<SPAN name="chap0112"></SPAN>
<h3> CHAPTER XII </h3>
<p>Despite his many sources of revenue, Daylight's pyramiding kept him
pinched for cash throughout the first winter. The pay-gravel, thawed
on bed-rock and hoisted to the surface, immediately froze again. Thus
his dumps, containing several millions of gold, were inaccessible. Not
until the returning sun thawed the dumps and melted the water to wash
them was he able to handle the gold they contained. And then he found
himself with a surplus of gold, deposited in the two newly organized
banks; and he was promptly besieged by men and groups of men to enlist
his capital in their enterprises.</p>
<p>But he elected to play his own game, and he entered combinations only
when they were generally defensive or offensive. Thus, though he had
paid the highest wages, he joined the Mine-owners' Association,
engineered the fight, and effectually curbed the growing
insubordination of the wage-earners. Times had changed. The old days
were gone forever. This was a new era, and Daylight, the wealthy
mine-owner, was loyal to his class affiliations. It was true, the
old-timers who worked for him, in order to be saved from the club of
the organized owners, were made foremen over the gang of chechaquos;
but this, with Daylight, was a matter of heart, not head. In his heart
he could not forget the old days, while with his head he played the
economic game according to the latest and most practical methods.</p>
<p>But outside of such group-combinations of exploiters, he refused to
bind himself to any man's game. He was playing a great lone hand, and
he needed all his money for his own backing. The newly founded
stock-exchange interested him keenly. He had never before seen such an
institution, but he was quick to see its virtues and to utilize it.
Most of all, it was gambling, and on many an occasion not necessary for
the advancement of his own schemes, he, as he called it, went the
stock-exchange a flutter, out of sheer wantonness and fun.</p>
<p>"It sure beats faro," was his comment one day, when, after keeping the
Dawson speculators in a fever for a week by alternate bulling and
bearing, he showed his hand and cleaned up what would have been a
fortune to any other man.</p>
<p>Other men, having made their strike, had headed south for the States,
taking a furlough from the grim Arctic battle. But, asked when he was
going Outside, Daylight always laughed and said when he had finished
playing his hand. He also added that a man was a fool to quit a game
just when a winning hand had been dealt him.</p>
<p>It was held by the thousands of hero-worshipping chechaquos that
Daylight was a man absolutely without fear. But Bettles and Dan
MacDonald and other sourdoughs shook their heads and laughed as they
mentioned women. And they were right. He had always been afraid of
them from the time, himself a lad of seventeen, when Queen Anne, of
Juneau, made open and ridiculous love to him. For that matter, he
never had known women. Born in a mining-camp where they were rare and
mysterious, having no sisters, his mother dying while he was an infant,
he had never been in contact with them. True, running away from Queen
Anne, he had later encountered them on the Yukon and cultivated an
acquaintance with them—the pioneer ones who crossed the passes on the
trail of the men who had opened up the first diggings. But no lamb had
ever walked with a wolf in greater fear and trembling than had he
walked with them. It was a matter of masculine pride that he should
walk with them, and he had done so in fair seeming; but women had
remained to him a closed book, and he preferred a game of solo or
seven-up any time.</p>
<p>And now, known as the King of the Klondike, carrying several other
royal titles, such as Eldorado King, Bonanza King, the Lumber Baron,
and the Prince of the Stampeders, not to omit the proudest appellation
of all, namely, the Father of the Sourdoughs, he was more afraid of
women than ever. As never before they held out their arms to him, and
more women were flocking into the country day by day. It mattered not
whether he sat at dinner in the gold commissioner's house, called for
the drinks in a dancehall, or submitted to an interview from the woman
representative of the New York Sun, one and all of them held out their
arms.</p>
<p>There was one exception, and that was Freda, the girl that danced, and
to whom he had given the flour. She was the only woman in whose
company he felt at ease, for she alone never reached out her arms. And
yet it was from her that he was destined to receive next to his
severest fright. It came about in the fall of 1897. He was returning
from one of his dashes, this time to inspect Henderson, a creek that
entered the Yukon just below the Stewart. Winter had come on with a
rush, and he fought his way down the Yukon seventy miles in a frail
Peterborough canoe in the midst of a run of mush-ice. Hugging the
rim-ice that had already solidly formed, he shot across the ice-spewing
mouth of the Klondike just in time to see a lone man dancing excitedly
on the rim and pointing into the water. Next, he saw the fur-clad body
of a woman, face under, sinking in the midst of the driving mush-ice.
A lane opening in the swirl of the current, it was a matter of seconds
to drive the canoe to the spot, reach to the shoulder in the water, and
draw the woman gingerly to the canoe's side. It was Freda. And all
might yet have been well with him, had she not, later, when brought
back to consciousness, blazed at him with angry blue eyes and demanded:
"Why did you? Oh, why did you?"</p>
<p>This worried him. In the nights that followed, instead of sinking
immediately to sleep as was his wont, he lay awake, visioning her face
and that blue blaze of wrath, and conning her words over and over.
