At the door of the shack the gambler hesitated for an instant, marvelling at the strangeness of this man who had befriended him, and doubting.But by the candlelight he found the cabin comfortable and without occupants, and he was quickly rolling a cigarette while the other man made coffee.His muscles relaxed in the warmth and he lay back with half-assumed indolence, intently studying Uri's face through the curling wisps of smoke.It was a powerful face, but its strength was of that peculiar sort which stands girt in and unrelated.The seams were deep-graven, more like scars, while the stern features were in no way softened by hints of sympathy or humor.Under prominent bushy brows the eyes shone cold and gray.The cheekbones, high and forbidding, were undermined by deep hollows.The chin and jaw displayed a steadiness of purpose which the narrow forehead advertised as single, and, if needs be, pitiless.Everything was harsh, the nose, the lips, the voice, the lines about the mouth.It was the face of one who communed much with himself, unused to seeking counsel from the world; the face of one who wrestled oft of nights with angels, and rose to face the day with shut lips that no man might know.He was narrow but deep; and Fortune, his own humanity broad and shallow, could make nothing of him.Did Uri sing when merry and sigh when sad, he could have understood; but as it was, the cryptic features were undecipherable; he could not measure the soul they concealed.
"Lend a hand, Mister Man," Uri ordered when the cups had been emptied."We've got to fix up for visitors."Fortune purred his name for the other's benefit, and assisted understandingly.The bunk was built against a side and end of the cabin.It was a rude affair, the bottom being composed of drift-wood logs overlaid with moss.At the foot the rough ends of these timbers projected in an uneven row.From the side next the wall Uri ripped back the moss and removed three of the logs.The jagged ends he sawed off and replaced so that the projecting row remained unbroken.Fortune carried in sacks of flour from the cache and piled them on the floor beneath the aperture.On these Uri laid a pair of long sea-bags, and over all spread several thicknesses of moss and blankets.Upon this Fortune could lie, with the sleeping furs stretching over him from one side of the bunk to the other, and all men could look upon it and declare it empty.
In the weeks which followed, several domiciliary visits were paid, not a shack or tent in Nome escaping, but Fortune lay in his cranny undisturbed.In fact, little attention was given to Uri Bram's cabin; for it was the last place under the sun to expect to find the murderer of John Randolph.Except during such interruptions, Fortune lolled about the cabin, playing long games of solitaire and smoking endless cigarettes.Though his volatile nature loved geniality and play of words and laughter, he quickly accommodated himself to Uri's taciturnity.Beyond the actions and plans of his pursuers, the state of the trails, and the price of dogs, they never talked; and these things were only discussed at rare intervals and briefly.But Fortune fell to working out a system, and hour after hour, and day after day, he shuffled and dealt, shuffled and dealt, noted the combinations of the cards in long columns, and shuffled and dealt again.Toward the end even this absorption failed him, and, head bowed upon the table, he visioned the lively all-night houses of Nome, where the gamekeepers and lookouts worked in shifts and the clattering roulette ball never slept.At such times his loneliness and bankruptcy stunned him till he sat for hours in the same unblinking, unchanging position.At other times, his long-pent bitterness found voice in passionate outbursts; for he had rubbed the world the wrong way and did not like the feel of it.
"Life's a skin-game," he was fond of repeating, and on this one note he rang the changes."I never had half a chance," he complained."I was faked in my birth and flim-flammed with my mother's milk.The dice were loaded when she tossed the box, and I was born to prove the loss.But that was no reason she should blame me for it, and look on me as a cold deck; but she did--ay, she did.Why didn't she give me a show? Why didn't the world?
Why did I go broke in Seattle? Why did I take the steerage, and live like a hog to Nome? Why did I go to the El Dorado? I was heading for Big Pete's and only went for matches.Why didn't Ihave matches? Why did I want to smoke? Don't you see? All worked out, every bit of it, all parts fitting snug.Before I was born, like as not.I'll put the sack I never hope to get on it, before I was born.That's why! That's why John Randolph passed the word and his checks in at the same time.Damn him! It served him well right! Why didn't he keep his tongue between his teeth and give me a chance? He knew I was next to broke.Why didn't Ihold my hand? Oh, why? Why? Why?"And Fortune La Pearle would roll upon the floor, vainly interrogating the scheme of things.At such outbreaks Uri said no word, gave no sign, save that his grey eyes seemed to turn dull and muddy, as though from lack of interest.There was nothing in common between these two men, and this fact Fortune grasped sufficiently to wonder sometimes why Uri had stood by him.
But the time of waiting came to an end.Even a community's blood lust cannot stand before its gold lust.The murder of John Randolph had already passed into the annals of the camp, and there it rested.Had the murderer appeared, the men of Nome would certainly have stopped stampeding long enough to see justice done, whereas the whereabouts of Fortune La Pearle was no longer an insistent problem.There was gold in the creek beds and ruby beaches, and when the sea opened, the men with healthy sacks would sail away to where the good things of life were sold absurdly cheap.
So, one night, Fortune helped Uri Bram harness the dogs and lash the sled, and the twain took the winter trail south on the ice.
