The Triumph of John Kars | Page 3

he's got a right outfit with him,
same as always, you're worrying. Say, there's only one thing I can
figger to beat Allan Mowbray on the trail. It would need to be Indians,
and a biggish outfit of them. Even then I'd bet my last nickel on him."

He shook his head with decision. "No, I guess he'll be right along when
his work's through."
"And his work?"
The girl's tone was one of relief. Murray's confidence was infectious in
spite of her instinctive fears.
The man shrugged his fleshy shoulders under his fur-lined pea-jacket.
"Trade, I guess. We're not here for health. Allan don't fight the gods of
the wilderness or the legion of elemental devils who run this desert for
the play of it. No, this country breeds just one race. First and last we're
wage slaves. Maybe we're more wage slaves north of 60 degrees than
any dull-witted toiler taking his wage by the hour, and spending it at
the end of each week. We're slaves of the big money, and every man,
and many of the women, who cross 60 degrees are ready to stake their
souls as well as bodies, if they haven't already done so, for the yellow
dust that's to buy the physic they'll need to keep their bodies alive later
when they've turned their backs on a climate that was never built for
white men."
Then the seriousness passed for smiling good-nature. It was the look
his round face was made for. It was the manner the girl was
accustomed to.
"Guess this country's a pretty queer book to read," he went on. "And
there aren't any pictures to it, either. Most of us living up here have
opened its covers, and some of us have read. But I guess Allan's read
deeper than any of us. I'd say he's read deeper even than John Kars. It's
for that reason I sold my interests in Seattle an' joined him ten years
ago in the enterprise he'd set up here. It's been tough, but it's sure been
worth it," he observed reflectively. "Yep. Sure it has." He sighed in a
satisfied way. Then his smile deepened, and the light in his eyes
glowed with something like enthusiasm. "Think of it. You can trade
right here just how you darn please. You can make your own laws, and
abide by 'em or break 'em just as you get the notion. Think of it, we're
five hundred miles, five hundred miles of fierce weather, and the devil's

own country, from the coast. We're three hundred miles from the
nearest law of civilization. And, as for newspapers and the lawmakers,
they're fifteen hundred miles of tempest and every known elemental
barrier away. We're kings in our own country--if we got the nerve. And
we don't need to care a whoop so the play goes on. Can you beat it? No.
And Allan knows it all--all. He's the only man who does--for all your
John Kars. I'm glad. Say, Jessie, it's dead easy to face anything if you
feel--just glad."
As he finished speaking the eyes which had held the girl were turned
towards the gray shadows eastward. He was gazing out towards that far
distant region of the Mackenzie River which flowed northwards to
empty itself into the ice-bound Arctic Ocean. But he was not thinking
of the river.
Jessie was relieved at her escape from his masterful gaze. But she was
glad of his confidence and unquestioned strength. It helped her when
she needed help, and some of her shadows had been dispelled.
"I s'pose it's as you say," she returned without enthusiasm. "If my
daddy's safe that's all I care. Mother's good. I just love her. And--Alec,
he's a good boy. I love my mother and my brother. But neither of them
could ever replace my daddy. Yes, I'll be glad for him to get back. Oh,
so glad. When--when d'you think that'll be?"
"When his work's through."
"I must be patient. Say, I wish I'd got nerve."
The man laughed pleasantly.
"Guess what a girl needs is for her men-folk to have nerve," he said. "I
don't know 'bout your brother Alec, but your father--well, he's got it
all."
The girl's eyes lit.
"Yes," she said simply. Then, with a glance westwards at the dying

daylight, she went on: "We best get down to the Mission. Supper'll be
waiting."
Murray nodded.
"Sure. We'll get right along."
CHAPTER II
THE MISSION OF ST. AGATHA
A haunting silence prevails in the land beyond the barrier of the Yukon
watershed. It is a world apart, beyond, and the other land, the land
where the battle of civilization still fluctuates, still sways under the
violent passions of men, remains outside.
Its fascination is beyond all explanation. Yet it is as