The Rivers End | Page 5

the great
gamble he was projecting. And Keith, whose heart was pounding like
an excited fist, saw in a flash the amazing audacity of the thing that was
in Conniston's mind, and felt the responsive thrill of its possibilities. No
one down there would recognize in him the John Keith of four years
ago. Then he was smooth-faced, with shoulders that stooped a little and
a body that was not too strong. Now he was an animal! A four years'
fight with the raw things of life had made him that, and inch for inch he
measured up with Conniston. And Conniston, sitting opposite him,
looked enough like him to be a twin brother. He seemed to read the
thought in Keith's mind. There was an amused glitter in his eyes.
"I suppose it's largely because of the hair on our faces," he said. "You
know a beard can cover a multitude of physical sins--and differences,
old chap. I wore mine two years before I started out after you,
vandyked rather carefully, you understand, so you'd better not use a
razor. Physically you won't run a ghost of a chance of being caught.
You'll look the part. The real fun is coming in other ways. In the next
twenty-four hours you've got to learn by heart the history of Derwent
Conniston from the day he joined the Royal Mounted. We won't go
back further than that, for it wouldn't interest you, and ancient history
won't turn up to trouble you. Your biggest danger will be with
McDowell, commanding F Division at Prince Albert. He's a human fox
of the old military school, mustaches and all, and he can see through

boiler-plate. But he's got a big heart. He has been a good friend of mine,
so along with Derwent Conniston's story you've got to load up with a
lot about McDowell, too. There are many things--OH, GOD--"
He flung a hand to his chest. Grim horror settled in the little cabin as
the cough convulsed him. And over it the wind shrieked again,
swallowing up the yapping of the foxes and the rumble of the ice.
That night, in the yellow sputter of the seal-oil lamp, the fight began.
Grim-faced--one realizing the nearness of death and struggling to hold
it back, the other praying for time--two men went through the amazing
process of trading their identities. From the beginning it was
Conniston's fight. And Keith, looking at him, knew that in this last
mighty effort to die game the Englishman was narrowing the slight
margin of hours ahead of him. Keith had loved but one man, his father.
In this fight he learned to love another, Conniston. And once he cried
out bitterly that it was unfair, that Conniston should live and he should
die. The dying Englishman smiled and laid a hand on his, and Keith felt
that the hand was damp with a cold sweat.
Through the terrible hours that followed Keith felt the strength and
courage of the dying man becoming slowly a part of himself. The thing
was epic. Conniston, throttling his own agony, was magnificent. And
Keith felt his warped and despairing soul swelling with a new life and a
new hope, and he was thrilled by the thought of what he must do to live
up to the mark of the Englishman. Conniston's story was of the
important things first. It began with his acquaintance with McDowell.
And then, between the paroxysms that stained his lips red, he filled in
with incident and smiled wanly as he told how McDowell had sworn
him to secrecy once in the matter of an incident which the chief did not
want the barracks to know--and laugh over. A very sensitive man in
some ways was McDowell! At the end of the first hour Keith stood up
in the middle of the floor, and with his arms resting on the table and his
shoulders sagging Conniston put him through the drill. After that he
gave Keith his worn Service Manual and commanded him to study
while he rested. Keith helped him to his bunk, and for a time after that
tried to read the Service book. But his eyes blurred, and his brain

refused to obey. The agony in the Englishman's low breathing
oppressed him with a physical pain. Keith felt himself choking and rose
at last from the table and went out into the gray, ghostly twilight of the
night.
His lungs drank in the ice-tanged air. But it was not cold.
Kwaske-hoo--the change--had come. The air was filled with the tumult
of the last fight of winter against the invasion of spring, and the forces
of winter were crumbling. The earth under Keith's feet trembled in the
mighty throes of their dissolution. He could hear more clearly the