A \ B \ C \ D \ E \ F \ G \ H \ I \ J \ K \ L \ M \ N \ O \ P \ R \ S \ T \ U \ V \ W \Z

A Daughter of the Snows by Jack London

J >> Jack London >> A Daughter of the Snows




At this juncture La Flitche nodded his head in approbation, and she
went on.

Capital had been made out of the blood on St. Vincent's hands. If they
chose to examine the moccasins at that moment on the feet of Mr. La
Flitche, they would also find blood. That did not argue that Mr. La
Flitche had been a party to the shedding of the blood.

Mr. Brown had drawn attention to the fact that the prisoner had not
been bruised or marked in the savage encounter which had taken place.
She thanked him for having done so. John Borg's body showed that it
had been roughly used. He was a larger, stronger, heavier man than St.
Vincent. If, as charged, St. Vincent had committed the murder, and
necessarily, therefore, engaged in a struggle severe enough to bruise
John Borg, how was it that he had come out unharmed? That was a point
worthy of consideration.

Another one was, why did he run down the trail? It was inconceivable,
if he had committed the murder, that he should, without dressing or
preparation for escape, run towards the other cabins. It was, however,
easily conceivable that he should take up the pursuit of the real
murderers, and in the darkness--exhausted, breathless, and certainly
somewhat excited--run blindly down the trail.

Her summing up was a strong piece of synthesis; and when she had done,
the meeting applauded her roundly. But she was angry and hurt, for she
knew the demonstration was for her sex rather than for her cause and
the work she had done.

Bill Brown, somewhat of a shyster, and his ear ever cocked to the
crowd, was not above taking advantage when opportunity offered, and
when it did not offer, to dogmatize artfully. In this his native humor
was a strong factor, and when he had finished with the mysterious
masked men they were as exploded sun-myths,--which phrase he promptly
applied to them.

They could not have got off the island. The condition of the ice for
the three or four hours preceding the break-up would not have permitted
it. The prisoner had implicated none of the residents of the island,
while every one of them, with the exception of the prisoner, had been
accounted for elsewhere. Possibly the prisoner was excited when he ran
down the trail into the arms of La Flitche and John the Swede. One
should have thought, however, that he had grown used to such things in
Siberia. But that was immaterial; the facts were that he was
undoubtedly in an abnormal state of excitement, that he was
hysterically excited, and that a murderer under such circumstances
would take little account of where he ran. Such things had happened
before. Many a man had butted into his own retribution.

In the matter of the relations of Borg, Bella, and St. Vincent, he made
a strong appeal to the instinctive prejudices of his listeners, and for
the time being abandoned matter-of-fact reasoning for all-potent
sentimental platitudes. He granted that circumstantial evidence never
proved anything absolutely. It was not necessary it should. Beyond
the shadow of a reasonable doubt was all that was required. That this
had been done, he went on to review the testimony.

"And, finally," he said, "you can't get around Bella's last words. We
know nothing of our own direct knowledge. We've been feeling around in
the dark, clutching at little things, and trying to figure it all out.
But, gentlemen," he paused to search the faces of his listeners, "Bella
knew the truth. Hers is no circumstantial evidence. With quick,
anguished breath, and life-blood ebbing from her, and eyeballs glazing,
she spoke the truth. With dark night coming on, and the death-rattle
in her throat, she raised herself weakly and pointed a shaking finger
at the accused, thus, and she said, 'Him, him, him. St. Vincha, him do
it.'"

With Bill Brown's finger still boring into him, St. Vincent struggled
to his feet. His face looked old and gray, and he looked about him
speechlessly. "Funk! Funk!" was whispered back and forth, and not so
softly but what he heard. He moistened his lips repeatedly, and his
tongue fought for articulation. "It is as I have said," he succeeded,
finally. "I did not do it. Before God, I did not do it!" He stared
fixedly at John the Swede, waiting the while on his laggard thought.
"I . . . I did not do it . . . I did not . . . I . . . I did not."

