The Silver Horde. Rex Beach

a stiff stubble, gave it the set of granite. His hands were gnarled and cracked from an age-long immersion in brine, his voice was hoarse with the echo of drumming ratlines. He might have lived forty, sixty years, but every year had been given to the sea, for its breath was in his lungs, its foaming violence was in his blood.

      As the significance of Cherry's words sank into his mind, the signs of an unholy joy overspread the fisherman's visage; his thick lips writhed into an evil grin, and his hairy paws continued to open and close hungrily.

      "Do you mean business?" he bellowed at Emerson.

      "I do."

      "Can you fight?"

      "Yes."

      "Will you do what I tell you, or have you got a lot of sick notions?"

      "No," the young man declared, stoutly, "I have no scruples; but I won't do what you or anybody else tells me. I'll do what I please. I intend to run this enterprise absolutely, and run it my way."

      "This gang won't stop at anything," warned Balt.

      "Neither will I," affirmed the other, with a scowl and a dangerous down-drawing of his lip corners. "I've got to win, so don't waste time wondering how far I'll go. What I want to know is if you will join my enterprise."

      The giant uttered a mirthless chuckle. "I'll give my life to it."

      "I knew you would," flashed Cherry, her eyes beaming.

      "And if we don't beat Willis Marsh, by God, I'll kill him!" Balt shouted, fully capable of carrying out his threat, for his bloodshot eyes were lit with bitter hatred and the memory of his wrongs was like gall in his mouth. Turning to the girl, he said:

      "Now give me something to eat. I've been living on dog fish till my belly is full of bones."

      He ripped the ragged parka from his back and flung it in a sodden heap beside the stove; then strode after her, with the others following.

      She seated him at her table and spread food before him—great quantities of food, which he devoured ravenously, humped over in his seat like a bear, his jaw hanging close to his plate. His appetite was as ungoverned as his temper; he did not taste his meal nor note its character, but demolished whatever fell first to his hand, staring curiously up from under his thatched brows at Emerson, now and then grunting some interruption to the other's rapid talk. Of Cherry and of "Fingerless" Fraser, who regarded him with awe, he took not the slightest heed. He gorged himself with sufficient provender for four people; then observing that the board was empty, swept the crumbs and remnants from his lips, and rose, saying:

      "Now, let's go out by the stove. I've been cold for three days."

      Cherry left the two of them there, and long after she had gone to bed she heard the murmur of their voices.

      "It's all arranged," they advised her at the breakfast-table. "We leave to-morrow."

      "To-morrow?" she echoed, blankly.

      "To-morrow?" likewise questioned Fraser, in alarm. "Oh, say! You can't do that. My feet are too sore to travel. I've certainly got a bad pair of 'dogs.'"

      "We start in the morning. We have no time to waste."

      Cherry turned to the fisherman. "You can't get ready so soon, George."

      "I'm ready now," answered the big fellow.

      She felt a sudden dread at her heart. What if they failed and did not return? What if some untoward peril should overtake them on the outward trip? It was a hazardous journey, and George Balt was the most reckless man on the Behring coast. She cast a frightened glance at Emerson, but none of the men noticed it. Even if they had observed the light that had come into those clear eyes, they would not have known it for the dawn of a new love any more than she herself realized what her reasonless fears betokened. She had little time to ponder, however, for Emerson's next words added to her alarm:

      "We'll catch the mail-boat at Katmai."

      "Katmai!" she broke in, sharply. "You said you were going by the

       Iliamna route."

      "The other is shorter."

      She turned on Balt, angrily. "You know better than to suggest such a thing."

      "I didn't suggest it," said Balt. "It's Mr. Emerson's own idea; he insists."

      "I'm for the long, safe proposition every time," Fraser announced, as if settling the matter definitely, languidly filling his pipe.

      Boyd's voice broke in curtly upon his revery. "You're not going with us."

      "The hell I ain't!" exploded the other. "Why not?"

      "There won't be room. You understand—it's hard travelling with three."

      "Oh, see here, now, pal! You promised to take me to the States," the adventurer demurred. "You wouldn't slough me at this gravel-pit, after you promised?" He was visibly alarmed.

      "Very well," said Emerson, resignedly, "If you feel that way about it, come along; but I won't take you east of Seattle."

      "Seattle ain't so bad," Fraser replied. "I guess I can pick up a pinch of change there, all right. But Kalvik—Wow!"

      "Why do you have to go so soon?" Cherry asked Emerson, when the two others had left them.

      "Because every day counts."

      "But why the Katmai route? It's the stormy season, and you may have to wait two weeks for the mail-boat after you reach the coast."

      "Yes; but, on the other hand, if we should miss it by one day, it would mean a month's delay. She ought to be due in about ten days, so we can't take any chances."

      "I shall be dreadfully worried until I know you are safely over," said the girl, a new note of wistful tenderness in her voice.

      "Nonsense! We've all taken bigger risks before."

      "Do you know," she began, hesitatingly, "I've been thinking that perhaps you'd better not take up this enterprise, after all."

      "Why not?" he asked, with an incredulous stare. "I thought you were enthusiastic on the subject."

      "I am—I—believe in the proposition thoroughly," Cherry limped on, "but—well, I was entirely selfish in getting you started, for it possibly means my own salvation, but—"

      "It's my last chance also," Boyd broke in. "That's only another reason for you to continue, however. Why have you suddenly weakened?"

      "Because I see you don't realize what you are going into," she said, desperately. "Because you don't appreciate the character of the men you will clash with. There is actual physical peril attached to this undertaking, and Marsh won't hesitate to—to do anything under the sun to balk you. It isn't worth while risking your life for a few dollars."

      "Oh, isn't it!" Emerson laughed a trifle harshly. "My dear girl, you don't know what I am willing to risk for those 'few dollars'; you don't know what success means to me. Why, if I don't make this thing win, I'll be perfectly willing to let Marsh wreak his vengeance upon me—I might even help him."

      "Oh no!"

      "You may rest assured of one thing: if he is unscrupulous, so shall I be. If he undertakes to check me, I'll—well, I'll fight fire with fire."

      His face was not pleasant to look at now, and the girl felt an access of that vague alarm which had been troubling her of late. She saw again that old light of sullen desperation in the man's eye, and marked with it a new, dogged, dangerous gleam as of one possessed, which proclaimed his extreme necessity.

      "But what has occurred to make you change your mind?" he asked, causing the faintest flush to rise in her cheeks.

      "A few days ago you were a stranger, now you are a friend," she replied, steadily. "One's likes and dislikes grow rapidly when they are not choked by convention. I like you too well to see you do this. You are too good