The Silver Horde. Rex BeachЧитать онлайн книгу.
and upon finding this coverless, brown-stained volume—a tattered copy of Don Quixote—he had relapsed into utter silence.
"I say, he's gone!" reiterated the man at the window.
Still no reply was forthcoming, and, seating himself near the stove, Fraser spread his hands before him in the shape of a book, and began whimsically, in a dry monotone, as if reading to himself:
"At which startling news, Mr. Emerson, with his customary vivacity, smiled engagingly, and answered back:
"'Why do you reckon he has departed, Mr. Fraser?"
"'Because he's lost his voice cussing us,' I replied, graciously.
"'Oh no!' exclaimed the genial Mr. Emerson, more for the sake of conversation than argument; 'he has got cold feet!' Evidently unwilling to let the conversation lag, the garrulous Mr. Emerson continued, 'It's a dark night without, and I fear some mischief is afoot.'
"'Yes; but what of yonder beautchous gel?' said I, at which he burst into wild laughter."
Emerson laid down his book.
"What are you muttering about?" he asked.
"I merely remarked that our scandalized Scandalusian has got tired of singin' Won't You Open that Door and Let Me In? and has ducked."
"Where has he gone?"
"I ain't no mind-reader; maybe he's loped off to Seattle after a policeman and a writ of ne plus ultra. Maybe he has gone after a clump of his countrymen—this is herding-season for Swedes."
Without answering, Emerson rose, and, going to the inner door, called through to the squaw:
"Get us a cup of coffee."
"Coffee!" interjected Fraser; "why not have a real feed? I'm hungry enough to eat anything except salt-risin' bread and Roquefort cheese."
"No," said the other; "I don't want to cause any more trouble than necessary."
"Well, there's a lot of grub in the cache. Let's load up the sled."
"I'm hardly a thief."
"Oh, but—"
"No!"
"Fingerless" Fraser fell back into sour silence.
When the slatternly woman had slunk forth and was busied at the stove,
Emerson observed, musingly:
"I wonder what possessed that fellow to act as he did."
"He said he had orders," Fraser offered. "If I had a warm cabin, a lot of grub—and a squaw—I'd like to see somebody give me orders."
Their clothing was dry now, and they proceeded to dress leisurely. As Emerson roped up the sleeping-bags, Fraser suddenly suspended operations on his attire, and asked, querulously:
"What's the matter? We ain't goin' to move, are we?"
"Yes. We'll make for one of the other canneries," answered Emerson, without looking up.
"But I've got sore feet," complained the adventurer.
"What! again?" Emerson laughed skeptically. "Better walk on your hands for a while."
"And it's getting dark, too."
"Never mind. It can't be far. Come now."
He urged the fellow as he had repeatedly urged him before, for Fraser seemed to have the blood of a tramp in his veins; then he tried to question the woman, but she maintained a frightened silence. When they had finished their coffee, Emerson laid two silver dollars on the table, and they left the house to search out the river-trail again.
The early darkness, hastened by the storm, was upon them when they crept up the opposite bank an hour later, and through the gloom beheld a group of great shadowy buildings. Approaching the solitary gleam of light shining from the window of the watchman's house, they applied to him for shelter.
"We are just off a long trip, and our dogs are played out," Emerson explained. "We'll pay well for a place to rest."
"You can't stop here," said the fellow, gruffly.
"Why not?"
"I've got no room."
"Is there a road-house near by?"
"I don't know."
"You'd better find out mighty quick," retorted the young man, with rising temper at the other's discourtesy.
"Try the next place below," said the watchman, hurriedly, slamming the door in their faces and bolting it. Once secure behind his barricade, he added: "If he won't let you in, maybe the priest can take care of you at the Mission."
"This here town of Kalvik is certainly overjoyed at our arrival," said
Fraser, "ain't it?"
But his irate companion made no comment, whereat, sensing the anger behind his silence, the speaker, for once, failed to extemporize an answer to his own remark.
At the next stop they encountered the same gruff show of inhospitality, and all they could elicit from the shock-headed proprietor was another direction, in broken English, to try the Russian priest.
"I'll make one more try," said Emerson, between his teeth, gratingly, as they swung out into the darkness a second time. "If that doesn't succeed, then I'll take possession again. I won't be passed on all night this way."
"The 'buck' will certainly show us to the straw," said "Fingerless"
Fraser.
"The what?"
"The 'buck'—the sky-dog—oh, the priest!"
But when, a mile farther on, they drew up before a white pile surmounted by a dimly discerned Greek cross, no sign of life was to be seen, and their signals awakened no response.
"Gone!—and they knew it."
The vicious manner in which Emerson handled his whip as he said the words betrayed his state of mind. Three weeks of unvarying hardship and toilsome travel had worn out both men, and rendered them well-nigh desperate. Hence they wasted no words when, for the fourth time, their eyes caught the welcome sight of a shining radiance in the gloom of the gathering night. The trail-weary team stopped of its own accord.
"Unhitch!" ordered Emerson, doggedly, as he began to untie the ropes of the sled. He shouldered the sleeping-bags, and made toward the light that filtered through the crusted windows, followed by Fraser similarly burdened. But as they approached they saw at once that this was no cannery; it looked more like a road-house or trading-post, for the structure was low and it was built of logs. Behind and connected with it by a covered hall or passageway crouched another squat building of the same character, its roof piled thick with a mass of snow, its windows glowing. Those warm squares of light, set into the black walls and overhung by white-burdened eaves, gave the place the appearance of a Christmas-card, it was so snug and cozy. Even the glitter was there, caused by the rays refracted from the facets of the myriad frost-crystals.
They mounted the steps of the nigh building, and, without knocking, flung the door open, entered, then tossed their bundles to the floor. With a sharp exclamation at this unceremonious intrusion, an Indian woman, whom they had surprised, dropped her task and regarded them, round-eyed.
"We're all right this time," observed Emerson, as he swept the place with his eyes. "It's a store." Then to the woman he said, briefly: "We want a bed and something to eat."
On every side the walls were shelved with merchandise, while the counter carried a supply of clothing, skins, and what not; a cylindrical stove in the centre of the room emanated a hot, red glow.
"This looks like the Waldorf to me," said "Fingerless" Fraser, starting to remove his parka, the fox fringe on the hood of which was white from his breath.
"What you want?" demanded the squaw, coming forward.