Winston remained staring blankly at the closed door behind which she had so swiftly vanished, his mind a chaos of doubt. He assuredly never purposed saying what he had said under the spur of deprivation, yet he regretted no single word that he had uttered. That he earnestly worshipped this briefly known woman was a fact borne in upon him suddenly; yet now, the fact once completely realized, he surrendered unconditionally to the inevitable. For a moment his thought of her obscured all lesser things; he saw nothing else in the wide world really worth striving after—every aroused impulse thrilled to the fair face, the soft voice of Beth Norvell. He was no "quitter," no faint-heart either in love or in war, and he was now far too deeply in earnest to accept as final a stingless rejection spoken by lips that were so openly contradicted by the smiling eyes above. Whatever of stern necessity might have inspired the utterance of such words of cold renunciation, it was assuredly neither indifference nor dislike. He forgave the lips, recalling only the eyes.
With his hand still pressed against the porch railing, the young man suddenly recalled Biff Farnham, his cool gray eyes as instantly hardening, his lips pressed together. What possible part in the dusk of the shadowed past did that disreputable gambler play? What connection could he hold, either in honor or dishonor, with the previous life history of Beth Norvell? He did not in the least doubt her, for it was Winston's nature to be entirely loyal, to be unsuspicious of those he once trusted. Yet he could not continue completely blind. That there once existed some connection it was impossible to ignore entirely. Her laughing, yet clearly embarrassed, attempt at explanation had not in the slightest deceived him, for beyond it remained her quick surprise at that earliest unexpected mention of the man's name, the suddenly blanched cheeks, the unconcealed fright revealed by the dark eyes. The full truth was to be read there, and not in her later more deliberate attempt at leading his suspicions astray. There was nothing pleasant about this thought, and Winston's sensitive face flushed, his glance wandering uneasily down the midnight street. For the space of a block, or more, where numerous tents and low wooden buildings stood deserted of tenants, all remained dark and silent; but just beyond glowed brilliantly the many-hued lights of the wide-awake Poodle-Dog, and he could even hear the band playing noisily within the still more distant dance hall. This combined sight and sound served to arouse him to action and a cool resolve. If he really intended to play out this game successfully he must learn something of its conditions. Besides, he had now two most excellent reasons for desiring to form an early acquaintance with this man Farnham—the fellow had come across his line of life twice within the past twelve hours. For the purpose there could be no time better than the present. He struck a match against the rough railing and lighted for himself a fresh cigar, his clear-cut, manly features showing calmly determined in that instant glare of sputtering flame. Almost unconsciously, following the instinct of his long Western training, he slipped a revolver from its customary resting-place at the hip, and dropped the weapon conveniently into the side pocket of his loose sack coat. He had heard some tales of this man he purposed seeking, and it might prove well to be prepared for emergencies.
The bar-room of the blazing Poodle-Dog was thronged with men—men standing before the long, sloppy bar, men seated around rough tables, and men lounging here and there in groups about the heavily sanded floor. Uninterestedly glancing at these, Winston paused for an idle moment, his eyes fastened upon a whirling spectacle of dancers in the hall beyond. It formed a scene of mad revelry; yet in his present state of mind, he cared little for its frontier picturesqueness, and soon turned away, mounting the broad stairway down which, like an invitation, echoed the sharp click of ivory chips, and the excited voices of those absorbed in play. In both size and gorgeousness of decoration the rooms above were a surprise—a glitter of lights, a babel of noises, a continuous jumble of figures, while over all trembled a certain tension of excitement, terrible in its enchaining power. The very atmosphere seemed electric, filled with a deadly charm. The dull roar of undistinguishable voices sounded incessantly, occasionally punctuated by those sharp, penetrating tones with which the scattered dealers called varied turns of play, or by some deep oath falling unnoted from desperate lips as the unhappy end came. Winston, who had seen many similar scenes, glanced with his usual cool indifference at the various groups of players, careless except in his search, and pressing straight through the vibrating, excited throng, regardless of the many faces fronting him. He understood that Farnham dealt faro, and consequently moved directly down the long main room totally indifferent to all else. He discovered his particular goal at last, almost at the farther end of the great apartment, the crowd gathered about the faro table dense and silent. He succeeded in pressing in slowly through the outer fringe of players until he attained a position within ten feet of the dealer. There he halted, leaning against the wall, the narrow space between them unoccupied.
