The Yukon Trail | Page 4

several boxes containing provisions and
dry goods.
A man came to the end of the wharf carrying a suitcase. He was
well-set, thick in the chest, and broad-shouldered. He came up the
gangplank with the strong, firm tread of a man in his prime. Looking
down from above, Gordon Elliot guessed him to be in the early thirties.
Mrs. Mallory was the first to recognize him, which she did with a
drawling little shout of welcome. "Oh you, Mr. Man. I knew you first. I
speak for you," she cried.
The man on the gangplank looked up, smiled, and lifted to her his
broad gray Stetson in a wave of greeting.

"How do you do, Mrs. Mallory? Glad to see you."
The miners from Frozen Gulch were grouped together on the lower
deck. At sight of the man with the suitcase a sullen murmur rose among
them. Those in the rear pushed forward and closed the lane leading to
the cabins. One of the miners was flung roughly against the new
passenger. With a wide, powerful sweep of his arm the man who had
just come aboard hurled the miner back among his companions.
"Gangway!" he said brusquely, and as he strode forward did not even
glance in the direction of the angry men pressing toward him.
"Here. Keep back there, you fellows. None of that rough stuff goes,"
ordered the mate sharply.
The big Cornishman who had been tossed aside crouched for a spring.
He launched himself forward with the awkward force of a bear. The
suitcase described a whirling arc of a circle with the arm of its owner as
the radius. The bag and the head of the miner came into swift impact.
Like a bullock which has been pole-axed the man went to the floor. He
turned over with a groan and lay still.
The new passenger looked across the huge, sprawling body at the group
of miners facing him. They glared in savage hate. All they needed was
a leader to send them driving at him with the force of an avalanche. The
man at whom they raged did not give an inch. He leaned forward
slightly, his weight resting on the balls of his feet, alert to the finger
tips. But in his eyes a grim little smile of derisive amusement rested.
"Next," he taunted.
Then the mate got busy. He hustled his stevedores forward in front of
the miners and shook his fist in their faces as he stormed up and down.
If they wanted trouble, by God! it was waiting for 'em, he swore in
apoplectic fury. The Hannah was a river boat and not a dive for wharf
rats. No bunch of roughnecks could come aboard a boat where he was
mate and start anything. They could not assault any passengers of his
and make it stick.

The man with the suitcase did not wait to hear out his tirade. He
followed the purser to his stateroom, dropped his baggage beside the
berth, and joined the Kusiak group on the upper deck.
They greeted him eagerly, a little effusively, as if they were anxious to
prove themselves on good terms with him. The deference they paid and
his assured acceptance of it showed him to be a man of importance. But
apart from other considerations, he dominated by mental and physical
virility the circle of which he instantly became the center. Only Mrs.
Mallory held her own, and even she showed a quickened interest. Her
indolent, half-disdainful manner sheathed a soft sensuousness that held
the provocation of sex appeal.
"What was the matter?" asked Selfridge. "How did the trouble start?"
The big man shrugged his shoulders. "It didn't start. Some of the outfit
thought they were looking for a row, but they balked on the job when
Trelawney got his." Turning to Mrs. Mallory, he changed the subject
abruptly. "Did you have a good time down the river?"
Gordon, as he watched from a little distance, corrected earlier
impressions. This man had passed the thirties. Salt and pepper
sprinkled the temples of his strong, lean head. He had the thick neck
and solid trunk of middle life, but he carried himself so superbly that
his whole bearing denied that years could touch his splendid physique.
The suit he wore was a wrinkled corduroy, with trouser legs thrust into
high-laced boots. An outdoor tan had been painted upon his face and
neck, from the point where the soft flannel shirt fell away to show the
fine slope of the throat line to the shoulders.
Strong had stepped to the wharf to talk with an old acquaintance, but
when the boat threw out a warning signal he made a hurried good-bye
and came on board. He rejoined Elliot.
"Well, what d'you think of him? Was