Philip Steele of the Royal Northwest Mounted Police | Page 9

fiber in Steele's body grew tense at the banter in the other's voice.
He whirled upon Nome, who had partly turned away.
"You remember--you lied down there at Nelson to get just such a 'job'
as this," he reminded. "Have you forgotten what happened--after that?"
"Don't get miffed about it, man," returned Nome with an irritating
laugh. "All's fair in love and war. That was love down there, 'pon my
word of honor it was, and this is about as near the other thing as I want
to come."
There was something in his laugh that drew Steele's lips in a tight line
as he entered the cabin. It was not the first time that he had listened to
Nome's gloating chuckle at the mention of certain women. It was this
more than anything else that made him hate the man.
Physically, Nome was a magnificent specimen, beyond doubt the
handsomest man in the service north of Winnipeg; so that while other
men despised him for what they knew, women admired and loved
him--until, now and then too late for their own salvation, they
discovered that his moral code was rotten to the core.
Such a thing had happened at Nelson House, and Philip felt himself
burning with a desire to choke the life out of Nome as he recalled the
tragedy there. And what would happen--now? The thought came to him
like a dash of cold water, and yet, after a moment, his teeth gleamed in
a smile as a vision rose before him of the love and purity which he had
seen in the sweet face of the colonel's wife. He chuckled softly to
himself as he dragged out a pack from under his bunk; but there was no
humor in the chuckle. From it he took a bundle wrapped in soft
birch-bark, and from this produced the skull that he had brought up
with him from the South. There was a tremble of excitement in his low
laugh as he glanced about the gloomy interior of the cabin.

From the log ceiling hung a big oil lamp with a tin reflector, and under
this he hung the skull.
"You'll make a pretty ornament, M'sieur Janette," he exclaimed,
standing off to contemplate the white thing leering and bobbing at him
from the end of its string. "Mon Dieu, I tell you that when the lamp is
lighted Bucky Nome must be blind if he doesn't recognize you, even
though you're dead, M'sieur!"
He lighted a smaller lamp, shaved himself, and changed his clothes. It
was dark when he was ready for supper, and Nome had not returned.
He waited a quarter of an hour longer, then put on his cap and coat and
lighted the big oil lamp. At the door he turned to look back. The
cavernous sockets of the skull stared at him. From where he stood he
could see the ragged hole above the ear.
"It's your game to-night, M'sieur Janette," he cried back softly, and
closed the door behind him.
They were gathered before a huge fire of logs in the factor's big
living-room when Philip joined the others. A glance told him why
Nome had not returned to the cabin. Breed and the colonel were
smoking cigars over a ragged ledger of stupendous size, which the
factor had spread out upon a small table, and both were deeply
absorbed. Mrs. Becker was facing the fire, and close beside her sat
Nome, leaning toward her and talking in a voice so low that only a
murmur of it came to Steele's ears. The man's face was flushed when he
looked up, and his eyes shone with the old fire which made Philip hate
him.
As the woman turned to greet him Steele felt a suddenly sickening
sensation grip at his heart. Her cheeks, too, were flushed, and the color
in them deepened still more when he bowed to her and joined the two
men at the table. The colonel shook hands with him, and Philip noticed
that once or twice after that his eyes shifted uneasily in the direction of
the two before the fire, and that whenever the low laughter of Mrs.
Becker and Nome came to them he paid less attention to the columns of
figures which Breed was pointing out to him. When they rose to go into

supper, Philip's blood boiled as Nome offered his arm to Mrs. Becker,
who accepted it with a swift, laughing glance at the colonel. There was
no response in the older man's pale face, and Philip's fingers dug hard
into the palms of his hands. At the table Nome's attentions to Mrs.
Becker were even more marked. Once, under pretext of helping her to a
dish, he whispered words which brought a deeper flush to her