He saw before him a slenderly built, fashionably dressed figure, surmounted by clear-cut, smooth-shaven features—a man of thirty, possibly, decidedly aristocratic, perfectly self-controlled, his eyes cool, calculating, his hands swift, unhesitating in play. From some mysterious cause this masterful repose of the absorbed dealer began immediately to exercise a serious fascination over the man watching him. He did not appear altogether human, he seemed rather like some perfectly adjusted machine, able to think and plan, yet as unemotional as so much tempered steel. There was no perceptible change passing in that utterly impassive face, no brightening of those cold, observant eyes, no faintest movement of the tightly compressed lips. It was as though he wore a mask completely eclipsing every natural human feeling. Twice Winston, observing closely from his post of vantage slightly to the rear the swift action of those slender white fingers, could have sworn the dealer faced the wrong card, yet the dangerous trick was accomplished so quickly, so coolly, with never a lowering of the eyes, the twitching of a muscle, that a moment later the half-jealous watcher doubted the evidence of his own keen eyesight. As the final fateful card came silently gliding forth and was deliberately turned, face upward, amid bitter curses telling the disappointment of that breathless crowd, a young woman suddenly swept around the lower edge of the long table, brushing Winston with her flapping skirt as she passed, bent down, and whispered a half-dozen rapid sentences into the gambler's ear. The hands, already deftly shuffling the cards for another deal, scarcely paused in their operations, nor did those cool, observant eyes once desert the sea of excited faces before him. He asked a single brief question, nodded carelessly to the hastily spoken reply, and then, as the woman drew noiselessly away, Winston gazed directly into the startled black eyes of Señorita Mercedes. Instantly she smiled merrily, exhibiting her white teeth.
"Ah, señor," and she bent toward him in seductive whisper, "so my lady, de Americana, let you escape early to-night!"
Surprised at her recognition, he failed to answer immediately, and the girl touched him gently with her hand.
"De girls of my race never so cold, señor. Try me some time, an' see."
With a happy laugh and coquettish uplifting of the dark eyes, the dancer was as quickly gone, vanishing into the throng like a flash of red flame. For a breathless moment Winston's admiring gaze followed, conscious merely of her dark beauty, her slender, graceful figure. He was young, impressionable, and there was rare witchery about the girl which momentarily fascinated him. His attention shifted back to Farnham with a swift remembrance of the stern purpose which had brought him there. The gambler was playing out his case silently, emotionless as ever. If he had observed anything unusual, if he considered anything beyond his card-play, no eye could have detected it in that impassive countenance, those cold, expressionless eyes. Apparently he was a mere automaton, the sole symbol of life showing in the white fingers so deftly dealing the fateful pasteboards from the box. The impatient, excited crowd facing him moved restlessly, cursing or laughing with each swift turn of play; but he who wrought the spell neither spoke nor smiled, his face remaining fixed, immutable, as emotionless as carven granite. Suddenly he glanced meaningly aside, and, nodding silently to a black-moustached fellow lounging beside the croupier, rose quickly from his chair. The other as instantly slipped into it, his hands guarding the few remaining cards, while Farnham stood for a moment behind the chair, idly looking on. There was no noticeable interruption to the game, and when the final card came gliding forth from the silver box, the imperturbable gamester turned deliberately away from the table, heedless of the desperate struggle about him, the curses and uproar, and faced the younger man still leaning against the wall.
"Mr. Winston?" he questioned quietly.
Surprised by this unexpected notice, the other bowed in silent acknowledgment of his name.
A faint sarcastic smile curved the thin, compressed lips, while Farnham ran one hand carelessly through his slightly curling hair.
"I should like a few words with you in private," he explained politely. "There is a vacant room we can use—this way."
Astonished into yielding without protest, and at the same time feeling sufficiently eager to learn the cause for such a request, Winston unhesitatingly followed the other through the press, marking as he did so the slender erectness of that figure in advance, the square set of the broad shoulders, the easy air of authority with which he cleared the way. Without ceremony Farnham flung aside a heavy brocaded curtain, glancing inquiringly into the smaller room thus revealed. It contained a square table and half a dozen chairs. Three men sat within, their feet elevated, quietly smoking. The gambler coolly ran his eyes over their uplifted faces.
