Free The Alaskan by James Oliver Curwood

urging me to hurry, telling me I had no minutes to lose, for the man who had left me was clever and might guess the truth that lay hid behind my smiles and cajolery.
    "I stole out through the back of the house, and as I went I heard Sharpleigh's low laughter in the library. It was a new kind of laughter, and with it I heard John Graham's voice. I was thinking only of the sea-to get away on the sea. A taxi took me to my bank, and I drew money. I went to the wharves, intent only on boarding a ship, any ship, and it seemed to me that Uncle Peter was leading me; and we came to a great ship that was leaving for Alaska-and you know-what happened then-Alan Holt."
    With a sob she bowed her face in her hands, but only an instant it was there, and when she looked at Alan again, there were no tears in her eyes, but a soft glory of pride and exultation.
    "I am clean of John Graham," she cried. "Clean!"
    He stood twisting his hands, twisting them in a helpless, futile sort of way, and it was he, and not the girl, who felt like bowing his head that the tears might come unseen. For her eyes were bright and shining and clear as stars.
    "Do you despise me now?"
    "I love you," he said again, and made no movement toward her.
    "I am glad," she whispered, and she did not look at him, but at the sunlit plain which lay beyond the window.
    "And Rossland was on theNome , and saw you, and sent word back to Graham," he said, fighting to keep himself from going nearer to her.
    She nodded. "Yes; and so I came to you, and failing there, I leaped into the sea, for I wanted them to think I was dead."
    "And Rossland was hurt."
    "Yes. Strangely. I heard of it in Cordova. Men like Rossland frequently come to unexpected ends."
    He went to the door which she had closed, and opened it, and stood looking toward the blue billows of the foothills with the white crests of the mountains behind them. She came, after a moment, and stood beside him.
    "I understand," she said softly, and her hand lay in a gentle touch upon his arm. "You are trying to see some way out, and you can see only one. That is to go back, face the creatures I hate, regain my freedom in the old way. And I, too, can see no other way. I came on impulse; I must return with impulse and madness burned out of me. And I am sorry. I dread it. I-would rather die."
    "And I-" he began, then caught himself and pointed to the distant hills and mountains. "The herds are there," he said. "I am going to them. I may be gone a week or more. Will you promise me to be here when I return?"
    "Yes, if that is your desire."
    "It is."
    She was so near that his lips might have touched her shining hair.
    "And when you return, I must go. That will be the only way."
    "I think so."
    "It will be hard. It may be, after all, that I am a coward. But to face all that-alone-"
    "You won't be alone," he said quietly, still looking at the far-away hills. "If you go, I am going with you."
    It seemed as if she had stopped breathing for a moment at his side, and then, with a little, sobbing cry she drew away from him and stood at the half-opened door of Nawadlook's room, and the glory in her eyes was the glory of his dreams as he had wandered with her hand in hand over the tundras in those days of grief and half-madness when he had thought she was dead.
    "I am glad I was in Ellen McCormick's cabin the day you came," she was saying. "And I thank God for giving me the madness and courage to come toyou . I am not afraid of anything in the world now-because-I love you, Alan!"
    And as Nawadlook's door closed behind her, Alan stumbled out into the sunlight, a great drumming in his heart, and a tumult in his brain that twisted the world about him until for a little it held neither vision nor space nor sound.
    * * *
    Stampede had started with one of the two saddle-deer left at the range, but to ride deer-back successfully and with any degree of speed and specific direction was an accomplishment which he had neglected, and within the first