The Rim of the Desert
Ada Woodruff Anderson
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FOREWORD.
CHAPTER I. THE MAN WHO NEVER CAME BACK
CHAPTER II. THE QUESTION
CHAPTER III. FOSTER TOO
CHAPTER IV. SNOQUALMIE PASS AND A BROKEN AXLE
CHAPTER V. APPLES OF EDEN
CHAPTER VI. NIP AND TUCK
CHAPTER VII. A NIGHT ON THE MOUNTAIN ROAD
CHAPTER VIII. THE BRAVEST WOMAN HE EVER KNEW
CHAPTER IX. THE DUNES OF THE COLUMBIA
CHAPTER X. A WOMAN'S HEART-STRINGS
CHAPTER XI. THE LOOPHOLE
CHAPTER XII. “WHOM THE GODS WOULD DESTROY”
CHAPTER XIII. “A LITTLE STREAK OF LUCK”
CHAPTER XIV. ON BOARD THE AQUILA
CHAPTER XV. THE STORY OF THE TENAS PAPOOSE
CHAPTER XVI. THE ALTERNATIVE
CHAPTER XVII. “ALL THESE THINGS WILL I GIVE THEE”
CHAPTER XVIII. THE OPTION
CHAPTER XIX. LUCKY BANKS AND THE PINK CHIFFON
CHAPTER XX. KERNEL AND PEACH
CHAPTER XXI. FOSTER'S HOUR
CHAPTER XXII. “AS MAN TO MAN”
CHAPTER XXIII. THE DAY OF PUBLICATION
CHAPTER XXIV. SNOWBOUND IN THE ROCKIES AND “FIT AS A MOOSE”
CHAPTER XXV. THE IDES OF MARCH
CHAPTER XXVI. THE EVERLASTING DOOR
CHAPTER XXVII. KISMET. AN ACT OF GOD
CHAPTER XXVIII. SURRENDER
CHAPTER XXIX. BACK TO HESPERIDES VALE
CHAPTER XXX. THE JUNIOR DEFENDANT
CHAPTER XXXI. TISDALE OF ALASKA—AND WASHINGTON, D.C.
CHAPTER XXXII. THE OTHER DOCUMENT
CHAPTER XXXIII. THE CALF-BOUND NOTEBOOK
* * *
Produced by Audrey Longhurst, Richard Prairie and Distributed Proofreaders
[Illustration: He worked tirelessly, as though he was determined to infuse her numb veins with his own vigor. FRONTISPIECE.]
THE RIM OF THE DESERT
BY
ADA WOODRUFF ANDERSON
AUTHOR OF “THE STRAIN OF WHITE,” “THE HEART OF THE RED FIRS,” ETC.
WITH FRONTISPIECE BY MONTE CREWS
1915
To the Memory of
MY MOTHER
A gentle and appreciative critic, the only one, perhaps, who re-read my previous books with pleasure and found no flaw in them, and who would have had a greater interest than any other in this publication.
FOREWORD.
The desert of this story is that semi-arid region east of the upper Columbia. It is cut off from the moisture laden winds of the Pacific by the lofty summits of the Cascade Mountains which form its western rim, and for many miles the great river crowds the barrier, winding, breaking in rapids, seeking a way through. To one approaching this rim from the dense forests of the westward slopes, the sage grown levels seem to stretch limitless into the far horizon, but they are broken by hidden coulees; in propitious seasons reclaimed areas have yielded phenominal crops of wheat, and under irrigation the valley of one of the two tributaries from the west, wherein lies Hesperides Vale, has become a garden spot of the world.
To the initiated I wish to say if in the chapters touching on the Alaska coal cases I have followed too literally the statements of prominent men, it was not in an effort to portray them but merely to represent as clearly as possible the Alaska situation.
ADA WOODRUFF ANDERSON.
THE RIM OF THE DESERT
CHAPTER I. THE MAN WHO NEVER CAME BACK
It is in October, when the trails over the wet tundra harden, and before the ice locks Bering Sea, that the Alaska exodus sets towards Seattle; but there were a few members of the Arctic Circle in town that first evening in September to open the clubhouse on the Lake Boulevard with an informal little supper for special delegate Feversham, who had arrived on the steamer from the north, on his way to Washington.