"I desire to use this room, gents," he announced quietly. "You 'll find plenty of vacant space outside."
Whether the lounging trio knew the speaker of old, or were sufficiently satisfied from his stern face of the probable results should they long hesitate to comply, the three pairs of feet came down together, their owners passing out in single file. Farnham waved his hand politely toward the vacated interior, a slight measure of deference apparent in his modulated voice.
"Help yourself to a chair, Mr. Winston, and permit me to offer you a fresh cigar; a fairly good one I imagine, as I chance to be somewhat particular regarding the weed."
A moment they sat thus furtively studying each other's face across the table through the increasing clouds of blue smoke, the younger man puzzled and filled with vague suspicion, the elder still rather uncertain of his present ground, as well as of the exact sort of character opposing him. He was somewhat expert in judging human nature; and the full, square chin, the frank, open look in those steady gray eyes across the table left him doubtful of the final outcome.
"No doubt, my addressing you by name was something of a surprise," he began, leaning slightly forward, his cigar between his fingers; "but as it chanced, you were pointed out to me on the street a few hours since. May I inquire in this connection if, by any freak of fortune, you can be Ned Winston, of Denver?"
"I am."
Farnham permitted his lips to smile genially, although his eyes remained utterly devoid of humor. He was skating upon rather thin ice now, realizing it to be far safer to make the venture in all boldness. What he might need to say later would altogether depend upon how much this man really knew.
"I was not previously assured of that fact," he explained, pleasantly. "It was my pleasure at one time to be quite intimately associated with an old friend of yours, a college chum, I believe—Robert Craig, of Chicago."
The swift light of pleasant remembrance glowed instantly within the other's watchful eyes. For the moment he dropped his guard in the surprise of this avowal.
"Bob Craig! Indeed; why, I do not recall his ever having mentioned your name to me."
Farnham's suspended breath burst through his compressed lips in sudden relief.
"Very probably not," he admitted, quietly, yet having the grace to lower his eyes slightly. "My own intimacy with Craig occurred since his college days. However, he has spoken to me regarding you quite frequently, and I naturally esteem it a pleasure to meet with you personally."
Winston did not immediately reply, puzzling his confused mind in a wholly useless attempt at recalling his ever having heard this man's name before. But Farnham, placed completely at his ease regarding possible recognition, proceeded coolly.
"Yet, that does not sufficiently account for my inviting you here." And he leaned farther across the table, slightly lowering his voice. "My important reason for speaking is entirely a business one. You are, I understand, a mining engineer?"
Winston permitted his eyes to acquiesce, fully determined now to allow this man to exhibit his own hand completely before making any return play. Farnham, watching the face of the other closely, paused to relight his cigar.
"The simple fact is," he resumed, carelessly, "we are having some little difficulty at present regarding certain mining claims we are operating up in Echo Canyon. Nothing at all serious, you understand, but there 's plenty of bad blood, and we naturally prefer keeping the entire controversy out of the courts, if possible. A lawsuit, whatever its final result, would be quite certain to tie up the property for an indefinite period. Besides, lawsuits in this country cost money. The man who has been making the greater part of the existing trouble, a drunken, quarrelsome old mountain shell-back, named Hicks, came in here to see me this afternoon. He was in blamed bad humor, and threatened to blow my brains out unless I came to his terms. No doubt he meant it, and consequently I got rid of him the easiest way I could, and that was by lying. I 've always preferred to lie rather than get shot. Hard to account for tastes, you know. However among other things the fellow chanced to mention while here was that you had been employed to look after their interests. I presume that statement was merely a bluff?"
"Well, not precisely," admitted Winston, when the other paused. "I agreed to go out there, and look over the ground."
Farnham smiled deprecatingly, his cigar gripped tightly between his white teeth.
