Connie Morgan in Alaska Part 25

"Who, me? Oh, I'm Waseche Bill. I jest wanted fo' to meet up with yo'--that's all. Yo' name fits yo' like a new glove, don't it, Misteh Squigg? An', Misteh Squigg, this heah's my pahdneh, Connie Mo'gan. I jest heahd how yo' tried fo' to beat him out of this heah claim, back when he beat out the stampede."

"He's a minor, an' he can't hold no claim," whimpered the man; "I'm a lawyer, an' I know. But that was a long while ago. I'll let that pa.s.s."

"Sho' now, Misteh Squigg," Waseche drawled, "it's good of yo' to let that pa.s.s. We was feared yo' mout of laid it up against yo'self. But theah's anotheh li'l matteh we-all would like to cleah up befo' the evenin's oveh. Yo' rec'lect I'm the pahty that bought them dawgs off yo'

in Eagle--but we'll come to that lateh. This heah Pete Mateese, now, the's sev'el li'l items we-all want the straight of. Fust off, wheah's the can of gold Pete Mateese give yo' to buy grub with in Eagle?"

"It's none of your business!" shrilled the man. "Besides, it's a lie! I didn't see no gold. Let me out of here! You ain't got no right to hold me."

"Ain't we? Well, Misteh Squigg, yo' might's well know yo' ah undeh arrest, an' we-all aim to give yo' a faih an' speedy trial."

"You _can't_ arrest me!" squealed the man.

"But, we _done_ it--didn't we? If yo' don't b'lieve it, jest yo' try to walk out that do'."

"You ain't got no authority! It ain't accordin' to law!"

"This heah ain't exactly a co'te of law--it's a co'te of justice. They's quite a con'sid'ble dif'ence--mostly," answered Waseche, and turning to Connie, he said.

"Jest get out yo' pen, kid, an' set down the figgehs so we c'n get things faih an' squah. One can of gold, nine thousand dollahs. Now, them dawgs--they was eight dawgs at fifty dollahs a head, that's fo' hund'ed dollahs mo'."

"I object!" piped Mr. Squigg, "I'm a lawyer, an' I know----"

"Yo' mout be a lawyeh, Misteh Squigg, but yo' ain't in no shape to 'bject--not none serious. Now, them wages owin' to Pete Mateese, neah's we c'n calc'late, it's fo'teen months at five dollahs a day. Figgeh it up, kid, an' set it down." Connie busied himself over his paper.

"That comes to twenty-one hundred dollars," he announced.

"It ain't true! I didn't agree to pay him! You can't prove it! I deny everything!"

"Yo' ain't b'lieved," calmly drawled Waseche. "How much yo got down altogetheh, son?"

"Eleven thousand five hundred dollars."

"Now, theah's this heah int'rest. Ten peh cent, wornt it, Misteh Squigg?" But Mr. Squigg only growled.

"Twelve thousand six hundred and fifty, all told," computed Connie.

Waseche turned to the infuriated Mr. Squigg.

"That's what's owin' to Pete Mateese. C'n yo' pay it--_now_?"

"No, I can't! An' I never will! Yo' can't enforce no such high-handed proceedin's! It ain't accordin' to law!"

"It's accordin' to Ten Bow, though," answered Waseche, shortly. "An'

seein' yo ain' got the cash oah the dust, we-all'll jest trouble yo' to make oveh yo' claim to Pete Mateese. An' bein' yo' only give ten thousan' fo' it, yo' c'n give yo' note fo' the balance. Give him the pen, son."

"I won't do it! This is an outrage!" whined the man.

"Sho', now, Misteh Squigg, co'se yo'll do it." Waseche Bill turned to the others. "We-all will give Misteh Squigg five minutes to think it oveh. Then some of yo' boys jest amble out an' tell it around camp--the story of Carlson, the man that died 'cause his pahdneh couldn't go back.

The boys'll be right int'rested, 'cause a lot of 'em know'd Carlson, an'

they liked him. Mos' likely they'll call a meetin' an'----"

"Gi' me the pen! Gi' me the pen!" shrieked Mr. Squigg, whose face had gone pasty white. And the men saw that the hand that held the pen trembled violently.

