CHAPTER I

PLACER CITY

Bill Wilder smiled in an abstracted, wry sort of fashion as he strode down the boarded sidewalk, which was no more than sufficient for its original purpose of saving pedestrians from wallowing in the mire and stagnant water of the unmade main throughfare of Placer City.

He was on his way to his office from his house. His house was built well beyond the tattered city’s limits with a view to escape from the sordid atmosphere of the northern gold city, which in the long years of acquaintance he had learned to detest.

Bill Wilder was the wealthiest gold man in a city of extreme wealth. Ten years of abounding success had transformed a youth of barely eighteen, lean, large, angular, yearning with every wholesome human desire, into a man of twenty-eight, glutted and overburdened with a fortune and mining interests the extent of which even he found it well nigh impossible to estimate. In ten years, under the driving force of inflexible resolve, backed by amazing good fortune, he had achieved at an age when the generality of men are only approaching the threshold of affairs that really matter.

But somehow his success had brought him little enough joy. It had brought him labour that was incessant. It had made it possible that every whim of his could be satisfied by the stroke of the pen. But instead of satisfaction, he reminded himself that somehow his life had become completely and utterly empty, and he yearned to set the clock back to those long, arduous, struggling days, when hope and resolve had been able to drive him to greater and greater exertions, with a pocket-book that was almost as lean and hungry as his stomach.

His smile now was inspired by the memory of a brief interview he had just had on his way down, in the hall of the McKinley Hotel, with a Hebrew acquaintance, a wealthy and influential saloon-proprietor. A. Feldman had spent half-an-hour in endeavouring to get him to join forces in the erection of a new dance hall that was intended to eclipse anything of the kind in the country in size, splendour, and profits. His reply had been curt. It had been harsh in its bitter condemnation. And the memory of the Jew’s hopeless stare of amazement was with him now.

“Not on your life, Feldman,” he had said in conclusion. “I’m a gold man. No better and no worse. I’m not a brothel keeper.”

His smile passed, and he gazed about him at the moving traffic surging along the miserable highway under the dazzling sunlight of a perfect spring day. He had no particular claim to good looks. His face was strong, and his expression open. There was a certain angularity about his clean-shaven features, and a simple directness in his clear-gazing grey eyes. He looked a typical gold man without pretence or display, and from the careless roughness of his tweed clothing no one would have taken him for a man who counted his wealth in millions of dollars.

But that was the man. Achievement was the sole purpose of his life. And it must be the achievement of a great body and muscles rather than the subtle scheming of the acute commercial mind which he by no means lacked.

The life of this mushroom northern city only stirred him to repugnance. He was no prude. He had tasted of the life in the fevered moments of youth. But he knew, he had strong reason to know, there was nothing in it that money could not buy, from the governing corporation to the women and gunmen who haunted the dance halls, except the Mounted Police detachment. And somehow the knowledge had become completely hateful to him.

He had migrated to the place during one of its early “rushes,” when it was only a few degrees removed from a mining camp. A whirlwind rush of humanity had swept down upon it bearing him on its tide. And he had remained to witness its leaping development into an established city of wealth and wanton freedom. Later he had participated in an attempt at real government by the saner element of its people, and the making safe of life and property. With them he had hoped. He had looked on at the mushroom growth of great hotels and offices, and greater and more elaborate halls of public entertainment. Then, with those others, he had watched the wreckage of the new authority under pressure of vested interests, and witnessed the passing of the moment or moral uplift. The falling back into a mire of corruption had been literally headlong.

The city had grown up in the wide valley of the Hekor River at the point where the first alluvial strike had been made. It was at a point where the river widened out before dispersing its northern waters into a great lake surrounded by the lofty range of hills which had created it. It followed the usual lines of all these improvised northern places of habitation. It was designed in a rectangular fashion based on one interminable main thoroughfare, which was the centre of haphazard development. The road had sidewalks, but for the rest it remained unconstructed. Vehicular traffic wallowed in mire during the spring, jolted and bumped over a broken, dusty surface in summer, and, in winter, enjoyed a foundation of snow on which to travel that frequently stood five and six feet in depth.

The whole place was hopelessly straggling and unkempt. Lofty seven- and eight-storied buildings looked down on the log shanties and frame hutments grovelling at their feet in that incongruous fashion which never seems to disturb the human sense of fitness. There were even men amongst its cosmopolitan people who found joy in the disparity. But these were mainly the folk who owned or had designed the greater structures.

