Chapter VII

The _Warrior_ was loaded, not only with supplies for the journey but also with Pete’s winter outfit, and the entire party put to sea. As Bradford had predicted, Dorothy was immediately interested in Nick Pavlof. He had a dark, unprepossessing face and a surly, unpleasant, guttural voice; she felt immediately glad that she had two strong men to control him. One glance at the big chief guide, his broad shoulders and homely weather-beaten face, told her he was not the kind to take over-much nonsense from quarter-breed Russians. Fortune Joe was likewise a dusky fellow, but he had a rapt, dreamy look in his dark eyes that identified him as a man living apart from the casual, material world of men.

In this struggling launch, creeping along the flanks of the cruel reefs, she felt nearer the eternal mystery of the sea than ever before. Perhaps it was mostly a matter of physical proximity; she had been somewhat detached from it on the long deck of the _Catherine D_, but here she could almost reach down and touch the water, and any one of the tireless, marching army of easy-rolling waves could seemingly reach up and overwhelm her. This eternity of gray waters, washing those strange, treeless, rock-bound shores, invoked an unfamiliar, plaintive mood in her. She was not only yearning, heart-hungry, but deeply sobered, humbled in spirit, wondering what was human life in comparison with the eternal constancies of sea and crag.

She hadn’t gone about life in quite the right way, somehow. She had missed a great deal that might have been hers; she had passed over realities to live in empty dreams; she had renounced things worth while for baubles. The truth went home to her as she watched the waves breaking endlessly, forever and forever beyond the scope of her thought, against the gray, towering crags of the shore. But these vain, dim, half-understood regrets, this gnawing remorse, could never bring back the wasted days. Her wise part was to bury her dead, to lock the past in a vault of enduring stone; then to take up the old, care-free life where she had left it off. She would accept Ivan’s fiery love and give her own in return. Surely such a destiny would afford all the happiness she had a right to expect.

This was an outcast land, and for the time being she felt in some way an outcast too. She could not shut out its grim spirit nor repress the yearning, sober mood that it wakened. The land was beautiful, she knew, but in a weird, savage way. The low hills and tundra that at intervals sloped easily down to the sea were a wonderful beryl green,—a vista in two tones; one that of the rich moss of the tundra, the other the darker tone of the alder thickets. There was not a tree to be seen, far as her eyes could see. At intervals this rolling shore line gave way to grim and lofty precipices, the high ranges dropping sheerly off into the sea, and here the waves broke in great, upreaching, shimmering clouds of spray. Beyond these many-hued cliffs was the supreme Aleutian Range, a wonderful divide of sharp, jagged snow-swept peaks. There was no sign that man had gained a foothold here, never a village or roof, a trapper’s hut or a camp fire. Thus had it lain unchanged since, in bygone ages, it had raised up from the sea.

She was aware as she stood at the deck railing that a few yards forward Pete the guide watched the shore line too. He also seemed lost in the brooding mood that it invoked. She found herself glancing, from time to time, at his homely, thoughtful face, the broad shoulders hunched over the railing; and by woman’s secret ways she knew that he was deeply and poignantly aware of her presence, also. It was quite natural that he should be interested in her—likely, living in this desolate, forsaken land, she was a new type to him—but it was an unguessed mystery why his rugged, weather-beaten face, his lean, powerful frame should so intrigue her. Perhaps it was simply that he was a new type to her, too—a man of the open places probably unlettered and uncouth, but still the basic, primitive type from which her race had sprung. Suddenly he spoke to her and pointed toward the beach.

“Look just to the left of that big, white triangular rock,” he told her. “Do you see something moving——”

Instantly she caught a spot of red. “Yes—what is it?”

“A fox. We’ll see lots of ’em. If you keep your eyes open, we may see caribou too—they roam here in enormous herds.”

She moved nearer to him, and he pointed out things of interest. Once he showed her a flock of beach geese, lifting tall heads from the shore; often hair-seal rolled up with the combers, and once he showed her what he thought to be that most rare of marine animals, a sea otter, playing in a floating bed of kelp. Of sea life there was an abundance,—porpoise playing beside the ship, a whale blowing far off, once the long, dark fin of a basking-shark, chasing salmon in the mouth of a long, deeply-cut bay. “Maybe I’ll get to show you a Kodiak bear, too,” Pete told her. “Then you’ll get the thrill of your life.”

He showed her the high, glittering Pavlof volcano, and her towering sister peak, one of the most symmetrical mountains in the world. He seemed oddly eager, vaguely excited as he talked; yet never once did he evince the slightest sign of undue familiarity, and his attitude of deep respect never faltered for an instant.

She felt increasingly glad that Bradford had selected him for the head guide. She saw with pleasure that he was personally immaculate,—his blond beard trimmed until it was almost distinguished-looking, his rough garb well kept and clean. She had a feeling that, should one of the rolling waves rise up and overwhelm the boat, his would be a strong arm to rescue her. At present, however, the seas were comparatively placid, easily rolling, the sky blue overhead, the warm late September sun pouring genially down on the deck.

