The Trail of 98 (18 page)

"Yes," he said, in answer to my query, "I think I can find your man. He's
downtown somewhere with some of the big sporting guns. Come on, we'll run him to
earth."

As we walked along we compared notes, and he talked of himself in a frank,
friendly way.

"You're not long out from the old country? Thought not. Left there myself
about four years agoI joined the Force in Regina. It's altogether different
'outside,' patrol work, a free life on the open prairie. Here they keep one
choring round barracks most of the time. I've been for six months now on the
town station. I'm not sorry, though. It's all devilish interesting. Wouldn't
have missed it for a farm. When I write the people at home about it they think
I'm yarningstringing them, as they say here. The governor's a clergyman. Sent
me to Harrow, and wanted to make a Bishop out of me. But I'm restless; never
could study; don't seem to fit in, don't you know."

I recognised his type, the clean, frank, breezy Englishman that has helped to
make an Empire. He went on:

"Yes, how the old dad would stare if I could only have him in Dawson for a
day. He'd never be able to get things just in focus any more. He would be
knocked clean off the
pivot on which he's revolved these thirty years. Seems to me every one's
travelling on a pivot in the old country. It's no use trying to hammer it into
their heads there are more points of view than one. If you don't just see things
as they see them, you're troubled with astigmatism. Come, let's go in here."

He pushed his way through a crowded doorway and I followed. It was the
ordinary type of combined saloon and gambling-joint. In one corner was a very
ornate bar, and all around the capacious room were gambling devices of every
kind. There were crap-tables, wheel of fortune, the Klondike game, Keno, stud
poker, roulette and faro outfits. The place was chock-a-block with rough-looking
men, either looking on or playing the games. The men who were running the tables
wore shades of green over their eyes, and their strident cries of "Come on,
boys," pierced the smoky air.

In a corner, presiding over a stud-poker game, I was surprised to see our old
friend Mosher. He was dealing with one hand, holding the pack delicately and
sending the cards with a dexterous flip to each player. Miners were buying chips
from a man at the bar, who with a pair of gold scales was weighing out dust in
payment.

My companion pointed to an inner room with a closed door.

"The Klondike Kings are in there, hard at it. They've been playing now for
twenty-four hours, and goodness knows when they'll let up."

At that moment a
peremptory bell rang from the room and a waiter hurried up.

"There they are," said my friend, as the door opened. "There's Black Jack and
Stillwater Willie and Claude Terry and Charlie Haw."

Eagerly I looked in. The men were wearied, their faces haggard and ghastly
pale. Quickly and coolly they fingered the cards, but in their hollow eyes
burned the fever of the game, a game where golden eagles were the chips and
thousand-dollar jack-pots were unremarkable. No doubt they had lost and won
greatly, but they gave no sign. What did it matter? In the dumps waiting to be
cleaned up were hundreds of thousands more; while in the ground were millions,
millions.

All but Locasto were medium-sized men. Stillwater Willie was in
evening-dress. He wore a red tie in which glittered a huge diamond pin, and
yellow tan boots covered with mud.

"How did he get his name?" I asked.

"Well, you see, they say he was the only one that funked the Whitehorse
Rapids. He's a high flier, all right."

The other two were less striking. Haw was a sandy-haired man with shifty,
uneasy eyes; Terry of a bulldog type, stocky and powerful. But it was Locasto
who gripped and riveted my attention.

He was a massive man, heavy of limb and brutal in strength. There was a great
spread to his shoulders and a conscious power in his every movement. He had a
square, heavy chin, a grim, sneering mouth, a
falcon nose, black eyes that were as cold as the
water in a deserted shaft. His hair was raven dark, and his skin betrayed the
Mexican strain in his blood. Above the others he towered, strikingly masterful,
and I felt somehow the power that emanated from the man, the brute force, the
remorseless purpose.

Then the waiter returned with a tray of drinks and the door was closed.

"Well, you've seen him now," said Chester of the Police. "Your only plan, if
you want to speak to him, is to wait till the game breaks up. When poker
interferes with your business, to the devil with your business. They won't be
interrupted. Well, old man, if you can't be good, be careful; and if you want me
any time, ring up the town station. Bye, bye."