Throughout the long winter night the place was ablaze with electric light, a never-ending source of joy to the crude pioneering mind. Arc lamps lit the main thoroughfare, while a multitude of winking signs served to guide the unwary to those accommodating dens waiting to unloose inflated bank rolls. During the six months of summer daylight this service was unnecessary. And only the cold light standards, and the hideous framing of the signs, and the tawdry decorations of the places of entertainment were left to replace the winter splendour.

Bill Wilder knew it all by heart, from the elaborate Elysee, down to the meanest cabaret from which a drunken miner would be fortunate to escape with nothing worse than a vanished store of “dust.” He hated it. The knowledge of the life that went on every hour of the twenty-four sickened and bored him. He longed for the free, wholesome, hard-living life of the outworld beyond the sordid prison bars which his fortune had set up about him.

It was always the same now. Month in, month out, there was nothing but the solitude of his home and the work of the office in the great commercial block he had built, or the pastimes of the dance hall and gambling hell.

He wanted none of it. His great body was rusting with disuse, while the mental effort of the administration of his affairs was fast robbing his sober senses of all joy of life. He yearned for the open with all its privations. He wanted the canoe nosing into the secret places of the far world. The burden of the battle against Nature in her fiercest mood was something to be desired. And so, too, with the howl of the deadly blizzard beyond the flap door of a flimsy tent. At this moment Placer City and all its alleged attractions were anathema to the man on the sidewalk.

He came to an abrupt halt. His grey eyes were turned on the elaborate entrance doors of the Elysee on the opposite side of the road. It was disgorging its freight into the smiling spring sunlight, a throng of men and painted women who had spent the daylit night drinking, and dancing, and gambling. He watched them out of sheer disgust. Here at something like ten in the morning, when the sidewalks were thronged with business traffic, they were just about to seek their homes for that brief sufficiency of rest which would enable them to return to another night of loose pleasure. For all he was on the youthful side of thirty, for all he was inured to the life of the city, for all his blood was no less warm, and rich, and swift flowing, the sight mingled pity with disgust and left him depressed and even saddened. The terrible falseness of it; the price that must be ultimately paid. The bill of interest that would be presented by an outraged Nature later on would mean overwhelming bankruptcy for the majority. He turned away and collided with an officer of the police.

Superintendent Raymes stepped clear and laughed.

“Bill Wilder gawking at the Elysee’s throw-outs? Guess you aren’t yearning to join that bunch?”

“No.”

Bill replied without any responsive laugh. Superintendent Raymes was his oldest friend in Placer City. A brisk, dapper man of medium height he was almost dwarfed by Wilder’s great size. He was approaching middle life, and already a slight greying tinged the dark hair below his smart forage cap. He was wearing a black-braided patrol jacket, and the yellow-striped breeches and top-boots so familiar in the regions under the control of the Mounted Police.

Raymes shook his head.

“No. That’s only for the sharks and darn fools that life seems to set around like the sands on the sea shore. Can you beat it? Look at ’em piling into the rigs. They’re sick and mighty weary, and they’ll be at it again in a few hours. It beats me the way those poor women keep going. As for the boys—God help ’em when those vultures have wrung them dry. Where are you making?”

“Just the office.”

Again Raymes laughed.

“Sounds like the cemetery.”

A smile returned to the eyes of the gold man.

“That’s how it seems to me,” he said, as they walked on together. “The cemetery of all that’s worth while. It’s tough, Raymes. I’m sick to death counting dollars and looking at that sort of stuff.” He jerked his head in the direction of the Elysee. “I tell you I’m going to make a break. I’ve just got to. It’s that or go crazy. I guess I love this Northland to death for all the flies, and skitters, and the other things, but I can’t face its cities any longer without qualifying for the bughouse.”

The policeman remained silent in face of the man’s desperate, half-laughing earnestness. He knew Wilder’s moods. He understood that tremendous fighting spirit which was consuming all his peace of mind. They passed on down the sidewalk.

It was not a little curious how these two men had come together in intimate friendship. It had begun when Raymes was only an Inspector and Wilder was only beginning to realise the burden of a wealth that grew like a snowball. They had found themselves in deadly opposition as a result of a desperate outbreak of lawlessness on a big new “strike” for which the gold man had been responsible. The position had been gravely threatening. There had been murder, and claim jumping, and the whole camp was on edge and threatening something like civil warfare. In the absence of police there was no authority to control the camp. Realising the seriousness of the position Wilder had jumped in. Organizing his men, and collecting others who could be relied on, he armed them for the task, and forthwith launched his forces against the marauding gunmen who had established a reign of terror. There was no mercy and only summary justice. Every offender was dealt with on the spot, and, in the end, the camp was swept clean.

