The Wag-Lady

"The Wag-Lady" by Rex Ellingwood Beach is a novel that revolves around the life of a spirited and independent woman who navigates the complexities of love, ambition, and societal expectations. Set against a vivid backdrop, the story explores themes of romance and personal growth as the protagonist deals with the challenges of her unconventional lifestyle while pursuing her dreams. Beach's engaging narrative and rich character development provide readers with a glimpse into the struggles and triumphs of the human experience, all infused with wit and charm.

• Short story

								
Her real name was June--well, the rest doesn't matter; for no one ever
got beyond that point. It was the Scrap Iron Kid who first bore news of
her coming to the Wag-boys. Knowing him for a poet, they put down his
perfervid description as the logical outpouring of a romantic spirit.

Reddy summed it up neatly by saying, "The Kid has fell for another
quilt, that's all."

"I 'ain't fell for no frill," the Kid stoutly declared. "I've saw too
many to lose me out. This gal's a thoroughbred."

"Another recruit for Simons, I suppose," Llewellyn yawned. "I'll drop in
at the theater and look her over."

"An' she ain't no actor, neither," Scrap Iron declared. "She's goin' to
start a hotel."

"Bah! If she's as good-looking as you claim, some Swede will marry her
before she can buy her dishes."

"Sure! They must all pull something like that to start with," said the
Dummy, who was a woman-hater; "then when you've played 'em straight they
h'ist the pirate's flag and go to palmin' percentage checks in some
dance-hall."

But again the idealistic Scrap Iron Kid came stubbornly to the defense
of the new-comer; and the argument was growing warm when Thomasville and
the Swede entered with two caddies of tobacco which they had managed to
acquire during the confusion at the water-front, thus ending the
discussion.

There were six of the Wag-boys, six as bold and unscrupulous gentlemen
as the ebb and swirl of the Northern gold rush had left stranded beneath
the rim of the Arctic, and they had joined forces, drawn as much,
perhaps, by their common calling as by the facilities thus afforded for
perfecting any alibis that a long and lonesome winter might render
necessary. Nor is it quite correct to state that they were stranded; for
it takes more than the buffets of a stormy fate to strand such men as
the Dummy and George Llewellyn and the Scrap Iron Kid and their three
companions.

Llewellyn was the gentleman of the outfit, owing to the fact that the
polish of an early training had not been utterly dulled by a four years'
trick at Deer Lodge Penitentiary. The Dummy had gained his name from an
admirable self-restraint which no "third-degree" methods had ever served
to break; Thomasville was so called because of a boyish pride in his
Georgia birthplace; while Reddy and the Swede--But this is the story of
the Wag-lady, and we digress.

To begin with, June was young, with a springtime flush in her cheeks,
and eyes as clear as glacier pools. Yet with all her youth and beauty,
she possessed a poise that held men at a distance. She also had a
certain fearlessness that came, perhaps, from worldly innocence and was
far more effective than the customary brazenness of frontier women. She
went ahead with her business, asking neither advice nor assistance, and,
almost before the Wag-boys knew what she was up to, she had leased the
P. C. Warehouse near their cabin and had carpenters changing it into a
bunk-house.

In a week it was open for business; on the second night after it was
full. Then she built a tiny cabin near her "hotel," and proceeded to
keep house for herself, sleeping daytimes and working nights.

"Say, she's coinin' money!" the Scrap Iron Kid advised his companions
some time later. "She's got fifty bunks at a dollar apiece, and each one
is full of Swede. You'd ought 'o drift by in business hours--it sounds
like a sawmill."

"If she's getting the money so fast, why don't you grab her, Kid?"
inquired Llewellyn.

"You cut that out!" snapped the former speaker. "There ain't nobody
going to grab that dame. I'd croak any guy that made a crack at her, and
that goes!"

Seeing a familiar light smoldering in the Kid's eyes, Llewellyn desisted
from further comment, but he made up his mind to become acquainted with
June at once.

Now, while he succeeded, it was in quite an unexpected manner; for
before he had formulated any plan Thomasville came to him with a
proposition that drove all thoughts of women from his mind and sent them
both out to the mines shortly after dark, each provided with a
six-shooter and a bandana handkerchief with eyeholes cut in it.

Jane had returned to her cabin the following morning, and was preparing
for bed, when she heard a faltering footstep outside. She glanced down
at her money-sack filled with the night's receipts of her hotel, then at
the fastenings of her door. She knew that law was but a pretense and
order a mockery in the camp, but the next instant she slid back the bolt
and let in a flood of morning sunlight.

There, leaning against her wall, was a tall, dark young man whose head
was hanging loosely and rolling from side to side. His hair beneath the
gray Stetson was wet, his boots were sodden and muddy, one arm was
thrust limply into the front of his coat as if paralyzed. She saw that
the sleeve was caked with blood. Even as she spoke he sagged forward and
slid down at her feet.

She was not the sort to run for help, and so, taking him under the
armpits, she had him on her bed and his sleeve cut away before he opened
his eyes. It was but an instant's work to heat a basin of water; then
she fell to bathing the wound. When she drew forth the shreds of cloth
that had been taken into the flesh by the bullet, the man's face grew
ghastly and she heard his teeth grind, but he made no other sound.

"That hurt, didn't it?" she smiled at him, and he tried to smile back.
"How did it happen?" she queried.

"Accident."

"You have come a long way?"

He nodded.

"Why didn't you ask for help?"

"It--wasn't worth while."

She looked at him wonderingly, admiring his gameness; then was surprised
to hear him say:

"So you're June!"

"Yes."

He closed his eyes and lay still while she poured some brandy for him;
then he said:

"Please don't bother. I must be going."

"Not till you've eaten something." She laid a soft, cool palm upon his
forehead when he endeavored to rise, and he dropped back again, watching
her curiously.

He had barely finished eating when another footstep sounded outside and
a heavy knock followed.

"Hey, June!" called a voice. "Are you up?"

It was Jim Devlin, the marshal, and the girl rose, only to stop at the
look she saw in the wounded man's face. His dark eyes had widened;
desperation haunted them.

"What is it, Mr. Devlin?" she answered.

"Have you seen anything of a wounded man within the last half-hour?"

She flashed another glance at her guest, to find him staring at her
defiantly, but there was no appeal in his face. "What in the world do
you mean?"

"There was a hold-up at Anvil Creek, and some shooting. We're pretty
sure one of the gang was hit, but he got away. Pete, the waterman, says
he saw a sick-looking fellow crossing the tundra in this direction. I

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