He seemed to have become lost in some supreme meditation wherein John
the Swede figured largely, and as Frona caught him by the hand and
pulled him gently down, some man cried out, "Secret ballot!"

But Bill Brown was on his feet at once. "No! I say no! An open
ballot! We are men, and as men are not afraid to put ourselves on
record."

A chorus of approval greeted him, and the open ballot began. Man after
man, called upon by name, spoke the one word, "Guilty."

Baron Courbertin came forward and whispered to Frona. She nodded her
head and smiled, and he edged his way back, taking up a position by the
door. He voted "Not guilty" when his turn came, as did Frona and Jacob
Welse. Pierre La Flitche wavered a moment, looking keenly at Frona and
St. Vincent, then spoke up, clear and flute-like, "Guilty."

As the chairman arose, Jacob Welse casually walked over to the opposite
side of the table and stood with his back to the stove. Courbertin,
who had missed nothing, pulled a pickle-keg out from the wall and
stepped upon it.

The chairman cleared his throat and rapped for order. "Gentlemen," he
announced, "the prisoner--"

"Hands up!" Jacob Welse commanded peremptorily, and a fraction of a
second after him came the shrill "Hands up, gentlemen!" of Courbertin.

Front and rear they commanded the crowd with their revolvers. Every
hand was in the air, the chairman's having gone up still grasping the
mallet. There was no disturbance. Each stood or sat in the same
posture as when the command went forth. Their eyes, playing here and
there among the central figures, always returned to Jacob Welse.

St. Vincent sat as one dumfounded. Frona thrust a revolver into his
hand, but his limp fingers refused to close on it.

"Come, Gregory," she entreated. "Quick! Corliss is waiting with the
canoe. Come!"

She shook him, and he managed to grip the weapon. Then she pulled and
tugged, as when awakening a heavy sleeper, till he was on his feet.
But his face was livid, his eyes like a somnambulist's, and he was
afflicted as with a palsy. Still holding him, she took a step backward
for him to come on. He ventured it with a shaking knee. There was no
sound save the heavy breathing of many men. A man coughed slightly and
cleared his throat. It was disquieting, and all eyes centred upon him
rebukingly. The man became embarrassed, and shifted his weight
uneasily to the other leg. Then the heavy breathing settled down again.

St. Vincent took another step, but his fingers relaxed and the revolver
fell with a loud noise to the floor. He made no effort to recover it.
Frona stooped hurriedly, but Pierre La Flitche had set his foot upon
it. She looked up and saw his hands above his head and his eyes fixed
absently on Jacob Welse. She pushed at his leg, and the muscles were
tense and hard, giving the lie to the indifference on his face. St.
Vincent looked down helplessly, as though he could not understand.

But this delay drew the attention of Jacob Welse, and, as he tried to
make out the cause, the chairman found his chance. Without crooking,
his right arm swept out and down, the heavy caulking-mallet leaping
from his hand. It spanned the short distance and smote Jacob Welse
below the ear. His revolver went off as he fell, and John the Swede
grunted and clapped a hand to his thigh.

Simultaneous with this the baron was overcome. Del Bishop, with hands
still above his head and eyes fixed innocently before him, had simply
kicked the pickle-keg out from under the Frenchman and brought him to
the floor. His bullet, however, sped harmlessly through the roof. La
Flitche seized Frona in his arms. St. Vincent, suddenly awakening,
sprang for the door, but was tripped up by the breed's ready foot.

The chairman pounded the table with his fist and concluded his broken
sentence, "Gentlemen, the prisoner is found guilty as charged."




CHAPTER XXIX

Frona had gone at once to her father's side, but he was already
recovering. Courbertin was brought forward with a scratched face,
sprained wrist, and an insubordinate tongue. To prevent discussion and
to save time, Bill Brown claimed the floor.

