He did not, of course, wonder what the girl might be thinking of him—with his quiet, stern face, his cold indifference, his rather Indian-like litheness, and the single patch of gray that streaked his thick, blond hair. His interest had not reached anywhere near that point.
Tonight it was probable that no woman in the world could have interested him, except as the always casual observer of humanity. Another and greater thing gripped him and had thrilled him since he first felt the throbbing pulse of the engines of the new steamship Nome under his feet at Seattle. He was going home. And home meant Alaska. It meant the mountains, the vast tundras, the immeasurable spaces into which civilization had not yet come with its clang and clamor. It meant friends, the stars he knew, his herds, everything he loved. Such was his reaction after six months of exile, six months of loneliness and desolation in cities which he had learned to hate.
“I’ll not make the trip again—not for a whole winter—unless I’m sent at the point of a gun,” he said to Captain Rifle, a few moments after Mary Standish had left the deck. “An Eskimo winter is long enough, but one in Seattle, Minneapolis, Chicago, and New York is longer—for me.”
“I understand they had you up before the Committee on Ways and Means at Washington.”
“Yes, along with Carl Lomen, of Nome. But Lomen was the real man. He has forty thousand head of reindeer in the Seward Peninsula, and they had to listen to him. We may get action.”
“May!” Captain Rifle grunted his doubt. “Alaska has been waiting ten years for a new deck and a new deal. I doubt if you’ll get anything. When politicians from Iowa and south Texas tell us what we can have and what we need north of Fifty-eight—why, what’s the use? Alaska might as well shut up shop!”
“But she isn’t going to do that,” said Alan Holt, his face grimly set in the moonlight. “They’ve tried hard to get us, and they’ve made us shut up a lot of our doors. In 1910 we were thirty-six thousand whites in the Territory. Since then the politicians at Washington have driven out nine thousand, a quarter of the population. But those that are left are hard-boiled. We’re not going to quit, Captain. A lot of us are Alaskans, and we are not afraid to fight.”
“You mean—”
“That we’ll have a square deal within another five years, or know the reason why. And another five years after that, we’ll he shipping a million reindeer carcasses down into the States each year. Within twenty years we’ll be shipping five million. Nice thought for the beef barons, eh? But rather fortunate, I think, for the hundred million Americans who are turning their grazing lands into farms and irrigation systems.”
One of Alan Holt’s hands was clenched at the rail. “Until I went down this winter, I didn’t realize just how bad it was,” he said, a note hard as iron in his voice. “Lomen is a diplomat, but I’m not. I want to fight when I see such things—fight with a gun. Because we happened to find gold up here, they think Alaska is an orange to be sucked as quickly as possible, and that when the sucking process is over, the skin will be worthless. That’s modern, dollar-chasing Americanism for you!”