The clubhouse, which was built of great, hewn logs, with gabled eaves, stood in a fringe of firs, and an upper rear balcony afforded a broad outlook of lake and forest, with the glaciered heights of the Cascade Mountains breaking a far horizon. The day had been warm, but a soft breeze, drawing across this veranda through the open door, cooled the assembly room, and, lifting one of the lighter hangings of Indian-wrought elk leather, found the stairs and raced with a gentle rustle through the lower front entrance back into the night. It had caressed many familiar things on its way, for the walls were embellished with trophies from the big spaces where winds are born. There were skins of polar and Kodiak bear; of silver and black fox; there were antlered heads set above the fireplace and on the rough, bark-seamed pillars that supported the unceiled roof. A frieze of pressed and framed Alaska flora finished the low gallery which extended around three sides of the hall, and the massive chairs, like the polished banquet board, were of crocus-yellow Alaska cedar.
The delegate, who had come out to tide-water over the Fairbanks-Valdez trail, was describing with considerable heat the rigors of the journey. The purple parka, which was the regalia of the Circle, seemed to increase his prominence of front and intensified the color in his face to a sort of florid ripeness.
“Yes, gentlemen,” he continued, thumping the table with a stout hand and repeating the gesture slowly, while the glasses trembled, “Alaska's crying need is a railroad; a single finished line from the most northern harbor open to navigation the whole year—and that is Prince William Sound— straight through to the Tanana Valley and the upper Yukon. Already the first problem has been solved; we have pierced the icy barrier of the Coast Range. All we are waiting for is further right of way; the right to the forests, that timber may be secured for construction work; the right to mine coal for immediate use. But, gentlemen, we may grow gray waiting. What do men four thousand miles away, men who never saw Alaska, care about our needs?” He leaned back in his chair, while his glance moved from face to face and rested, half in challenge, on the member at the foot of the board. “These commissioners appointed off there in Washington,” he added. “These carpet-baggers from the little States beyond the Mississippi!”
Hollis Tisdale, who had spent some of the hardest years of his Alaska career in the service of the Government, met the delegate's look with a quiet humor in his eyes.
“It seems to me,” he said, and his deep, expressive voice instantly held the attention of every one, “that such a man, with intelligence and insight, of course, stands the surest chance of giving general satisfaction in the end. He is at least disinterested, while the best of us, no matter how big he is, how clear-visioned, is bound to take his own district specially to heart. Prince William Sound alone has hundreds of miles of coast-line and includes more than one fine harbor with an ambitious seaport.”
At this a smile rippled around the table, and Miles Feversham, who was the attorney for one of the most ambitious syndicates of promoters in the north, gave his attention to the menu. But Tisdale, having spoken, turned his face to the open balcony door. His parka was thrown back, showing an incongruous breadth of stiff white bosom, yet he was the only man present who wore the garment with grace. In that moment the column of throat rising from the purple folds, the upward, listening pose of the fine head, in relief against the bearskin on the wall behind his chair, suggested a Greek medallion. His brown hair, close-cut, waved at the temples; lines were chiseled at the corners of his eyes and, with a lighter touch, about his mouth; yet his face, his whole compact, muscular body, gave an impression of youth—youth and power and the capacity for great endurance. His friends said the north never had left a mark of its grip on Tisdale. The life up there that ha
d scarred, crippled, wrecked most of them seemed only to have mellowed him.
“But,” resumed Feversham quickly, “I shall make a stiff fight at Washington; I shall force attention to our suspended land laws; demand the rights the United States allows her western territories; I shall ask for the same concessions that were the making of the Oregon country; and first and last I shall do all I can to loosen the strangling clutch of Conservation.” He paused, while his hand fell still more heavily on the table, and the glasses jingled anew. “And, gentlemen, the day of the floating population is practically over; we have our settled communities, our cities; we are ready for a legislative body of our own; the time has come for Home Rule. But the men who make our laws must be familiar with the country, have allied interests. Gentlemen,”—his voice, dropping its aggressive tone, took a honeyed insistence,—“we want in our first executive a man who knows us intimately, who has covered our vast distances, whose vision has broadened; a man big enough to hold the welfare of all Alaska at heart.”