"Mr. Chairman, while we condemn the attempt on the part of Jacob Welse,
Frona Welse, and Baron Courbertin to rescue the prisoner and thwart
justice, we cannot, under the circumstances, but sympathize with them.
There is no need that I should go further into this matter. You all
know, and doubtless, under a like situation, would have done the same.
And so, in order that we may expeditiously finish the business, I make
a motion to disarm the three prisoners and let them go."

The motion was carried, and the two men searched for weapons. Frona
was saved this by giving her word that she was no longer armed. The
meeting then resolved itself into a hanging committee, and began to
file out of the cabin.

"Sorry I had to do it," the chairman said, half-apologetically,
half-defiantly.

Jacob Welse smiled. "You took your chance," he answered, "and I can't
blame you. I only wish I'd got you, though."

Excited voices arose from across the cabin. "Here, you! Leggo!" "Step
on his fingers, Tim!" "Break that grip!" "Ouch! Ow!" "Pry his mouth
open!"

Frona saw a knot of struggling men about St. Vincent, and ran over. He
had thrown himself down on the floor and, tooth and nail, was fighting
like a madman. Tim Dugan, a stalwart Celt, had come to close quarters
with him, and St. Vincent's teeth were sunk in the man's arm.

"Smash 'm, Tim! Smash 'm!"

"How can I, ye fule? Get a pry on his mouth, will ye?"

"One moment, please." The men made way for her, drawing back and
leaving St. Vincent and Tim.

Frona knelt down by him. "Leave go, Gregory. Do leave go."

He looked up at her, and his eyes did not seem human. He breathed
stertorously, and in his throat were the queer little gasping noises of
one overwrought.

"It is I, Gregory." She brushed her hand soothingly across his brow.
"Don't you understand? It is I, Frona. Do leave go."

His whole body slowly relaxed, and a peaceful expression grew upon his
face. His jaw dropped, and the man's arm was withdrawn.

"Now listen, Gregory. Though you are to die--"

"But I cannot! I cannot!" he groaned. "You said that I could trust to
you, that all would come well."

She thought of the chance which had been given, but said nothing.

"Oh, Frona! Frona!" He sobbed and buried his face in her lap.

"At least you can be a man. It is all that remains."

"Come on!" Tim Dugan commanded. "Sorry to bother ye, miss, but we've
got to fetch 'm along. Drag 'm out, you fellys! Catch 'm by the legs,
Blackey, and you, too, Johnson."

St. Vincent's body stiffened at the words, the rational gleam went out
of his eyes, and his fingers closed spasmodically on Frona's. She
looked entreaty at the men, and they hesitated.

"Give me a minute with him," she begged, "just a minute."

"He ain't worth it," Dugan sneered, after they had drawn apart. "Look
at 'm."

"It's a damned shame," corroborated Blackey, squinting sidewise at
Frona whispering in St. Vincent's ear, the while her hand wandered
caressingly through his hair.

What she said they did not hear, but she got him on his feet and led
him forward. He walked as a dead man might walk, and when he entered
the open air gazed forth wonderingly upon the muddy sweep of the Yukon.
The crowd had formed by the bank, about a pine tree. A boy, engaged in
running a rope over one of the branches, finished his task and slid
down the trunk to the ground. He looked quickly at the palms of his
hands and blew upon them, and a laugh went up. A couple of wolf-dogs,
on the outskirts, bristled up to each other and bared their fangs. Men
encouraged them. They closed in and rolled over, but were kicked aside
to make room for St. Vincent.

Corliss came up the bank to Frona. "What's up?" he whispered. "Is it
off?"

She tried to speak, but swallowed and nodded her head.

"This way, Gregory." She touched his arm and guided him to the box
beneath the rope.

Corliss, keeping step with them, looked over the crowd speculatively
and felt into his jacket-pocket. "Can I do anything?" he asked,
gnawing his under lip impatiently. "Whatever you say goes, Frona. I
can stand them off."

She looked at him, aware of pleasure in the sight. She knew he would
dare it, but she knew also that it would be unfair. St. Vincent had
had his chance, and it was not right that further sacrifice should be
made. "No, Vance. It is too late. Nothing can be done."

