The Rivers End | Page 2

years of life instead of the noose, Keith, for you led me a chase that
took me through seven different kinds of hell before I landed you. I
froze, and I starved, and I drowned. I haven't seen a white woman's face
in eighteen months. It was terrible. But I beat you at last. That's the
jolly good part of it, Keith--I beat you and GOT you, and there's the
proof of it on your wrists this minute. I won. Do you concede that? You
must be fair, old top, because this is the last big game I'll ever play."
There was a break, a yearning that was almost plaintive, in his voice.
Keith nodded. "You won," he said.
"You won so square that when the frost got your lung--"
"You didn't take advantage of me," interrupted Conniston. "That's the
funny part of it, Keith. That's where the humor comes in. I had you all
tied up and scheduled for the hangman when--bing!--along comes a
cold snap that bites a corner of my lung, and the tables are turned. And
instead of doing to me as I was going to do to you, instead of killing me
or making your getaway while I was helpless--Keith--old pal--YOU'VE
TRIED TO NURSE ME BACK TO LIFE! Isn't that funny? Could
anything be funnier?"
He reached a hand across the table and gripped Keith's. And then, for a
few moments, he bowed his head while his body was convulsed by
another racking cough. Keith sensed the pain of it in the convulsive
clutching of Conniston's fingers about his own. When Conniston raised
his face, the red stain was on his lips again.
"You see, I've got it figured out to the day," he went on, wiping away
the stain with a cloth already dyed red. "This is Thursday. I won't see
another Sunday. It'll come Friday night or some time Saturday. I've
seen this frosted lung business a dozen times. Understand? I've got two
sure days ahead of me, possibly a third. Then you'll have to dig a hole
and bury me. After that you will no longer be held by the word of

honor you gave me when I slipped off your manacles. And I'm asking
you--WHAT ARE YOU GOING TO DO?"
In Keith's face were written deeply the lines of suffering and of tragedy.
Yesterday they had compared ages.
He was thirty-eight, only a little younger than the man who had run him
down and who in the hour of his achievement was dying. They had not
put the fact plainly before. It had been a matter of some little
embarrassment for Keith, who at another time had found it easier to kill
a man than to tell this man that he was going to die. Now that
Conniston had measured his own span definitely and with most
amazing coolness, a load was lifted from Keith's shoulders. Over the
table they looked into each other's eyes, and this time it was Keith's
fingers that tightened about Conniston's. They looked like brothers in
the sickly glow of the seal-oil lamp.
"What are you going to do?" repeated Conniston.
Keith's face aged even as the dying Englishman stared at him. "I
suppose--I'll go back," he said heavily.
"You mean to Coronation Gulf? You'll return to that stinking mess of
Eskimo igloos? If you do, you'll go mad!"
"I expect to," said Keith. "But it's the only thing left. You know that.
You of all men must know how they've hunted me. If I went south--"
It was Conniston's turn to nod his head, slowly and thoughtfully. "Yes,
of course," he agreed. "They're hunting you hard, and you're giving 'em
a bully chase. But they'll get you, even up there. And I'm--sorry."
Their hands unclasped. Conniston filled his pipe and lighted it. Keith
noticed that he held the lighted taper without a tremor. The nerve of the
man was magnificent.
"I'm sorry," he said again. "I--like you. Do you know, Keith, I wish
we'd been born brothers and you hadn't killed a man. That night I

slipped the ring-dogs on you I felt almost like a devil. I wouldn't say it
if it wasn't for this bally lung. But what's the use of keeping it back now?
It doesn't seem fair to keep a man up in that place for three years,
running from hole to hole like a rat, and then take him down for a
hanging. I know it isn't fair in your case. I feel it. I don't mean to be
inquisitive, old chap, but I'm not believing Departmental 'facts' any
more. I'd make a topping good wager you're not the sort they make you
out. And so I'd like to know--just why--you killed Judge Kirkstone?"
Keith's two fists knotted in the center of