When it was all over the gold man found the consequences of his action were far more serious than his logic had suggested. He had to face the tribunal of Placer City and render a complete accounting, with Inspector Raymes, keenly jealous of the law of which he was guardian, in deadly opposition. It had been a bitter fight. But Wilder’s downright honesty, his frank sincerity had finally broken down the police officer’s case and left him victor in a battle that had been fought out mainly on technicalities. And in the end, in place of the bitter antagonism which might well have arisen between them, a bond of great friendship was founded, based on a deep, mutual admiration for the purpose by which both were inspired.

All this had taken place about five years earlier. And since that time their regard for each other had ripened to an intimacy that had never known set-back.

Raymes was deeply concerned for his friend’s outburst.

“Yes, Bill,” he said presently. “It’s tough on a boy like you. You collected your dust too quick. You haven’t the temper of a millionaire. You aren’t the man to sit around spinning every darn dollar into two, and grousing because you can’t make three of it.” He laughed. “You’re the kind of hoss built for the race track of life. You weren’t made to stand around in the barn waiting to haul a swell buggy by way of exercise. That break away is the thing for you, only I’ll hate to lose you out of this darn sink.”

Bill nodded and smiled, and the whole of his boyish face lighted up.

“That’s the best I’ve listened to in months,” he said. “I guessed you’d say I was all sorts of a darn fool not fancying stopping round and counting my dollars. But this ‘sink’ as you rightly call it. I’m a bit of a kid to you. Maybe I’m a long-headed kid in a way. But a sink don’t count much on that. If you live in a sink at my age there’s a mighty big chance you’ll sooner or later join up with the sort of muck you mostly find in a sink. And the thought scares me.”

The policeman glanced round with twinkling eyes.

“You can always sit around on top. You can breathe good air that way and enjoy the sunlight.”

The other shrugged.

“An’ risk falling in when it gets you—well asleep. No, George. You were right first time. I’ll make the break an’ get out of the way of any chance of—mishap.”

They had reached the square frame building of the police post and paused at the door.

“There mustn’t be any mishap,” Raymes said smiling up into the earnest face of the man for whom he felt some sort of responsibility. “Are you yearning for that office of yours? Or do you feel like wasting an hour while I talk.”

Bill looked keenly down into the other’s twinkling eyes.

“What’s the game?” he asked with a directness that was almost brusque. Then he laughed. “But there, I guess I’m mostly ready to listen when George Raymes fancies talking. It isn’t every oyster that’s full of pearls. Sure. I’ll be glad of the excuse to dodge the office.”

The superintendent shook his head and his smile passed, leaving his face set and purposeful.

“Typhoid’s a deal more prevalent in oysters than pearls,” he said grimly. “Come right in.”

* * * * *

It was a bare, comfortless office, clean scrubbed and dusted but quite without anything in its furnishing to indicate the superior rank of the man who used it. It was characteristic, however, of the men whose ceaseless activities alone contrive that the northern outlands shall escape the worst riot of human temper. The boarded walls were hung with files. A small iron safe stood in one corner of the room, and a large woodstove occupied another. There was a roll-top desk near by the one window that lit the room, and a plain wooden cupboard stood against the wall directly behind the chair which Superintendent Raymes occupied. There were two or three Windsor chairs about the walls, and the only luxury the room afforded was a large rocker-chair into which Bill Wilder had sprawled his great body.

On the desk in front of the officer was a musty-looking file of papers. It was unopened at the moment for the man was contemplating one of several letters that lay beside it. He was leaning back in his revolving chair, and a curious, thoughtful look was in his reflective eyes. Bill Wilder was removing the paper band from the cigar the other had forced upon him.

Raymes looked up after awhile and sat regarding the man with the cigar.

“So you’re going to sell out, Bill,” he said quietly. “You’re going to sell out everything, all your interests, and—quit?”

“And make some sort of use of a life that’s creaking with rust in every blamed joint.”

Bill thrust the cigar into his mouth and prepared to light it.

The other shook his head.

“We mustn’t lose you, Bill. You’re the only feller in this muck hole we can’t do without. I’m not thinking of Placer City only. I’m thinking of this great old north country to which—you belong.”

The policeman watched the cloud of smoke which the gold man’s powerful lungs exhaled. He saw the match extinguish, and followed its flight as it was flung into the cuspidor which stood beside the stove. He was thinking hard and wondering. He was not quite sure how best to deal with the thing he had in his mind.