"At least let me try," he persisted.

"No; it is not our fault that our plan failed, and . . . and . . ." Her
eyes filled. "Please do not ask it of me."

"Then let me take you away. You cannot remain here."

"I must," she answered, simply, and turned to St. Vincent, who seemed
dreaming.

Blackey was tying the hangman's knot in the rope's end, preparatory to
slipping the noose over St. Vincent's head.

"Kiss me, Gregory," she said, her hand on his arm.

He started at the touch, and saw all eager eyes centred upon him, and
the yellow noose, just shaped, in the hands of the hangman. He threw
up his arms, as though to ward it off, and cried loudly, "No! no! Let
me confess! Let me tell the truth, then you'll believe me!"

Bill Brown and the chairman shoved Blackey back, and the crowd gathered
in. Cries and protestations rose from its midst. "No, you don't," a
boy's shrill voice made itself heard. "I'm not going to go. I climbed
the tree and made the rope fast, and I've got a right to stay."
"You're only a kid," replied a man's voice, "and it ain't good for
you." "I don't care, and I'm not a kid. I'm--I'm used to such things.
And, anyway, I climbed the tree. Look at my hands." "Of course he can
stay," other voices took up the trouble. "Leave him alone, Curley."
"You ain't the whole thing." A laugh greeted this, and things quieted
down.

"Silence!" the chairman called, and then to St. Vincent, "Go ahead,
you, and don't take all day about it."

"Give us a chance to hear!" the crowd broke out again. "Put 'm on the
box! Put 'm on the box!"

St. Vincent was helped up, and began with eager volubility.

"I didn't do it, but I saw it done. There weren't two men--only one.
He did it, and Bella helped him."

A wave of laughter drowned him out.

"Not so fast," Bill Brown cautioned him. "Kindly explain how Bella
helped this man kill herself. Begin at the beginning."

"That night, before he turned in, Borg set his burglar alarm--"

"Burglar alarm?"

"That's what I called it,--a tin bread-pan attached to the latch so the
door couldn't open without tumbling it down. He set it every night, as
though he were afraid of what might happen,--the very thing which did
happen, for that matter. On the night of the murder I awoke with the
feeling that some one was moving around. The slush-lamp was burning
low, and I saw Bella at the door. Borg was snoring; I could hear him
plainly. Bella was taking down the bread-pan, and she exercised great
care about it. Then she opened the door, and an Indian came in softly.
He had no mask, and I should know him if ever I see him again, for a
scar ran along the forehead and down over one eye."

"I suppose you sprang out of bed and gave the alarm?"

"No, I didn't," St. Vincent answered, with a defiant toss of the head,
as though he might as well get the worst over with. "I just lay there
and waited."

"What did you think?"

"That Bella was in collusion with the Indian, and that Borg was to be
murdered. It came to me at once."

"And you did nothing?"

"Nothing." His voice sank, and his eyes dropped to Frona, leaning
against the box beneath him and steadying it. She did not seem to be
affected. "Bella came over to me, but I closed my eyes and breathed
regularly. She held the slush-lamp to me, but I played sleep naturally
enough to fool her. Then I heard a snort of sudden awakening and
alarm, and a cry, and I looked out. The Indian was hacking at Borg
with a knife, and Borg was warding off with his arms and trying to
grapple him. When they did grapple, Bella crept up from behind and
threw her arm in a strangle-hold about her husband's neck. She put her
knee into the small of his back, and bent him backward and, with the
Indian helping, threw him to the floor."

"And what did you do?"

"I watched."

"Had you a revolver?"

"Yes."

"The one you previously said John Borg had borrowed?"

"Yes; but I watched."

"Did John Borg call for help?"

"Yes."

"Can you give his words?"

"He called, 'St. Vincent! Oh, St. Vincent! Oh, my God! Oh, St.
Vincent, help me!'" He shuddered at the recollection, and added, "It
was terrible."

