But Swiftwater, keen eyed, nervous, straining, yet trying to be composed, saw none of this, nor felt the least interest in the tide of newcomers who stepped from the Yukoner’s decks and made their way up town surrounded by friends.
Swiftwater was looking for one face in the crowd—that of his partner, Joe Boyle, who had promised to bring him $100,000 from London, where the big concession on Quartz Creek had been bonded for $250,000.
Swiftwater stood at the gang plank and eagerly scanned every face until the last man had come ashore and only the deck hands remained on board.
“There is certainly a letter in the mail, anyhow,” said Swiftwater.
For the first time in all of this miserable experience I realized that a heavy burden was on Swiftwater’s shoulders—a load that was crushing the heart and brain of him—and that would, unless relieved, destroy all of the man’s native capacity to handle his tangled affairs, even under the most unfavorable circumstances.
I decided to watch Swiftwater very closely. I noticed that he was not to be seen around town in his usual haunts. I did not dare ask him if he feared arrest, for that would show that I knew that his crisis had come.
Two hours after the Yukoner’s mail was in the postoffice, Swiftwater came to my room.
“There is no letter from Joe,” was all he said.
I made no reply except to say:
“Have you told Bera?”