"Just about as I supposed. No particular harm done as yet, and no contract made; time enough left to draw out of a bad bargain. Well, Winston, I am here to tell you that outfit is not the kind you want to associate yourself with if you desire to stand well in this camp. That 's the straight goods. They 're simply a lot of blackmailers and irresponsible thieves. Why, damn it, man, the actual fact is, they can't get a single reputable mining engineer in all this whole district to take hold of their dirty work. That 's why they 've had to hunt up a new man, and got track of you."
"So Hicks admitted," interposed the younger man gravely, "although he put it in rather different form. He said it was because you had the money, and your crowd bought them all up."
"Oh, he did, did he?" and the gambler laughed outright. "Well, that sort of a job would n't be very costly—to outbid that measly outfit. It would be a sight cheaper than litigation, I reckon. What did he offer you, by the way?"
The young engineer hesitated slightly, his cheeks flushing at the cool impudence of the other's direct question.
"I do not recall that any positive offer was made," he replied finally. "At least, the question of payment was not broached."
"The old cuss proved more honest than I had supposed," and Farnham dropped his clinched hand on the table. "Now, see here, Winston, I propose giving you this thing right out from the shoulder. There is no use beating around the bush. Those fellows have n't got so much as a leg to stand on; their claim is no good, and never will be. They 're simply making a bluff to wring some good money out of us, and I don't want to see you get tangled up in that sort of a skin game. You 're Bob Craig's friend, and therefore mine. Now, listen. There are two fellows concerned in that 'Little Yankee' claim, this whiskey-soaked Hicks and his partner, a big, red-headed, stuttering fool named Brown—'Stutter' Brown, I believe they call him—and what have they got between them? A damned hole in the ground, that's all. Oh, I know; I 've had them looked after from A to Z. I always handle my cards over before I play. They had exactly two hundred dollars between them deposited in a local bank here last week. That 's their total cash capital. Yesterday one of my people managed to get down in their dinky mine. It was a girl who did the job, but she 's a bright one, and that fellow Brown proved dead easy when she once got her black eyes playing on him. He threw up both hands and caved. Well, say, they 're down less than fifty feet, and their vein actually is n't paying them grub-stakes. That's the exact state of the case. Now, Winston, you do n't propose to tie yourself professionally with that sort of a beggarly outfit, do you?"
The younger man had been sitting motionless, his arm resting easily on the back of the chair, his eyes slowly hardening as the other proceeded.
"I never before clearly understood that poverty was necessarily a crime," he remarked thoughtfully, as Farnham came to a pause. "Besides, I am not tied up with that special outfit. I have merely agreed to examine into the matter."
"Of course, I understand that; but what's the use? You 'll only come to exactly the same conclusion all the others have. Besides, I have been especially authorized to offer you a thousand dollars simply to drop the thing. It's worth that much to us just now to be let alone."
Winston's eyes half closed, his fingers gripping nervously into the palm of his hand.
"It occurs to me you place my selling-out price at rather low figures," he said contemptuously.
Farnham straightened up in his chair, instantly realizing he had been guilty of playing the wrong card, and for the moment totally unable to perceive how safely to withdraw it. Even then he utterly failed to comprehend the deeper meaning in the other's words.
"I was thinking rather of what it was directly worth to us," he explained, "and had no conception you would look at it that way. However, we are perfectly willing to be liberal—how much do you want?"
For a moment Winston stared straight at him, his lips firmly set, his gray eyes grown hard as steel. Then he deliberately pushed back his chair, and rose to his feet, one clinched hand resting on the table.
"You may not fully understand my position," he began quietly, "for in all probability such a conception is utterly beyond you, but I do n't want a dollar, nor a cent. Good-night."
He turned deliberately toward the entrance, but the thoroughly astounded gambler leaped to his feet with one hand extended in sudden protest. He was angry, yet believed he perceived a great light shining through the darkness.
"Hold on, Winston," he exclaimed anxiously; "just a moment. I 'd totally forgotten that you were the son of a millionaire, and therefore possessed no desire for money like the rest of us more ordinary mortals. Now, let's be sensible. By God, you must want something! What is it?"
"You have received my final answer. I am not in the market."
Farnham crushed a bitter oath between his gleaming teeth, and flung his sodden cigar-butt to the floor.
"Do you actually mean you are crazy enough to go with Hicks, after all I 've told you?"