"Now, Misteh Squigg," announced Waseche, when the other had finished, "_yo' git_! An' if yo' know what's good fo' yo', yo'll keep on _gittin'_! Alaska don't need such men as yo'. _Yo' don't fit!_ This heah's a _big_ country, Misteh Squigg. It's broad, an' long, an' clean.

An' the men that live in it ah rough men, but theah heahts is as big as the country. An' they ah men that stand fo'-squah with each otheh, an'

with the wo'ld. In Alaska a man c'n count on faih play, an' it don't make no dif'ence if his hide is white, oah red, oah yallah, oah black.

'Cause he ain't measu'ed acco'din' to colah noah heft, noah by the gold in his poke, neitheh. It's what a man _does_ that counts. The li'l eveh-day acts an' deeds that shows wheah his heaht is--an' what's in him. An', now, Misteh Squigg, yondeh's the do'. An' beyond, the trail stretches away--an' fah away. Eveh mile yo' put between yo'self an Ten Bow is a friend of yo'n. Me'be somewheahs theah's a place li'l enough fo' a man with a heaht as small, an' hahd, an' black as a double B shot.

If they is, an' yo' c'n find it, yo'll be _home_. But don't stop to hunt fo' it in Alaska--it ain't heah." As Waseche Bill finished, the door opened and, without a word, Mr. Squigg slunk into the star-lit night--the softly radiant night that brushed caressingly the white snows of Aurora Land.

[Ill.u.s.tration: "Squigg slunk into the star-lit night."]

Late the men of Ten Bow talked about the little stove. At last, when they arose to go, Big McDougall stepped close to Connie's side.

"Laddie," he said, "wad ye do a favour f'r an auld mon--jest the ain time?"

"What!" exclaimed the boy, and his eyes shone, "do a favour for _you_!

For the man that lent me the best dog-team in all Alaska! Why, if it hadn't been for your dogs, Mac, I could never have found Waseche. Just name it, and you'll see!"

"Weel spoken, lad! Spoken like a mon!" The Scot's eyes twinkled. "An'

I'll hold ye to yer word. The favour is this: that ye'll accept the ten-team o' _malamutes_ that's carried ye so far acrost unmapped miles, as a present fr' an auld mon whose heart thinks more o' ye than his rough auld tongue c'n tell." The boy stared speechless at the big, smiling man. And when, at length, he found his voice, the words choked in his throat:

"But--you said--it was a favour, Mac--I----"

"Wheest, laddie, an' a favour it is. For McDougall's growin' auld f'r the trails. Theer's gude years ahead o' yon dogs, but I've na mind to gi' 'em the wark they need to keep 'em in fettle. An' dogs is oncommon like men--'gin they loaf aboot the streets o' town a spell they get lazy an' no 'count. But, wi' yersel' to put 'em ower the trail noo an' again, they'll be a team o' pleasure an' profit to ye. F'r they're braw dogs altogether an' t'would be shamefu' they should dwindle to the common herd o' scavage dogs."

And so, Connie, gracefully as he could in his confusion, granted McDougall's favour. But in doing so the small boy could not foresee--nor could any man in the cabin foresee--the chain of adventures into which the possession of the ten-team would lead him. For, had he not owned the ten-team, he would not have happened, just at the right moment, upon Big Dan McKeever, sergeant of the Royal North-West Mounted Police, at a time when the sergeant, with white, set face, battled against odds of a thousand to one, while fifty men looked helplessly out across the mile-wide field of heaving, crashing river ice when the spring break-up hit the mighty Yukon. And, if Sergeant McKeever--but all that has no part in this story.

In the little cabin on Ten Bow the hour was late, and the bearded men had arisen to go. As each pa.s.sed through the door to seek his own cabin, he gripped hard the hand of Pete Mateese, and O'Brien, and Waseche Bill--and _both_ hands of Connie Morgan--the boy who was a _tillic.u.m_.

As they wended their way homeward in the midnight the little stars winked and glittered radiantly upon these big men of the North. While far away on the long bleak trail, the same little stars gleamed cold and hard upon a swiftly moving black speck where, with white face and terror-gripped heart, Mr. Squigg added friendly miles to the distance that separated Ten Bow from _The Man Who Didn't Fit_.