They rang with sincerity. The reproach was genuine. She had meant
just what she said. And still he pondered.</p>
<p>The next time he encountered her she had turned away from him angrily
and contemptuously. And yet again, she came to him to beg his pardon,
and she dropped a hint of a man somewhere, sometime,—she said not
how,—who had left her with no desire to live. Her speech was frank,
but incoherent, and all he gleaned from it was that the event, whatever
it was, had happened years before. Also, he gleaned that she had loved
the man.</p>
<p>That was the thing—love. It caused the trouble. It was more terrible
than frost or famine. Women were all very well, in themselves good to
look upon and likable; but along came this thing called love, and they
were seared to the bone by it, made so irrational that one could never
guess what they would do next.</p>
<p>This Freda-woman was a splendid creature, full-bodied, beautiful, and
nobody's fool; but love had come along and soured her on the world,
driving her to the Klondike and to suicide so compellingly that she was
made to hate the man that saved her life.</p>
<p>Well, he had escaped love so far, just as he had escaped smallpox; yet
there it was, as contagious as smallpox, and a whole lot worse in
running its course. It made men and women do such fearful and
unreasonable things. It was like delirium tremens, only worse. And if
he, Daylight, caught it, he might have it as badly as any of them. It
was lunacy, stark lunacy, and contagious on top of it all. A half
dozen young fellows were crazy over Freda. They all wanted to marry
her. Yet she, in turn, was crazy over that some other fellow on the
other side of the world, and would have nothing to do with them.</p>
<p>But it was left to the Virgin to give him his final fright. She was
found one morning dead in her cabin. A shot through the head had done
it, and she had left no message, no explanation. Then came the talk.
Some wit, voicing public opinion, called it a case of too much
Daylight. She had killed herself because of him. Everybody knew this,
and said so. The correspondents wrote it up, and once more Burning
Daylight, King of the Klondike, was sensationally featured in the
Sunday supplements of the United States. The Virgin had straightened
up, so the feature-stories ran, and correctly so. Never had she
entered a Dawson City dance-hall. When she first arrived from Circle
City, she had earned her living by washing clothes. Next, she had
bought a sewing-machine and made men's drill parkas, fur caps, and
moosehide mittens. Then she had gone as a clerk into the First Yukon
Bank. All this, and more, was known and told, though one and all were
agreed that Daylight, while the cause, had been the innocent cause of
her untimely end.</p>
<p>And the worst of it was that Daylight knew it was true. Always would
he remember that last night he had seen her. He had thought nothing of
it at the time; but, looking back, he was haunted by every little thing
that had happened. In the light of the tragic event, he could
understand everything—her quietness, that calm certitude as if all
vexing questions of living had been smoothed out and were gone, and
that certain ethereal sweetness about all that she had said and done
that had been almost maternal. He remembered the way she had looked at
him, how she had laughed when he narrated Mickey Dolan's mistake in
staking the fraction on Skookum Gulch. Her laughter had been lightly
joyous, while at the same time it had lacked its oldtime robustness.
Not that she had been grave or subdued. On the contrary, she had been
so patently content, so filled with peace.</p>
<p>She had fooled him, fool that he was. He had even thought that night
that her feeling for him had passed, and he had taken delight in the
thought, and caught visions of the satisfying future friendship that
would be theirs with this perturbing love out of the way.</p>
<p>And then, when he stood at the door, cap in hand, and said good night.
It had struck him at the time as a funny and embarrassing thing, her
bending over his hand and kissing it. He had felt like a fool, but he
shivered now when he looked back on it and felt again the touch of her
lips on his hand. She was saying good-by, an eternal good-by, and he
had never guessed. At that very moment, and for all the moments of the
evening, coolly and deliberately, as he well knew her way, she had been
resolved to die. If he had only known it! Untouched by the contagious
malady himself, nevertheless he would have married her if he had had
the slightest inkling of what she contemplated. And yet he knew,
furthermore, that hers was a certain stiff-kneed pride that would not
have permitted her to accept marriage as an act of philanthropy. There
had really been no saving her, after all. The love-disease had fastened
upon her, and she had been doomed from the first to perish of it.</p>
<p>Her one possible chance had been that he, too, should have caught it.
And he had failed to catch it. Most likely, if he had, it would have
been from Freda or some other woman. There was Dartworthy, the college
man who had staked the rich fraction on Bonanza above Discovery.
Everybody knew that old Doolittle's daughter, Bertha, was madly in love
with him. Yet, when he contracted the disease, of all women, it had
been with the wife of Colonel Walthstone, the great Guggenhammer mining
expert. Result, three lunacy cases: Dartworthy selling out his mine for
one-tenth its value; the poor woman sacrificing her respectability and
sheltered nook in society to flee with him in an open boat down the
Yukon; and Colonel Walthstone, breathing murder and destruction, taking
out after them in another open boat. The whole impending tragedy had
moved on down the muddy Yukon, passing Forty Mile and Circle and losing
itself in the wilderness beyond. But there it was, love, disorganizing
men's and women's lives, driving toward destruction and death, turning
topsy-turvy everything that was sensible and considerate, making bawds
or suicides out of virtuous women, and scoundrels and murderers out of
men who had always been clean and square.</p>
<p>For the first time in his life Daylight lost his nerve. He was badly
and avowedly frightened. Women were terrible creatures, and the
love-germ was especially plentiful in their neighborhood.</p>
<p>And they were so reckless, so devoid of fear. THEY were not frightened
by what had happened to the Virgin. They held out their arms to him
more seductively than ever. Even without his fortune, reckoned as a
mere man, just past thirty, magnificently strong and equally
good-looking and good-natured, he was a prize for most normal women.
But when to his natural excellences were added the romance that linked
with his name and the enormous wealth that was his, practically every
free woman he encountered measured him with an appraising and delighted
eye, to say nothing of more than one woman who was not free. Other men
might have been spoiled by this and led to lose their heads; but the
only effect on him was to increase his fright. As a result he refused
most invitations to houses where women might be met, and frequented
bachelor boards and the Moosehorn Saloon, which had no dance-hall
attached.</p>
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