Bill smiled.

“That’s like you, George,” he said. “If I listened to you, and took you seriously, I’d guess I’m some feller—with dollars or without. But you’re right when you say I belong to this old north country. I’d hate quitting it. I’d hate it bad. If I could locate a real use for myself in it I’d sooner serve it than any other. And the tougher the service the better it would make me feel. Gee! I’m soft and flabby like some darn fish that’s been stewing in the sun.”

“I know.” The policeman forced a laugh. He had made up his mind. “Here, I’ve a mighty interesting letter come along. It’s from the Fur Valley Corporation. Do you know ’em? They’ve a big range of trading posts up an’ down the country. They’ve got one on the Hekor, away up north on the edge of the Arctic. It’s mainly been a seal trading post, and they collect sable and fox up that way. This letter says they’re closing it down. There’s a reason. And they fancied handing it on to me. Do you feel like taking a read of it? It’s quite short. These folk are business people without a big imagination so they keep to plain facts.”

Bill reached out and took the proffered letter. It was dated Seattle, and was clearly from the head office of the company. He glanced at the signature to it and noted the paper heading. Then he read slowly and carefully, for he knew that George Raymes had serious reason for handing it to him.

Dear Sir,

In the ordinary course of business we should not think of troubling you, a distinguished officer of the incomparable force to which you belong, with the contents of this letter. Although it is merely to notify our intention of closing down our trading post, Fort Cupar, at Fox Bluff, on the Hekor River, which is within one hundred miles of the Alaskan boundary, there are reasons lying behind the simple fact such as we feel you, in your official capacity, will be interested to hear.

Put as briefly as possible these are the reasons.

Fort Cupar at Fox Bluff has been one of our fur-trading posts, yielding us a very fair harvest of Beaver, Fox, Sable, Seal. Up to some eighteen years ago we had reason to consider it our most profitable post. Then came a slump. This came suddenly. And, according to our factor’s interpretation, it was simply, and solely due to the appearance of a large band of foreign poachers, who, without scruple for humanity, or international honesty, terrorized the Eskimo into passing them their trade at starvation values, or, if they refused, robbed them with the utmost violence.

These reports at the time were duly passed on to the headquarters of the police, and were, I believe, carefully looked into. But for reasons of which we have no cognizance, possibly the far inaccessibility of the country, possibly because these poachers were located on the United States side of the Alaskan border, possibly under pressure of work in the various gold regions, which is the primary duty of your officers, these poachers were permitted to continue their depredations, which, as far as we can ascertain, involved amongst other crimes that of almost wholesale murder.

Our concern now is to tell you that for the last fifteen to eighteen years we have struggled to carry on our post in this region in the hope that things would ultimately straighten themselves out, and our trade return to its normal prosperity. But this has not been the case. Apparently, from our factor’s reports, the methods of these poachers, who seem to be a race of Alaskan Eskimo, who are known as the Euralians, have changed only in process but not in effect. Now they seem to be divided up into lone bands of marauders, frequently at war with each other. There seems to be no controlling chief as there was in years gone by. They operate within the Arctic Circle, and only amongst the Eskimo of that region. And the one time descents upon the more southern communities of whites and natives no longer take place. Meanwhile, however, all trade in the furs we desire is at an end. Therefore we are reluctantly forced to close down, and thus another serious blow to the Canadian fur trade is involved.

I am, Sir, Yours truly, For The Fur Valley Corporation James Steely General Manager.

Bill looked up from his reading and encountered the searching gaze of his friend.

“There’s a nasty bite in that ‘brief’,” the policeman smiled.

The gold man nodded seriously.

“Not more than I’d have put in it if I’d been general manager of that corporation.”

“No. And you’d have been right. That letter’s mighty reasonable, and I’m with the feller who wrote it.”

Superintendent Raymes turned to his desk and opened the rusty-looking file that was lying in front of him.

“You know, Bill, that letter got me right away. But I was a bit helpless. Here, now, you sit right there and smoke that cheap cigar I pushed at you while I do a talk. I’ve got a yarn to hand you that’ll maybe set you thinking hard.”

He sat back tilting his chair, and the rusty file lay open on his lap. The papers it held had lost their pristine whiteness. There were distinct signs of age in their hues.

“You know I’ve only had charge of Placer City for something like seven years, and things have been so darned busy since I first got around I haven’t had a great chance of looking into the remoter things my predecessor left behind him. Eighteen years of police life is liable to accumulate a bunch of stories it would take a lifetime reading.

“However,” he went, glancing down at the file, “when I received that