"I propose to discover for myself whether his claim is just. If it is, I 'm with him."
The gambler caught his breath sharply, for an instant utterly speechless, his face pallid with rage. Then the fierce, angry words burst forth in unrestrained torrent through the calm of his accustomed self-control.
"Oh, you 'll play hell, you infernal cur. Do it, and I 'll guarantee you 'll get a bullet in the brain, even if you are old Winston's son. We 've got a way of taking care of your kind out here when you get too gay. You 're with him, are you? Well, I 'm damned if you ever get any chance even to sit in the game. We 'll get you, and get you early, see if we don't. There are other things besides money in this world, and you 've got your price, just as well as every other man. Perhaps it's silk, perhaps it's calico; but you bet it's something, for you 're no angel. By God, I believe I could name it, even now."
Winston wheeled, his right hand thrust deeply into his coat pocket, his face sternly set.
"What, for instance?"
"Well,—just to take a chance,—Beth Norvell,"
Farnham never forgot the flame of those gray eyes, or the sharp sting of the indignant voice.
"What do you know regarding her? Speak out, damn you!"
The gambler laughed uneasily; he had seen that look in men's faces before, and knew its full, deadly meaning. He had already gone to the very limit of safety.
"Oh, nothing, I assure you. I never even saw the lady," he explained coldly. "But I have been told that she wastheattraction for you in this camp; and I rather guess I hit the bull's-eye that time, even if it was a chance shot."
Winston moistened his dry lips, his eyes never wavering from off the sneering face of the other.
"Farnham," the voice sounding low and distinct, "I have got something to say to you, and you are going to listen to the end. You see that?" He thrust sharply forward the skirt of his short coat. "Well, that's a thirty-eight, cocked and loaded, and I 've got you covered. I know your style, and if you make a single move toward your hip I 'll uncork the whole six shots into your anatomy. Understand? Now, see here—I 'm not on the bargain counter for money or anything else. I had not the slightest personal interest in this affair an hour ago, but I have now, and, what is more, I am going directly after the facts. Neither you, nor all of your crowd put together, can stop me with either money, bullets, or women. I don't bully worth a cent, and I don't scare. You took the wrong track, and you 've got me ready now to fight this out to a finish. And the first pointer I desire to give you is this—if your lips ever again besmirch the name of Beth Norvell to my knowledge, I 'll hunt you down as I would a mad dog. I believe you are a dirty liar and thief, and now I 'm going after the facts to prove it. Good-night."
He backed slowly toward the curtained doorway, his gaze never wavering from off the surprised countenance of the other, his hidden hand grasping the masked revolver. Then he stepped through the opening and disappeared. Farnham remained motionless, his face like iron, his teeth gripping savagely. Then he dropped his hand heavily on the table, still staring, as if fascinated, at the quivering curtains.
"By God, the fellow actually means fight," he muttered slowly. "He means fight."
She had expected the probability of such a happening, yet her face perceptibly paled while perusing the brief note handed her by the stage manager upon coming forth from her dressing-room. Her first impulse was to refuse compliance, to trust fortune in an endeavor to keep beyond reach, to turn and run from this new, threatening danger like a frightened deer. But she recalled the financial necessity which held her yet a prisoner at the Gayety. This writer was partner in the gambling rooms, possibly in the theatre also; her chance for escaping him would be very slender. Besides, it might be far better to face the man boldly and have it over. Undoubtedly a meeting must occur some time; as well now as later so that the haunting shadow would not remain ever before her. The color stole slowly back into her cheeks as she stood twisting the paper between her fingers, her eyes darkening with returning courage.
"Where is the gentleman, Ben?" she asked, steadying herself slightly against a fly.
"First box, Miss; right through that narrow door, yonder," and the man smiled, supposing he understood. "Very convenient arrangement for the stage ladies."
She paused, her hand resting upon the latch, in a final effort to quiet her rapid breathing and gain firmer control over her nerves. This was to be a struggle for which she must steel herself. She stepped quietly within, and stood, silent and motionless, amid the shadows of the drawn curtains, gazing directly at the sole occupant of the box, her dark eyes filled with contemptuous defiance. Farnham lounged in the second chair, leaning back in affected carelessness with one arm resting negligently upon the railing, but there came into his pale face a sudden glow of appreciation as he swept his cool eyes over the trim figure, the flushed countenance there confronting him. A realization of her fresh womanly fairness came over him with such suddenness as to cause the man to draw his breath quickly, his eyes darkening with passion.
