Jim Maxwell turned away abruptly from the sheriff, without a word in parting. The careless words screeched in his brain, mocking devils of derision:
"He's square, Dan is."
Jim Maxwell set his face homeward, and urged the dogs to their best speed, for he had much to do and time pressed. He reached the cabin with the first shadows of dusk, and, after attending to the dogs, busied himself in collecting important papers, which must be carried with him, since he could hazard no guess as to when he might return to the cabin, if ever. His skins were to be left behind, though their total value was a considerable sum. He had put out his line of traps for the solace afforded by occupation, rather than for profit from the pelts. He would leave them with no regret over the loss involved. He cared little for money at any time—now, not at all. The only consideration was that he must travel fast and light.
With the dawn Jim Maxwell was off. At the last, he experienced a pang of regret over leaving this humble dwelling, where, though he had companioned so long with misery, he had, nevertheless, found soothing from the serenity and the silence, and where, in the end, he had found a daughter and a daughter's love. But this regret at parting from the familiar place was, after all, a trivial thing compared with the desire to hasten from it to the accomplishment of the work that awaited. He was obsessed by the purpose to avenge his own wrongs and those of his children, as he had already come to term Nell and Jack in his thoughts. The object of that vengeance was Dan McGrew. In these hours of pursuit after the man who had injured him and his so foully, his mood was all of fierce hatred. The tenderness that had stirred and wakened in his heart with the recognition of his daughter now slept again. A fury of rage filled him. This nearness to his enemy inflamed every passionate memory of wrong. Usually considerate of every creature, he was now merciless, and sent the dogs forward at top speed, cursing them when they lagged.
As the day advanced, heavy gray clouds covered the whole face of the heavens. The light wind which had been blowing from the east, veered to the north soon after mid-day, and quickened. It quickened more and more. Presently it was blowing a gale. And it came icy cold from the floes within the Circle. Jim, under the numbing touch, was compelled to go afoot oftener, in order to make the sluggish blood bestir itself. Yet his action was almost automatic, the result of habit formed in like experiences. He was hardly conscious of the changed conditions. Though his flesh felt the ice-lash of the air and fought against it, the brain inhibited sensation. His thought was all of the task that awaited. The chill of the body was nothing to him. He knew only the hot wrath that throbbed in his blood. He gave no heed, even when the powdery snow came in almost level flight. It was solely the slackening pace of the dogs that had power to arouse him. Sorely reluctant, he gave them a breathing spell, and fed them. He desired no food for himself. He was sustained by the spirit of vengeance which was flaming within him. He was not afraid of the cold, which grew momently more deadly; nor of the snow, though it fell so thickly that, when the journey was resumed, the dogs attained hardly half their former speed. The flakes flew in masses so dense that it was difficult to tell whether the darkness were of its own making or the night were come. He could still distinguish the peaks by which he set his course, and, since he went to his destination, nothing else mattered at all—except that the dogs dawdled. He cursed them again. His voice went out to them by turns raucously savage and imploring.
The dogs ran floundering through the snow, which deepened dangerously fast. Ever afterward, Jim Maxwell believed that, somehow, the power of righteousness had gone with him, triumphing in his behalf over the elements that would have barred his way. It seemed, indeed, that only a miracle could have carried him safely through the cold and storm. He had expected, by unsparing driving of the dogs, to reach Malamute well before dark. He himself now had no sense of time, only as it meant delay in coming face to face with Dan McGrew. As a matter of fact, it was ten o'clock at night when his eyes picked out faint yellow gleams twinkling through the snow-wrack, which he knew to be the lighted windows of the Malamute saloon. The dogs understood that they were come to the journey's end. They strained at the breast-straps in a last desperate burst of speed, and then, unbidden, halted before the door of the saloon and dropped on their bellies, panting and slavering. Jim Maxwell with difficulty stirred his cold-stiffened muscles and clambered down from the sled. He stood dazed for a full minute, as if not yet fully conscious that he had reached the end of the way, that the hour of vengeance had at last struck.
Then, suddenly, Jim Maxwell straightened himself and squared his shoulders. He walked to the door of the saloon and opened it with a steady hand and stepped within, shaking the snow from his parka as he went. He halted just inside and stood quietly. At his entrance, silence had fallen on the noisy room and the eyes of all were turned on him.
HE HALTED JUST INSIDE AND STOOD QUIETLY.