"I should say so," Brown grunted. "And you?"

"I watched," was the dogged reply, while a groan went up from the
crowd. "Borg shook clear of them, however, and got on his legs. He
hurled Bella across the cabin with a back-sweep of the arm and turned
upon the Indian. Then they fought. The Indian had dropped the knife,
and the sound of Borg's blows was sickening. I thought he would surely
beat the Indian to death. That was when the furniture was smashed.
They rolled and snarled and struggled like wild beasts. I wondered the
Indian's chest did not cave in under some of Borg's blows. But Bella
got the knife and stabbed her husband repeatedly about the body. The
Indian had clinched with him, and his arms were not free; so he kicked
out at her sideways. He must have broken her legs, for she cried out
and fell down, and though she tried, she never stood up again. Then he
went down, with the Indian under him, across the stove."

"Did he call any more for help?"

"He begged me to come to him."

"And?"

"I watched. He managed to get clear of the Indian and staggered over
to me. He was streaming blood, and I could see he was very weak.
'Give me your gun,' he said; 'quick, give me it.' He felt around
blindly. Then his mind seemed to clear a bit, and he reached across me
to the holster hanging on the wall and took the pistol. The Indian
came at him with the knife again, but he did not try to defend himself.
Instead, he went on towards Bella, with the Indian still hanging to him
and hacking at him. The Indian seemed to bother and irritate him, and
he shoved him away. He knelt down and turned Bella's face up to the
light; but his own face was covered with blood and he could not see.
So he stopped long enough to brush the blood from his eyes. He
appeared to look in order to make sure. Then he put the revolver to
her breast and fired.

"The Indian went wild at this, and rushed at him with the knife, at the
same time knocking the pistol out of his hand. It was then the shelf
with the slush-lamp was knocked down. They continued to fight in the
darkness, and there were more shots fired, though I do not know by
whom. I crawled out of the bunk, but they struck against me in their
struggles, and I fell over Bella. That's when the blood got on my
hands. As I ran out the door, more shots were fired. Then I met La
Flitche and John, and . . . and you know the rest. This is the truth I
have told you, I swear it!"

He looked down at Frona. She was steadying the box, and her face was
composed. He looked out over the crowd and saw unbelief. Many were
laughing.

"Why did you not tell this story at first?" Bill Brown demanded.

"Because . . . because . . ."

"Well?"

"Because I might have helped."

There was more laughter at this, and Bill Brown turned away from him.
"Gentlemen, you have heard this pipe dream. It is a wilder fairy story
than his first. At the beginning of the trial we promised to show that
the truth was not in him. That we succeeded, your verdict is ample
testimony. But that he should likewise succeed, and more brilliantly,
we did not expect. That he has, you cannot doubt. What do you think
of him? Lie upon lie he has given us; he has been proven a chronic
liar; are you to believe this last and fearfully impossible lie?
Gentlemen, I can only ask that you reaffirm your judgment. And to
those who may doubt his mendacity,--surely there are but few,--let me
state, that if his story is true; if he broke salt with this man, John
Borg, and lay in his blankets while murder was done; if he did hear,
unmoved, the voice of the man calling to him for help; if he did lie
there and watch that carnival of butchery without his manhood prompting
him,--let me state, gentlemen, I say, let me state that he is none the
less deserveful of hanging. We cannot make a mistake. What shall it
be?"

"Death!" "String him up!" "Stretch 'm!" were the cries.

But the crowd suddenly turned its attention to the river, and even
Blackey refrained from his official task. A large raft, worked by a
sweep at either end, was slipping past the tail of Split-up Island,
close to the shore. When it was at their feet, its nose was slewed
into the bank, and while its free end swung into the stream to make the
consequent circle, a snubbing-rope was flung ashore and several turns
taken about the tree under which St. Vincent stood. A cargo of
moose-meat, red and raw, cut into quarters, peeped from beneath a cool
covering of spruce boughs. And because of this, the two men on the
raft looked up to those on the bank with pride in their eyes.