He sauntered off. For a time I strolled from game to game, watching the
expressions on the faces of the players, and trying to take an interest in the
play. Yet my mind was ever on the closed door and my ear strained to hear the
click of chips. I heard the hoarse murmurs of their voices, an occasional oath
or a yawn of fatigue. How I wished they would come out! Women went to the door,
peered in cautiously, and beat a hasty retreat to the tune of reverberated
curses. The big guns were busy; even the ladies must await their pleasure.

Oh, the weariness of that waiting! In my longing for Berna I had worked
myself up into a state that bordered on distraction. It seemed as if a cloud was
in my brain, obsessing me at all times. I
felt I must question this man, though it raised my gorge even
to speak of her in his presence. In that atmosphere of corruption the thought of
the girl was intolerably sweet, as of a ray of sunshine penetrating a noisome
dungeon.

It was in the young morn when the game broke up. The outside air was clear as
washed gold; within it was foul and fetid as a drunkard's breath. Men with
pinched and pallid faces came out and inhaled the breeze, which was buoyant as
champagne. Beneath the perfect blue of the spring sky the river seemed a shimmer
of violet, and the banks dipped down with the green of chrysoprase.

Already a boy was sweeping up the dirty, nicotine-frescoed sawdust from the
floor. (It was his perquisite, and from the gold he panned out he ultimately
made enough to put him through college.) Then the inner door opened and Black
Jack appeared.

He was wan and weary. Around his sombre eyes were chocolate-coloured hollows.
His thick raven hair was disordered. He had lost heavily, and, bidding a curt
good-bye to the others, he strode off. In a moment I had followed and overtaken
him.

"Mr. Locasto."

He turned and gave me a stare from his brooding eyes. They were vacant as
those of a dope-fiend, vacant with fatigue.

"Jack Locasto's my name," he answered carelessly.

I walked alongside him.

"Well, sir," I said, "my name's Meldrum, Athol Meldrum."

"Oh, I don't care what the devil your name is," he broke in petulantly.
"Don't bother me just now. I'm tired."

"So am I," I said, "infernally tired; but it won't hurt you to listen to my
name."

"Well, Mr. Athol Meldrum, good-day."

His voice was cold, his manner galling in its indifference, and a sudden
anger glowed in me.

"Hold on," I said; "just a moment. You can very easily do me an immense
favour. Listen to me."

"Well, what do you want," he demanded roughly; "work?"

"No," I said, "I
just want a scrap of information. I came into the country with some Jews the
name of Winklestein. I've lost track of them and I think you may be able to tell
me where they are."

He was all attention now. He turned half round and scrutinised me with
deliberate intensity. Then, like a flash, his rough manner changed. He was the
polished gentleman, the San Francisco club-lounger, the man of the world.

He rasped the stubble on his chin; his eyes were bland, his voice smooth as
cream.

"Winklestein," he echoed reflectively, "Winklestein; seems to me I do
remember the name, but for the life of me I can't recall where."

He was watching me like a cat, and pretending to think hard.

"Was there a girl with them?"

"Yes," I said eagerly, "a young girl."

"A young girl, ah!" He seemed to reflect hard again. "Well, my friend, I'm
afraid I can't help you. I remember noticing the party on the way in, but what
became of them I can't think. I don't usually bother about that kind of people.
Well, good-night, or good-morning rather. This is my hotel."

He had half entered when he paused and turned to me. His face was urbane, his
voice suave to sweetness; but it seemed to me there was a subtle mockery in his
tone.

"I say, if I should hear anything of them, I'll let
you know. Your name? Athol Meldrumall
right, I'll let you know. Good-bye."

He was gone and I had failed. I cursed myself for a fool. The man had baffled
me. Nay, even I had hurt myself by giving him an inkling of my search. Berna
seemed further away from me than ever. Home I went, discouraged and
despairful.

Then I began to argue with myself. He must know where they were, and if he
really had designs on the girl and was keeping her in hiding my interview with
him would alarm him. He would take the first opportunity of warning the
Winklesteins. When would he do it? That very night in all likelihood. So I
reasoned; and I resolved to watch.

