The Shooting of Dan McGrew, A Novel. Based on the Famous Poem of Robert Service

by Marvin Dana; Robert W. Service

As the first soft chord sounded, the pallid youth at the bar started as if struck. He wheeled, and thereafter gazed unfalteringly toward the man at the piano.

It had been long since Jim Maxwell had played. At the outset, his hands moved slowly, almost hesitatingly, for the muscles were still a little numb from the cold of outdoors. But they grew elastic quickly, and a great series of clanging harmonies echoed through the squalid room. The others looked now with the wan-faced youth, whose cigarette had fallen unheeded. There came the dainty scamper of cadenzas, a crashing chord, and silence. The youth, who played himself, though not like this, understood that the stranger had made ready. He waited, tremulous with eagerness; for he loved his art, although he debased it. He muttered to himself:

"God! how that man can play!"

Jim Maxwell's fingers sought the keys again, weaving strange harmonies. And through them ran a thread of melody. The listeners could not understand, though the spell of it held them. Only, they knew somehow that the one who played was a man, full of a man's passions—the primitive passions of love and hate. There was a harshness in the dissonances that told of bitter sorrows; there was a charm in the thread of melody that was all truth and tenderness.

JIM MAXWELL'S FINGERS SOUGHT THE KEYS AGAIN, WEAVING STRANGE HARMONIES.

Those who heard saw visions, each according to his kind. In this improvisation, Jim interpreted his thronging emotions. The coldness and the desolation of the North were made audible. Through sound itself, he made these dwellers in the lonely places realize again the silence of solitary wastes. The music cried out in sudden anguished longing, then broke in discords, like shrieks for vengeance. Some of the listeners stirred uneasily, uncomprehendingly, yet thrilled—for the soul is more intelligent than the brain. The Rag-time Kid shivered.

Dan McGrew, the cards of his solo-game unheeded on the table before him, watched the man at the piano with steady gaze. His face was expressionless. He had recognized Jim Maxwell at first sight, and he knew that the time of reckoning was at hand. He was dismayed, for he had come in the course of years to believe that they two would never meet. Now that they were met, he was ready for whatever might befall. But he dared do nothing to precipitate the crisis. He must wait to be accused or attacked. If he could have followed his desire, he would have shot down the man he had wronged—would have shot him in the back, remorselessly, in cold blood. That he could not do. The code of the frontier forbids such murder. At such an act, these men about him would show no mercy beyond the short shrift of a rope. He could only await the issue with what patience he might, cursing inaudibly, so poised that he could draw at a second's warning.

Lou had not recognized Jim Maxwell on his entrance. She had given only a glance at this bearded stranger. She was infinitely weary of life. She hated this vulgar place, reeking with rank tobacco-smoke and the fumes of liquors. She felt, even through an apathy that had become habitual with her, shame from the leering glances of these men, who took her for the gambler's light-o'-love. She felt herself degraded more and more at her manner of life and by the associations thrust upon her. She knew the evil spirit of the man she had married, which daily and hourly she was compelled to tolerate. The life was become almost unendurable. Yet, she continued the sordid existence, partly because she lacked the courage to break away from him, partly because she could condone the wickedness of Dan McGrew to some extent in appreciation of his loyalty to her. She could not doubt the reality of his love for her. That his love was utterly selfish, she knew. But he gave her all that he could. The woman's instinct toward martyrdom made her feel it a duty not to desert him. Now, after the coming of the stranger, she felt, rather than saw, the change in Dan McGrew, and she wondered over it dully. Not for a moment did she suspect that her husband's emotion was connected with the advent of the bearded man, toward whom she glanced so idly.... Love, often, is not so shrewd as hate.

Her eyes followed Jim Maxwell as he went to the piano. She was still listless, wholly unsuspecting that aught impended. Even the first softly sounded notes did not arouse her. It was not until her ears caught the delicate thread of melody that her heart heard it, and answered, and she knew that this was the man she loved. Her hands clutched at her bosom in a spasmodic gesture. She swayed in her chair for a moment, then relaxed limply, and sat huddled in the corner between the table and the wall, her face ghastly beneath the rouge. But, lifeless as she seemed, she was listening through every atom of her being. In the varying phases of the music, she lived again the blisses and the torments. And, too, it was borne in upon her that, as she had suffered in the years since their parting, even so had he, who thus wove in sound the fabric of their lives. Yet, she could not believe that this man still loved her, though the music that grew under his fingers was like the talking together of their souls. A great wonder dawned in her, a greater fear, still greater hope. Could it be that the scales had fallen from his eyes, that he had freed himself from a degrading passion, that he had returned to his allegiance, that he loved her—her! Her body shook as with a palsy from the riot in her heart.