The delegate finished this period with an all-embracing smile and, nodding gently, leaned back again in his chair. But in the brief silence that followed, he experienced a kind of shock. Foster, the best known mining engineer from Prince William Sound to the Tanana, had turned his eyes on Tisdale; and Banks, Lucky Banks, who had made the rich strike in the Iditarod wilderness, also looked that way. Then instantly their thought was telegraphed from face to face. When Feversham allowed his glance to follow the rest, it struck him as a second shock that Tisdale was the only one on whom the significance of the moment was lost.
The interval passed. Tisdale stirred, and his glance, coming back from the door, rested on a dish that had been placed before him. “Japanese pheasant!” he exclaimed. The mellowness glowed in his face. He lifted his eyes, and the delegate, meeting that clear, direct gaze, dropped his own to his plate. “Think of it! Game from the other side of the Pacific. They look all right, but—do you know?”—the lines deepened humorously at the corners of his mouth—“nothing with wings ever seems quite as fine to me as ptarmigan.”
“Ptarmigan!” Feversham suspended his fork in astonishment. “Not ptarmigan?”
“Yes,” persisted Tisdale gently, “ptarmigan; and particularly the ones that nest in Nunatak Arm.”
There was a pause, while for the first time his eyes swept the Circle. He still held the attention of every one, but with a difference; the tenseness had given place to a pleased expectancy.
Then Foster said: “That must have been on some trip you made, while you were doing geological work around St. Elias.”
Tisdale shook his head. “No, it was before that; the year I gave up Government work to have my little fling at prospecting. You were still in college. Every one was looking for a quick route to the Klondike then, and I believed if I could push through the Coast Range from Yakutat Bay to the valley of the Alsek, it would be smooth going straight to the Yukon. An old Indian I talked with at the mission told me he had made it once on a hunting trip, and Weatherbee—you all remember David Weatherbee—was eager to try it with me. The Tlinket helped us with the outfit, canoeing around the bay and up into the Arm to his starting point across Nunatak glacier. But it took all three of us seventy-two days to pack the year's supplies over the ice. We tramped back and forth in stages, twelve hundred miles. We hadn't been able to get dogs, and in the end, when winter overtook us in the, mountains, we cached the outfit and came out.”
“And never went back.” Banks laughed, a shrill, mirthless laugh, and added in a higher key: “Lost a whole year and—the outfit.”
Tisdale nodded slowly. “All we gained was experience. We had plenty of that to invest the next venture over the mountains from Prince William Sound. But—do you know?—I always liked that little canoe trip around from Yakutat. I can't tell you how fine it is in that upper fiord; big peaks and ice walls growing all around. Yes.”—he nodded again, while the genial wrinkles deepened—“I've seen mountains grow. We had a shock once that raised the coast-line forty-five feet. And another time, while we were going back to the village for a load, a small glacier in a hanging valley high up, perhaps two thousand feet, toppled right out of its cradle into the sea. It stirred things some and noise”—he shook his head with an expressive sound that ended in a hissing whistle. “But it missed the canoe, and the wave it made lifted us and set us safe on top of a little rocky island.” He paused again, laughing softly. “I don't know how we kept right side up, but we did. Weatherbee was great in an emergency.”
A shadow crossed his face. He looked off to the end of the room.
“I guess you both understood a canoe,” said Banks. His voice was still high-pitched, like that of a man under continued stress, and his eyes burned in his withered, weather-beaten face like the vents of buried fires. “But likely it was then, while you was freighting the outfit around to the glacier, you came across those ptarmigan.”