“I believe we’re going to have the best of weather,” she told him.

Pete hesitated. “I don’t quite like the way the clouds lie on the hills,” he told her soberly. “We’re bound to have good weather for a day or two, I should say—likely time in plenty to get where we’re going. Of course no one can tell in these uproarious waters. After a few days there’s going to be a change in weather, and what that means, no one knows.”

“Of course this is your best season.”

“Yes—September is one of our best months. But it’s like the calm before the storm. But we are getting too well along toward October, and October is too near our big, white winter to give us Western Alaskans any great pleasure.”

It was Pete who, later, brought fruit to her stateroom, opened a jammed window, and with the finest courtesy put himself at her service. And when the night came down, in silence and mystery, and the white, Northern stars emerged over the easy-rolling sea, it gave her an odd, deep sense of security that this strong man of the North was waiting, somewhere just outside her stateroom, her guide and protector in case of disaster.

The _Warrior_ rounded the Peninsula, then turned northeast along the south shore of Bering Sea. For the first three days the good weather prevailed without a break, but the morning of the fourth brought a sharper wind, a more restless movement of the whitecaps on the dark waves. There was also, for no apparent reason, a decided fall in temperature; and Dorothy felt glad of her heavy, otter coat that she wore on deck. The _Warrior_ pushed steadily on, however, neither captain nor crew in the least worried by the change of weather.

The fifth morning found the sky overcast and lowering, and a decidedly keen edge to the wind. The water had darkened in hue, the tall cliffs frowned from the shore. But the _Warrior_ progressed steadily, and at the dawn of the sixth day dropped her anchor out from the reefs where the _Jupiter_ and the _Vigten_ had gone down.

The landing party was soon ready to disembark. Dorothy, deeply moved by the belief that this was the site of her husband’s death, her brunette beauty accentuated by the wind on her cheeks, and the sea’s blue deepening her violet eyes; Ivan, thrilled by the savage beauty of the land, dressed warmly in smart riding trousers, rubber-and-leather boots, and a sheep-lined coat, and the three guides outwardly stolid and businesslike, climbed into one of the ship’s boats into which Pete had already packed a large part of his winter supplies and such duffle as Dorothy and Ivan had brought; and the word was given to lower away. “One thing more,” Dorothy directed, as the crew stood at the davits. “Ivan, I want you to bring your violin.”

“Of course.” One of the crew immediately brought the precious instrument to his side, not the brilliant Stradivarius, but a beautiful Hornstiener of wonderful, mellow tone. He understood the girl’s wish. She wanted to hear him play amid these scenes of savage grandeur to which they had come, expressing through the magic of his music the weird, uncanny spirit of the rock-bound, eerie land.

The boat was lowered, and the three Alaskans took the oars. They headed straight toward the gate between the reefs where the dory of the _Dolly Bettis_ had rowed to rescue the battered, bleeding Remittance Man almost two years before.

The boat soon touched on shore, and while the natives were set to the work of unloading the dory and packing the equipment out of the reach of the tide, Pete led Ivan and Dorothy to the top of a near-by, grassy hill, from which they could overlook a long stretch of beach.

Nearer view did not in the least alleviate the deep feeling that this land invoked in Dorothy. As she pushed through the deep moss, up the wind-swept hill, the haunting spirit of the waste places went home to her as never before. How bitter, how drear they were,—the tall cliffs on which the waves broke forever, the long sweep of mossy tundra steeped in the silence of the ages, the bleak hills, and beyond, the glittering, rugged peaks of the Aleutian Range! Even the rich green was not warm and cheering like the summer hue of Georgian meadows. It recalled rather the strange, emerald tint of certain pools of poisoned water that travelers sometimes encounter on the desert,—seductive, malevolent, deadly. Yet she found no hate in her heart for this desolate wilderness other than its association with her husband’s death. Really it moved some hidden sense of beauty in her. For all its bleakness, it was beautiful; for all its desolation it fascinated and intrigued her.

How sharp was the wind! It buffeted her on the hilltop. It shrilled over her head; and she saw, with growing alarm, that the waves were ever increasing in height and power.

She stole a glance into Ivan’s face; and instantly forgot her own mood to wonder at his. Evidently the tone and spirit of these empty shores had touched him deeply too, and had stirred his artist’s soul. She had a dim feeling that some alien, hidden side of this man, which she had always vaguely recognized and feared, was rising into dominance. Some part of him that was ever a stranger to her was making an amazing response. His eyes looked cloudy and dark; his handsome, impassive face was almost stark white. Yet he had not forgotten her in yielding to this poet’s mood. She was still the center of his universe; and he saw this wilderness only as a background to her. If anything it enhanced her in his sight; and because the inmost, primitive part of him was being wakened he was all the more likely to give himself wholly to his desire for her.

She was vaguely troubled; why she did not know, and she could not guess why she was somewhat reassured when she glanced into the face of the chief guide. Here was a sure foothold, like a great rock deeply buried in the sustaining earth. Some way he suggested a strong tower that the winds buffet in vain, that the snows lie heavy upon but cannot break down. He was of a Northern race—known and tried of old to such storm-swept lands as this—and naturally he could rise above their terror.

