The Silver Horde | Page 6

to the window for the
twentieth time, and, breathing against the pane, cleared a peep-hole,
announcing:
"He's gone!"
Emerson, absorbed in a book, made no answer. After his encounter
with the householder he had said little, and upon finding this coverless,
brown- stained volume--a tattered copy of Don Quixote--he had
relapsed into utter silence.
"I say, he's gone!" reiterated the man at the window.
Still no reply was forthcoming, and, seating himself near the stove,

Fraser spread his hands before him in the shape of a book, and began
whimsically, in a dry monotone, as if reading to himself:
"At which startling news, Mr. Emerson, with his customary vivacity,
smiled engagingly, and answered back:
"'Why do you reckon he has departed, Mr. Fraser?"
"'Because he's lost his voice cussing us,' I replied, graciously.
"'Oh no!' exclaimed the genial Mr. Emerson, more for the sake of
conversation than argument; 'he has got cold feet!' Evidently unwilling
to let the conversation lag, the garrulous Mr. Emerson continued, 'It's a
dark night without, and I fear some mischief is afoot.'
"'Yes; but what of yonder beautchous gel?' said I, at which he burst into
wild laughter."
Emerson laid down his book.
"What are you muttering about?" he asked.
"I merely remarked that our scandalized Scandalusian has got tired of
singin' Won't You Open that Door and Let Me In? and has ducked."
"Where has he gone?"
"I ain't no mind-reader; maybe he's loped off to Seattle after a
policeman and a writ of _ne plus ultra._ Maybe he has gone after a
clump of his countrymen--this is herding-season for Swedes."
Without answering, Emerson rose, and, going to the inner door, called
through to the squaw:
"Get us a cup of coffee."
"Coffee!" interjected Fraser; "why not have a real feed? I'm hungry
enough to eat anything except salt-risin' bread and Roquefort cheese."

"No," said the other; "I don't want to cause any more trouble than
necessary."
"Well, there's a lot of grub in the cache. Let's load up the sled."
"I'm hardly a thief."
"Oh, but--"
"No!"
"Fingerless" Fraser fell back into sour silence.
When the slatternly woman had slunk forth and was busied at the stove,
Emerson observed, musingly:
"I wonder what possessed that fellow to act as he did."
"He said he had orders," Fraser offered. "If I had a warm cabin, a lot of
grub--and a squaw--I'd like to see somebody give me orders."
Their clothing was dry now, and they proceeded to dress leisurely. As
Emerson roped up the sleeping-bags, Fraser suddenly suspended
operations on his attire, and asked, querulously:
"What's the matter? We ain't goin' to move, are we?"
"Yes. We'll make for one of the other canneries," answered Emerson,
without looking up.
"But I've got sore feet," complained the adventurer.
"What! again?" Emerson laughed skeptically. "Better walk on your
hands for a while."
"And it's getting dark, too."
"Never mind. It can't be far. Come now."

He urged the fellow as he had repeatedly urged him before, for Fraser
seemed to have the blood of a tramp in his veins; then he tried to
question the woman, but she maintained a frightened silence. When
they had finished their coffee, Emerson laid two silver dollars on the
table, and they left the house to search out the river-trail again.
The early darkness, hastened by the storm, was upon them when they
crept up the opposite bank an hour later, and through the gloom beheld
a group of great shadowy buildings. Approaching the solitary gleam of
light shining from the window of the watchman's house, they applied to
him for shelter.
"We are just off a long trip, and our dogs are played out," Emerson
explained. "We'll pay well for a place to rest."
"You can't stop here," said the fellow, gruffly.
"Why not?"
"I've got no room."
"Is there a road-house near by?"
"I don't know."
"You'd better find out mighty quick," retorted the young man, with
rising temper at the other's discourtesy.
"Try the next place below," said the watchman, hurriedly, slamming the
door in their faces and bolting it. Once secure behind his barricade, he
added: "If he won't let you in, maybe the priest can take care of you at
the Mission."
"This here town of Kalvik is certainly overjoyed at our arrival," said
Fraser, "ain't it?"
But his irate companion made no comment, whereat, sensing the anger
behind his silence, the speaker, for once, failed to extemporize an
answer to his own remark.

At the next stop they encountered the same gruff show of inhospitality,
and all they could elicit from the shock-headed proprietor was another
direction, in broken English, to try the Russian priest.
"I'll make one more try," said Emerson, between his teeth, gratingly, as
they swung out into the darkness a second time. "If that