"Tryin' to make Dawson with it," one of them explained, "and the sun's
all-fired hot."

"Nope," said his comrade, in reply to a query, "don't care to stop and
trade. It's worth a dollar and a half a pound down below, and we're
hustlin' to get there. But we've got some pieces of a man we want to
leave with you." He turned and pointed to a loose heap of blankets
which slightly disclosed the form of a man beneath. "We gathered him
in this mornin', 'bout thirty mile up the Stewart, I should judge."

"Stands in need of doctorin'," the other man spoke up, "and the meat's
spoilin', and we ain't got time for nothin'." "Beggar don't have
anythin' to say. Don't savve the burro." "Looks as he might have been
mixin' things with a grizzly or somethin',--all battered and gouged.
Injured internally, from the looks of it. Where'll you have him?"

Frona, standing by St. Vincent, saw the injured man borne over the
crest of the bank and through the crowd. A bronzed hand drooped down
and a bronzed face showed from out the blankets. The bearers halted
near them while a decision could be reached as to where he should be
carried. Frona felt a sudden fierce grip on her arm.

"Look! look!" St. Vincent was leaning forward and pointing wildly at
the injured man. "Look! That scar!"

The Indian opened his eyes and a grin of recognition distorted his face.

"It is he! It is he!" St. Vincent, trembling with eagerness, turned
upon the crowd. "I call you all to witness! That is the man who
killed John Borg!"

No laughter greeted this, for there was a terrible earnestness in his
manner. Bill Brown and the chairman tried to make the Indian talk, but
could not. A miner from British Columbia was pressed into service, but
his Chinook made no impression. Then La Flitche was called. The
handsome breed bent over the man and talked in gutturals which only his
mother's heredity made possible. It sounded all one, yet it was
apparent that he was trying many tongues. But no response did he draw,
and he paused disheartened. As though with sudden recollection, he
made another attempt. At once a gleam of intelligence shot across the
Indian's face, and his larynx vibrated to similar sounds.

"It is the Stick talk of the Upper White," La Flitche stopped long
enough to explain.

Then, with knit brows and stumbling moments when he sought
dim-remembered words, he plied the man with questions. To the rest it
was like a pantomime,--the meaningless grunts and waving arms and
facial expressions of puzzlement, surprise, and understanding. At
times a passion wrote itself on the face of the Indian, and a sympathy
on the face of La Flitche. Again, by look and gesture, St. Vincent was
referred to, and once a sober, mirthless laugh shaped the mouths of
them.

"So? It is good," La Flitche said, when the Indian's head dropped
back. "This man make true talk. He come from White River, way up. He
cannot understand. He surprised very much, so many white men. He
never think so many white men in the world. He die soon. His name Gow.

"Long time ago, three year, this man John Borg go to this man Gow's
country. He hunt, he bring plenty meat to the camp, wherefore White
River Sticks like him. Gow have one squaw, Pisk-ku. Bime-by John Borg
make preparation to go 'way. He go to Gow, and he say, 'Give me your
squaw. We trade. For her I give you many things.' But Gow say no.
Pisk-ku good squaw. No woman sew moccasin like she. She tan
moose-skin the best, and make the softest leather. He like Pisk-ku.
Then John Borg say he don't care; he want Pisk-ku. Then they have a
_skookum_ big fight, and Pisk-ku go 'way with John Borg. She no want
to go 'way, but she go anyway. Borg call her 'Bella,' and give her
plenty good things, but she like Gow all the time." La Flitche pointed
to the scar which ran down the forehead and past the eye of the Indian.
"John Borg he do that."

Copyright (c) 2007. bestextbooks.com. All rights reserved.

Various - "Notes and Queries, Number 32, June 8, 1850"

Harold J. Laski - "Political Thought in England from Locke to Bentham"

Elizabeth Miller - "The City of Delight"

Roy Rockwood - "Through the Air to the North Pole"