Pete paused on the hill, then began a detailed study of the beach below through the binoculars. And almost at once he saw the weather-beaten white cross that marked the grave.

He did not confide to Dorothy his real reaction to that discovery. His darkened, sobered blue eyes did not reveal that which would have amazed her considerably: a despair that shook this strong man to the foundations of his being. It had been his hope from the first that the cross had fallen and had been lost in the deep moss, and he would therefore have his wife’s company for days and weeks while a detailed search was being made. But already the adventure was all but over. To walk beside her to the grave, to watch over her a few little hours while the casket was being unearthed, loaded on the dory, and put aboard the _Warrior_; and then they would go their separate ways. He could watch the _Warrior_ that carried her and that grim counterfeit of himself until it vanished beyond the curve of the earth; and then only the waste places, the solitude of the crags hushed by the threat of winter would be left.

He knew there was no use to try to hide his find. Ivan would take the glass in a moment; and his keen eyes could not miss the sight of the white cross on the shore. It was a wonder that his employers had not distinguished it with the naked eye. The great dream of his life was already all but passed; and what was his fate henceforth he neither knew nor cared. Only the North would be left,—the wind streaming by in its never-ending journey, the tundra swept by winter’s infinity of snow.

Dorothy, watching him, saw a queer look of strain steal into his homely countenance; and the glass trembled in his hand. But he spoke slowly, perfectly casually, when he turned.

“I’ve found it already,” he said.

“The cross?” Ivan asked quickly.

“Yes. Not three hundred yards from the camp. We would have seen it from there if that big, gray boulder hadn’t been in the way.”

He was somewhat surprised that Dorothy should take the news so quietly. The fact that the immediate finding of the grave meant that they could at once sail on down to Seward and leave this howling wilderness did not seem to sink home; instead of being exultant she was only thoughtful and subdued. But of course Ivan could not expect a really happy mood, considering the tragic nature of this undertaking.

On the other hand Ivan himself seemed not only overjoyed, but somewhat relieved. Evidently this waste land held little pleasure for him and he was eager to turn away.

The three of them walked quietly down to the grave. The cross was a simple one of white board; yet the crew of the _Norwood_ had done well by the man who slept below. They had printed simply:

PETER NEWHALL
_November 24, 1920_
R. I. P.

The dignity of the simple inscription brought a soft luster to Dorothy’s eyes, but Pete stared down like a man in a dream. What a travesty it was! What a joke on Big Chris Larson lying inarticulate in the casket beneath.

Pete called the two camp helpers, and they came with their shovels. “You won’t want to watch this, Mrs. Newhall,” he said courteously. “Would you like to have me row you back to the boat?”

“I’ll stay it out, Pete, thank you. I’m afraid it’s going to rain, though——”

Pete’s blue eyes studied the sky. In the emotional stress of the last few moments he had forgotten his old enemy, the Northern winter. The clouds had darkened and lowered: the cold, driving rain of the North Peninsula was certainly not far off. “I’m afraid so too,” he commented. “If we work fast, maybe we can get back to the ship before it breaks.”

He took one of the three tools and turned his own big muscles to the task. It soon became increasingly evident, however, that they could not beat the storm; and in all likelihood would be obliged to spend the night ashore, after all. A sudden, sharp increase in the wind had blown up waves of alarming size, and it was doubtful whether they should dare try to reach the ship in the open dory. At least the casket could not be transported aboard till calm weather; this much was certain. For once in his life Pete blessed the gods of the storm.

He turned with a radiant smile that seemed to light his homely face. “Don’t worry, Mrs. Newhall,” he assured the girl. “We’ll take care of you and make you comfortable if it blows the mountains over.”

She was strangely, deeply grateful, and her warm color deepened as she answered his smile. “I’m not afraid, Pete. I know you’ll look after us.”

And now the squall at sea was beginning to resemble a real hurricane. The first few drops of cold rain, like fine shot, began to lash down at them before a race-horse wind; and Pete immediately took measures for his employer’s comfort. He took his two men from the work, and aiding them with his own broad shoulders, he tipped the dory halfway over on the beach. Then he spread Dorothy’s heavy, canvas-lined sleeping robe beneath it. “Get under there,” he invited cordially.

Dorothy and Ivan both were glad to obey, for all at once the clouds dissolved in drenching gusts of rain. The higher hills were at once obscured in mist; and the storm, dropping between, all but obscured the _Warrior_ riding at anchor. And now, as the storm increased in violence, it became increasingly doubtful whether or not the craft could stand out in her present, exposed position.

They soon were answered as to this. As all of them watched, appalled, the dim ghost that was the ship began to fade into a shadow. At first Dorothy dared to believe that the mist had simply thickened between, but by peering steadily she soon knew the amazing truth. The _Warrior_ was floating away into the haze—whether adrift or driven by her engines she did not know—leaving herself and her companions to the grim solitudes of the wild and the mercy of the storm.