remained deep buried in the back cells ofmemory. He was thinking hard, wondering and searching, striving to probethe full meaning of the man's attack.