The Silver Horde | Page 8

the natives could give the poor little fellow a Russian bath and then stand him out in the snow. They have only one treatment for all diseases. That's why I didn't stop and give you more explicit directions this morning."
"If your--er--father--" The girl shook her head.
"Then your husband--I should like to arrange with him to hire lodgings for a few days. The matter of money--"
Again she came to his rescue.
"I am the man of the house. I'm boss here. This splendor is all mine." She waved a slender white hand majestically at the rough surroundings, laughing in a way that put Boyd Emerson more at his ease. "You are quite welcome to stay as long as you wish. Constantine objects to my hospitality, and treats all strangers alike, fearing they may be Company men. When you didn't arrive at dark, I thought perhaps he was right this time, and that you had been taken in by one of the watchmen."
"We throwed a Swede out on his neck," declared Fraser, swelling with conscious importance, "and I guess he's 'crabbed' us with the other squareheads."
"Oh, no! They have instructions not to harbor any travellers. It's as much as his job is worth for any of them to entertain you. Now, won't you make yourselves at home while Constantine attends to your dogs? Dinner will soon be ready, and I hope you will do me the honor of dining with me," she finished, with a graciousness that threw Emerson into fresh confusion.
He murmured "Gladly," and then lost himself in wonder at this well-gowned girl living amid such surroundings. Undeniably pretty, graceful in her movements, bearing herself with certainty and poise--who was she? Where did she come from? And what in the world was she doing here?
He became aware that "Fingerless" Fraser was making the introductions. "This is Mr. Emerson; my name is French. I'm one of the Virginia Frenches, you know; perhaps you have heard of them. No? Well, they're the real thing."
The girl bowed, but Emerson forestalled her acknowledgment by breaking in roughly, with a threatening scowl at the adventurer:
"His name isn't French at all, Madam; it's Fraser--'Fingerless' Fraser. He's an utterly worthless rogue, and absolutely unreliable so far as I can learn. I picked him up on the ice in Norton Sound, with a marshal at his heels."
"That marshal wasn't after me," stoutly denied Fraser, quite unabashed. "Why, he's a friend of mine--we're regular chums--everybody knows that. He wanted to give me some papers to take outside, that's all."
Boyd shrugged his shoulders indifferently:
"Warrants!"
"Not at all! Not at all!" airily.
Their hostess, greatly amused at this remarkable turn of the ceremony, prevented any further argument by saying:
"Well, French or Fraser, whichever it is, you are both welcome. However, I should prefer to think of you as a runaway rather than as an intimate friend of the marshal at Nome; I happen to know him."
"Well, we ain't what you'd exactly call pals," Fraser hastily disclaimed. "I just sort of bow to him"--he gave an imitation of a slight, indifferent headshake--"that way!"
"I see," commented their hostess, quizzically; then recalling herself, she continued: "I should have made myself known before; I am Miss Malotte."
"Ch--" began the crook, then shut his lips abruptly, darting a shrewd glance at the girl. Emerson saw their eyes meet, and fancied that the woman's smile sat a trifle unnaturally on her lips, while the delicate coloring of her face changed imperceptibly. As the fellow mumbled some acknowledgment, she turned to the younger man, inquiring impersonally:
"I suppose you are bound for the States?"
"Yes; we intend to catch the mail-boat at Katmai. I am taking Fraser along for company; it's hard travelling alone in a strange country. He's a nuisance, but he's rather amusing at times."
"I certainly am," agreed that cheerful person, now fully at his ease. "I've a bad memory for names!"--he looked queerly at his hostess--"but I'm very amusing, very!"
"Not 'very,'" corrected Emerson.
Then they talked of the trail, the possibilities of securing supplies, and of hiring a guide. By-and-by the girl rose, and after showing them to a room, she excused herself on the score of having to see to the dinner. When she had withdrawn, "Fingerless" Fraser pursed his thin lips into a noiseless whistle, then observed:
"Well, I'll--be--cussed!"
"Who is she?" asked Emerson, in a low, eager tone. "Do you know?"
"You heard, didn't you? She's Miss Malotte, and she's certainly some considerable lady."
The same look that Emerson had noted when their hostess introduced herself to them flitted again into the crook's unsteady eyes.
"Yes, but who is she? What does this mean?" Emerson pointed to the provisions and fittings about them. "What is she doing here alone?"
"Maybe you'd better ask her yourself," said Fraser.
For the first time in their brief acquaintance, Emerson detected a strange note in the rogue's voice, but it