The Alaskan | Page 4

them. But these were details which did
not thrill him, but merely pleased him. And her hair pleased him possibly even more than
her gray eyes, though he was not sufficiently concerned to discuss the matter with
himself. But if he had pointed out any one thing, it would have been her hair--not so
much the color of it as the care she evidently gave it, and the manner in which she
dressed it. He noted that it was dark, with varying flashes of luster in it under the dinner
lights. But what he approved of most of all were the smooth, silky coils in which she
fastened it to her pretty head. It was an intense relief after looking on so many frowsy
heads, bobbed and marcelled, during his six months' visit in the States. So he liked her,
generally speaking, because there was not a thing about her that he might dislike.
He did not, of course, wonder what the girl might be thinking of him--with his quiet,
stern face, his cold indifference, his rather Indian-like litheness, and the single patch of
gray that streaked his thick, blond hair. His interest had not reached anywhere near that
point.
Tonight it was probable that no woman in the world could have interested him, except as
the always casual observer of humanity. Another and greater thing gripped him and had
thrilled him since he first felt the throbbing pulse of the engines of the new steamship
Nome under his feet at Seattle. He was going home. And home meant Alaska. It meant
the mountains, the vast tundras, the immeasurable spaces into which civilization had not
yet come with its clang and clamor. It meant friends, the stars he knew, his herds,
everything he loved. Such was his reaction after six months of exile, six months of
loneliness and desolation in cities which he had learned to hate.
"I'll not make the trip again--not for a whole winter--unless I'm sent at the point of a
gun," he said to Captain Rifle, a few moments after Mary Standish had left the deck. "An
Eskimo winter is long enough, but one in Seattle, Minneapolis, Chicago, and New York
is longer--for me."
"I understand they had you up before the Committee on Ways and Means at
Washington."
"Yes, along with Carl Lomen, of Nome. But Lomen was the real man. He has forty
thousand head of reindeer in the Seward Peninsula, and they had to listen to him. We may
get action."
"May!" Captain Rifle grunted his doubt. "Alaska has been waiting ten years for a new
deck and a new deal. I doubt if you'll get anything. When politicians from Iowa and south

Texas tell us what we can have and what we need north of Fifty-eight--why, what's the
use? Alaska might as well shut up shop!"
"But she isn't going to do that," said Alan Holt, his face grimly set in the moonlight.
"They've tried hard to get us, and they've made us shut up a lot of our doors. In 1910 we
were thirty-six thousand whites in the Territory. Since then the politicians at Washington
have driven out nine thousand, a quarter of the population. But those that are left are
hard-boiled. We're not going to quit, Captain. A lot of us are Alaskans, and we are not
afraid to fight."
"You mean--"
"That we'll have a square deal within another five years, or know the reason why. And
another five years after that, we'll he shipping a million reindeer carcasses down into the
States each year. Within twenty years we'll be shipping five million. Nice thought for the
beef barons, eh? But rather fortunate, I think, for the hundred million Americans who are
turning their grazing lands into farms and irrigation systems."
One of Alan Holt's hands was clenched at the rail. "Until I went down this winter, I didn't
realize just how bad it was," he said, a note hard as iron in his voice. "Lomen is a
diplomat, but I'm not. I want to fight when I see such things--fight with a gun. Because
we happened to find gold up here, they think Alaska is an orange to be sucked as quickly
as possible, and that when the sucking process is over, the skin will be worthless. That's
modern, dollar-chasing Americanism for you!"
"And are you not an American, Mr. Holt?"
So soft and near was the voice that both men started. Then both turned and stared. Close
behind them, her quiet, beautiful face flooded with the moon-glow, stood Mary Standish.
"You ask me a question, madam," said Alan Holt, bowing courteously. "No, I am not an
American. I am an Alaskan."
The girl's lips were parted. Her eyes were very bright and clear. "Please pardon me for
listening,"