"By thunder, Lizzie, but you are actually developing into quite a beauty!" he exclaimed with almost brutal frankness. "Life on the stage appears to agree with you; or was it joy at getting rid of me?"
She did not move from where she had taken her first stand against the background of curtains, nor did the expression upon her face change.
"I presume you did not send for me merely for the purpose of compliment," she remarked, quietly.
"Well, no; not exactly," and the man laughed with assumed recklessness in an evident effort to appear perfectly at ease. "I was simply carried away by the enthusiasm of the moment. I was always, as you will remember, something of a connoisseur regarding the charms of the sex, and you have certainly improved wonderfully. Why, I actually believe I might fall in love with you again if I were to receive the slightest encouragement."
"I do not think I am offering you any."
"Hardly; even my egotism will not permit me to believe so. An iceberg would seem warm in comparison. Yet, at least, there is no present occasion for our quarrelling. Sit down."
"Thank you, I prefer to remain standing. I presume whatever you may desire to say will not require much time?"
Farnham leaned forward, decidedly jarred from out his assumed mood of cold sarcasm. He had expected something different, and his face hardened with definite purpose.
"That depends," he said soberly, "on your frame of mind. You do not appear extremely delighted to meet me again. Considering that it is now fully three years since our last conversation, you might strive to be, at least outwardly, cordial."
She gathered up her skirts within her left hand, and turned calmly toward the door.
"Is that all?"
The man leaped impulsively to his feet, his cheeks burning with sudden animation, his previous mask of reckless indifference entirely torn away.
"Hell, no!" he exclaimed warmly, as instantly pausing when she wheeled swiftly about and faced him firmly. "No, it is not all. Of course, I had a special purpose in sending for you. Yet I cannot help feeling a natural curiosity. Tell me, what are you doing here?"
"That is quite easily seen; I am endeavoring to earn a living."
"A nice, quiet, respectable sort of a place you have chosen, certainly. It is about the last spot I should ever have expected to discover you in, knowing as I do your former puritanical morals. Your tastes must have greatly changed under the spur," and he laughed lightly, in mockery.
Miss Norvell's lips curled in unconcealed contempt, her eyes darkening with indignation.
"My present associations were not entered into from choice but from necessity. With you, I understand, it is deliberate choice."
The man stood undecided, fingering the edge of the curtain, vaguely realizing that he was merely injuring his own cause by continuing to anger her, yet far too deeply hit to remain entirely silent.
"You seem inclined to strike out as hard as ever," he retorted, yet in tones of manifest regret. "But just now there is not the slightest occasion for any bitterness. I am perfectly prepared to do the square thing, and if we can only pull together pleasantly for a little while, it will prove far better for both of us."
"In plainer words, you chance just now to have some special use for me?"
"Well, I hope you will look at the situation from my viewpoint. But the actual truth is, that when I first came up here to-night, I had not the faintest suspicion that it was you I was seeking."
"No?" doubtfully.
"That is an actual fact, Lizzie. I did n't suppose you were within a thousand miles of this place," and Farnham quietly settled himself again in his chair. "I came up here merely intending to get a glimpse of an actress named Beth Norvell. I was never more thoroughly surprised in my life than when you first came out on the stage. For a moment it knocked me silly. Say, you're an artist all right, my girl. That was a great stunt. Why, those boys down below hardly breathed until you disappeared. You ought to get a chance in Chicago; you 'd be wearing diamonds. Damned if I was n't honestly proud of you myself."
The girl caught her breath sharply, her hand pressed tightly against her side.
"What—what was it you desired of Beth Norvell?" she questioned.
Farnham's white teeth gleamed in a sudden smile of appreciation.
"Hope you are not becoming jealous," he said insinuatingly. "Positively no occasion, I assure you, for it was not to make love to the girl, I wanted to see her. Lord, no! This was purely a business deal. The truth is, I chanced to hear she had a lover already, and he was the fellow I was really after."
