The Silver Horde. Rex Beach

likewise divesting himself of his furs, noticed that she was little more than a girl—a native, undoubtedly; but she was neatly dressed, her skin was light, and her hair twisted into a smooth black knot at the back of her head.

      "Food! Sleep!" he replied to her question.

      "You can't stop here," the girl asserted, firmly.

      "Oh yes, we can," said Emerson. "You have plenty of room, and there's lots of food"—he indicated the shelves of canned goods.

      The squaw, without moving, raised her voice and called: "Constantine!

       Constantine!"

      A door in the farther shadows opened, and the tall figure of a man emerged, advancing swiftly, his soft soles noiseless beneath him.

      "Well, well! It's old Squirrel-Tail," cried Fraser. "Good-evening,

       Constantine."

      It was the copper-hued native who had rescued them from the river earlier in the day; but although he must have recognized them, his demeanor had no welcome in it. The Indian girl broke into a torrent of excited volubility, unintelligible to the white men.

      "You no stop here," said Constantine, finally; and, making toward the outer door, he flung it open, pointing out into the night.

      "We've come a long way, and we're tired," Emerson argued, pacifically.

       "We'll pay you well."

      Constantine only replied with added firmness, "No," to which the other retorted with a flash of rising anger, "Yes!"

      He faced the Indian with his back to the stove, his voice taking on a determined note. "We won't leave here until we are ready. We're tired, and we're going to stay here—do you understand? Now tell your 'klootch' to get us some supper. Quick!"

      The breed's face blazed. Without closing the door, he moved directly upon the interloper, his design recognizable in his threatening attitude; but before he could put his plan into execution, a soft voice from the rear of the room halted him.

      "Constantine," it said.

      The travellers whirled to see, standing out in relief against the darkness of the passage whence the Indian had just come a few seconds before, the golden-haired girl of the storm, to whom they had been indebted for their rescue. She advanced, smiling pleasantly, enjoying their surprise.

      "What is the trouble?"

      "These men no stop here!" cried Constantine violently. "You speak! I make them go."

      "I—I—beg pardon," began Emerson. "We didn't intend to take forcible possession, but we're played out—we've been denied shelter everywhere—we felt desperate—"

      "You tried the canneries above?" interrupted the girl.

      "Yes."

      "And they referred you to the priest? Quite so." She laughed softly, her voice a mellow contralto. "The Father has been gone for a month; he wouldn't have let you in if he'd been there."

      She addressed the Indian girl in Aleut and signalled to Constantine, at which the two natives retired—Constantine reluctantly, like a watch-dog whose suspicions are not fully allayed.

      "We're glad of an opportunity to thank you for your timely service this afternoon," said Emerson. "Had we known you lived here, we certainly should not have intruded in this manner." He found himself growing hotly uncomfortable as he began to realize the nature of his position, but the young woman spared him further apologies by answering, carelessly:

      "Oh, that was nothing. I've been expecting you hourly. You see, Constantine's little brother has the measles, and I had to get to him before the natives could give the poor little fellow a Russian bath and then stand him out in the snow. They have only one treatment for all diseases. That's why I didn't stop and give you more explicit directions this morning."

      "If your—er—father—" The girl shook her head.

      "Then your husband—I should like to arrange with him to hire lodgings for a few days. The matter of money—"

      Again she came to his rescue.

      "I am the man of the house. I'm boss here. This splendor is all mine." She waved a slender white hand majestically at the rough surroundings, laughing in a way that put Boyd Emerson more at his ease. "You are quite welcome to stay as long as you wish. Constantine objects to my hospitality, and treats all strangers alike, fearing they may be Company men. When you didn't arrive at dark, I thought perhaps he was right this time, and that you had been taken in by one of the watchmen."

      "We throwed a Swede out on his neck," declared Fraser, swelling with conscious importance, "and I guess he's 'crabbed' us with the other squareheads."

      "Oh, no! They have instructions not to harbor any travellers. It's as much as his job is worth for any of them to entertain you. Now, won't you make yourselves at home while Constantine attends to your dogs? Dinner will soon be ready, and I hope you will do me the honor of dining with me," she finished, with a graciousness that threw Emerson into fresh confusion.

      He murmured "Gladly," and then lost himself in wonder at this well-gowned girl living amid such surroundings. Undeniably pretty, graceful in her movements, bearing herself with certainty and poise—who was she? Where did she come from? And what in the world was she doing here?

      He became aware that "Fingerless" Fraser was making the introductions.

       "This is Mr. Emerson; my name is French. I'm one of the Virginia

       Frenches, you know; perhaps you have heard of them. No? Well, they're

       the real thing."

      The girl bowed, but Emerson forestalled her acknowledgment by breaking in roughly, with a threatening scowl at the adventurer:

      "His name isn't French at all, Madam; it's Fraser—'Fingerless' Fraser. He's an utterly worthless rogue, and absolutely unreliable so far as I can learn. I picked him up on the ice in Norton Sound, with a marshal at his heels."

      "That marshal wasn't after me," stoutly denied Fraser, quite unabashed.

       "Why, he's a friend of mine—we're regular chums—everybody knows that.

       He wanted to give me some papers to take outside, that's all."

      Boyd shrugged his shoulders indifferently:

      "Warrants!"

      "Not at all! Not at all!" airily.

      Their hostess, greatly amused at this remarkable turn of the ceremony, prevented any further argument by saying:

      "Well, French or Fraser, whichever it is, you are both welcome. However, I should prefer to think of you as a runaway rather than as an intimate friend of the marshal at Nome; I happen to know him."

      "Well, we ain't what you'd exactly call pals," Fraser hastily disclaimed. "I just sort of bow to him"—he gave an imitation of a slight, indifferent headshake—"that way!"

      "I see," commented their hostess, quizzically; then recalling herself, she continued: "I should have made myself known before; I am Miss Malotte."

      "Ch—" began the crook, then shut his lips abruptly, darting a shrewd glance at the girl. Emerson saw their eyes meet, and fancied that the woman's smile sat a trifle unnaturally on her lips, while the delicate coloring of her face changed imperceptibly. As the fellow mumbled some acknowledgment, she turned to the younger man, inquiring impersonally:

      "I suppose you are bound for the States?"

      "Yes; we intend to catch the mail-boat at Katmai. I am taking Fraser along for company; it's hard travelling alone in a strange country. He's a nuisance, but he's rather amusing at times."

      "I certainly am," agreed that cheerful person, now fully at his ease.

       "I've a bad memory for names!"—he looked queerly at his hostess—"but

       I'm very