Tisdale's glance returned, and the humor played again softly at the corners of his eyes. “I had forgotten about those birds. It was this way. I made the last trip in the canoe alone, for the mail and a small load, principally ammunition and clothing, while Weatherbee and the Tlinket pushed ahead on one of those interminable stages over the glacier. And on the way back, I was caught in fog. It rolled in, layer on layer, while I felt for the landing; but I managed to find the place and picked up the trail we had worn packing over the ice. And I lost it; probably in a new thaw that had opened and glazed over since I left. Anyhow, in a little while I didn't know where I was. I had given my compass to Weatherbee, and there was no sun to take bearings from, not a landmark in sight. Nothing but fog and ice, and it all looked alike. The surface was too hard to take my impressions, so I wasn't able to follow my own tracks back to the landing. But I had to keep moving, it was so miserably cold; I hardly let myself rest at night; and that fog hung on five days. The third evening I found myself on the water-front, and pretty soon I stumbled on my canoe. I was down to a mighty small allowance of crackers and cheese then, but I parcelled it out in rations for three days and started once more along the shore for Yakutat. The next night I was traveling by a sort of sedge when I heard ptarmigan. It sounded good to me, and I brought my canoe up and stepped out. I couldn't see, but I could hear those birds stirring and cheeping all around. I lay down and lifted my gun ready to take the first that came between me and the sky.” His voice had fallen to an undernote, and his glance rested an absent moment on the circle of light on the rafter above an electric lamp. “When it did, and I blazed, the whole flock rose. I winged two. I had to grope for them in the reeds, but I found them, and I made a little fire and cooked one of them in a tin pail I carried in the canoe. But when I had finished that supper and pushed off— do you know?”—his look returned, moving humorously from face to face—“I was hungrier than I had been before. And I just paddled back and cooked the other one.”
There was a stir along the table; a sighing breath. Then some one laughed, and Banks piped his strained note. “And,” he said after a moment, “of course you kept on to that missionary camp and waited for the fog to lift.”
Tisdale shook his head. “After that supper, there wasn't any need; I turned back to the glacier. And before I reached the landing, I heard Weatherbee's voice booming out on the thick silence like a siren at sea; piloting me straight to that one dip in the ice-wall.”
He looked off again to the end of the room, absently, with the far-sighted gaze of one accustomed to travel great solitudes. It was as though he heard again that singing voice. Then suddenly his expression changed. His eyes had rested on a Kodiak bearskin that hung against a pillar at the top of the gallery steps. The corner was unlighted, in heavy shadow, but a hand reaching from behind had drawn the rug slightly aside, and its whiteness on the brown fur, the flash of a jewelled ring, caught his attention. The next moment the hand was withdrawn. He gave it no more thought then, but a time came afterward when he remembered it.
“Weatherbee had noticed that fo
g-bank,” he went on, “from high up the glacier. It worried him so he finally turned back to meet me, and he had waited so long he was down to his last biscuit. I was mighty reckless about that second ptarmigan, but the water the birds were cooked in made a fine soup. And the fog broke, and we overtook the Tlinket and supplies the next morning.”
There was another stir along the table, then Foster said: “That was a great voice of Weatherbee's. I've seen it hearten a whole crowd on a mean trail, like the bugle and fife of a regiment.”
“So have I.” It was Lucky Banks who spoke. “So have I. And Weatherbee was always ready to stand by a poor devil in a tight place. When the frost got me”—he held up a crippled and withered hand—“it was Dave Weatherbee who pulled me through. We were mushing it on the same stampede from Fairbanks to Ruby Creek, and he never had seen me before. It had come to the last day, and we were fighting it out in the teeth of a blizzard. You all know what that means. In the end we just kept the trail, following the hummocks. Sometimes it was a pack under a drift, or maybe a sled; and sometimes it was a hand reaching up through the snow, frozen stiff. Then it came my turn, and I lay down in my tracks. But Weatherbee stopped to work over me. He wouldn't go on. He said if I was determined to stay in that cemet'ry, I could count on his company. And when he got me on my feet, he just started 'Dixie,' nice and lively, and the next I knew he had me all wound up and set going again, good as new.”
His laugh, like the treble notes of the Arctic wind, gave an edge to the story.
Presently Foster said: “That was Weatherbee; I never knew another such man. Always effacing himself when it came to a choice; always ready to share a good thing. Why, he made some of his friends rich, and yet in the end, after seven years of it, seven years of struggle of the worst kind, what did he have to show?”
“Nothing, Foster; nothing but seven feet of earth up there on the edge of the wilderness.” Tisdale's voice vibrated gently; an emotion like the surface stir of shaken depths crossed his face. “And a tract of unimproved desert down here in eastern Washington,” he added.
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