I stationed myself in a saloon from where I could command a view of his
hotel, and there I waited. I think I must have watched the place for three
hours, but I know it was a weariful business, and I was heartsick of it.
Doggedly I stuck to my post. I was beginning to think he must have evaded me,
when suddenly coming forth alone from the hotel I saw my man.

It was about midnight, neither light nor dark, but rather an absence of
either quality, and the Northern sky was wan and ominous. In the crowded street
I saw Locasto's hat overtopping all others, so that I had no difficulty in
shadowing him. Once he stopped to speak to a woman, once to light a cigar; then
he suddenly turned up a side street that ran through the red-light district.

He was walking swiftly and he took a path that
skirted the swamp behind the town. I had no doubt of
his mission. My heart began to beat with excitement. The little path led up the
hill, clothed with fresh foliage and dotted with cabins. Once I saw him pause
and look round. I had barely time to dodge behind some bushes, and feared for a
moment he had seen me. But no! on he went again faster than ever.

I knew now I had divined his errand. He was at too great pains to cover his
tracks. The trail had plunged among a maze of slender cotton-woods, and twisted
so that I was sore troubled to keep him in view. Always he increased his gait
and I followed breathlessly. There were few cabins hereabouts; it was a lonely
place to be so near to town, very quiet and thickly screened from sight.
Suddenly he seemed to disappear, and, fearing my pursuit was going to be futile,
I rushed forward.

I came to a dead stop. There was no one to be seen. He had vanished
completely. The trail climbed steeply up, twisty as a corkscrew. These cursed
poplars, how densely they grew! Blindly I blundered forward. Then I came to a
place where the trail forked. Panting for breath I hesitated which way to take,
and it was in that moment of hesitation that a heavy hand was laid on my
shoulder.

"Where away, my young friend?" It was Locasto. His face was Mephistophelian,
his voice edged with irony. I was startled I admit, but I tried to put a good
face on it.

"Hello," I said; "I'm just taking a stroll."

His black eyes
pierced me, his black brows met savagely. The heavy jaw shot forward, and for a
moment the man, menacing and terrible, seemed to tower above me.

"You lie!" like explosive steam came the words, and wolf-like his lips
parted, showing his powerful teeth. "You lie!" he reiterated. "You followed me.
Didn't I see you from the hotel? Didn't I determine to decoy you away? Oh, you
fool! you fool! who are you that would pit your weakness against my strength,
your simplicity against my cunning? You would try to cross me, would you? You
would champion damsels in distress? You pretty fool, you simpleton, you
meddler"

Suddenly, without warning, he struck me square on the face, a blinding,
staggering blow that brought me to my knees as falls a pole-axed steer. I was
stunned, swaying weakly, trying vainly to get on my feet. I stretched out my
clenched hands to him. Then he struck me again, a bitter, felling blow.

I was completely at his mercy now and he showed me none. He was like a fiend.
Rage seemed to rend him. Time and again he kicked me, brutally, relentlessly, on
the ribs, on the chest, on the head. Was the man going to do me to death? I
shielded my head. I moaned in agony. Would he never stop? Then I became
unconscious, knowing that he was still kicking me, and wondering if I would ever
open my eyes again.

"Long live the cold-feet tribe! Long live the soreheads!"

It was the Prodigal who spoke. "This outfit buying's got gold-mining beaten
to a standstill. Here I've been three weeks in the burg and got over ten
thousand dollars' worth of grub cached away. Every pound of it will net me a
hundred per cent. profit. I'm beginning to look on myself as a second John D.
Rockefeller."

"You're a confounded robber," I said. "You're working a cinch-game. What's
your first name? Isaac?"

He turned the bacon he was frying and smiled gayly.

"Snort away all you like, old sport. So long as I get the mon you can call me
any old name you please."

He was very sprightly and elate, but I was in no sort of mood to share in his
buoyancy. Physically I had fully recovered from my terrible manhandling, but in
spirit I still writhed at the outrage of it. And the worst was I could do
nothing. The law could not help me, for there were no witnesses to the assault.
I could never cope with this man in bodily strength. Why was I not a stalwart?
If I had been as tall and strong as Garry, for instance. True, I might shoot;
but there the Police would take a hand
in the game, and I would lose out badly. There seemed to be
nothing for it but to wait and pray for some means of retaliation.