"A lover?" she stepped toward him, her eyes blazing, her cheeks aflame. "I? How dare you? What can you mean by so false an insinuation?"
"Oh, don't flare up so, Lizzie," and the complacent gambler looked at her with eyes not entirely devoid of admiration. "It really makes you prettier than ever, but that sort of thing cuts no ice with me. However, what I have just said stands: the story flying around here is that you have captured old Winston's boy, and a damned good catch it is, too."
She went instantly white as a sheet, her body trembling like an aspen, her quivering lips faltering forth words she could not wholly restrain.
"The story, you say—the story! Do—do you believe that of me?"
"Oh, that does n't make any difference," the brute in him frankly enjoying her evident pain. "Lord, what do you care about my belief? That was all passed and over with long ago. All I know is, the fellow is gone on you, all right. Why, he pulled a gun on me last night merely because I chanced to mention your name in his presence."
The telltale color swept back into her cheeks in swift wave. For an instant her eyes wavered, then came back to the man's sneering face.
"Did—did you dare tell him?"
He laughed lightly, softly patting his hand on the railing, his own eyes partially veiled by lowered lids.
"Torn off the mask of unimpeachable virtue, have I?" he chuckled, well pleased. "Rather prefer not to have our late affair blowed to this particular young man, hey? Well, I suspected as much; and really, Lizzie, you ought to know I am not that sort of a cur. I 've held my tongue all right so far, and consequently I expect you to do me a good deed in return. That's a fair enough proposition, is n't it?"
She did not immediately answer, gazing upon him as she might at some foul snake which had fascinated her, her breath coming in half-stifled sobs, her hand clutching the heavy curtain for support.
"Oh, good God!" she faltered at last, speaking as though half dazed. "You must possess the spirit of a demon. Why do you continue to torture me so? You have no right—no right; you forfeited all you ever possessed years ago. Under Heaven, I am nothing to you; and in your heart you know I have done nothing wrong, nothing to awaken even the foul suspicions of jealousy. Mr. Winston has been my friend, yet even that friendship—innocent and unsullied—is already past; we have parted for all time."
"Indeed! You are such a consummate actress, Lizzie, I scarcely know what really to believe. Probably, then, you no longer object to my telling the gentleman the story?"
Her lips closed firmly.
"I shall tell him myself."
"Oh! Then, after all your fine words of renunciation, you will see him again! Your reform is soon ended. Well, my girl, there is really no necessity for any such sacrifice on your part. No one here suspects anything regarding our little affair excepting you and me. You do what I desire with this Winston, and I 'm mum. What do you say?"
She sank back into a chair, utterly unable to stand longer, hiding her face in her hands.
"What—what is it you wish?" she questioned wearily.
He leaned forward and placed his hand, almost in caress, upon her skirt, but she drew the cloth hastily away, a sudden sob shaking her voice.
"Oh, please, don't touch me! I cannot stand it—only tell me what it is you wish."
"I want you to exercise your influence over that fellow, and prevent his taking professional employment at the 'Little Yankee' mine."
"Why?" she lifted her head again, facing him with questioning eyes.
"Simply because his doing so will interfere seriously with some of my business plans—that's all."
"Then why don't you act the part of a man, and go to him yourself? Why, in this, do you prefer hiding behind the skirts of a woman?"
Farnham laughed grimly, in no way embarrassed by the query.
"Good Lord, Lizzie! I 've been to him, all right, but the fellow is like a stubborn mule. He has n't got but one selling-out price, so far as I can learn, and that chances to be Beth Norvell. You see the point? Well, that's exactly why I came here to-night. I wanted to be able to tender him the goods."
For a moment her eyes remained pitifully pleading; then they suddenly appeared to harden into resolute defiance. As though moving in a dream, she arose slowly to her feet, taking a single step away from him toward the closed door.
"As I have already explained," she paused to say coldly, "Mr. Winston is no more to me than any other gentleman whom I may have chanced to meet in friendship. I have not the faintest reason to suppose I could influence his decision in any matter appertaining to his professional work. Moreover, I have not the slightest inclination to try."
"Do you dare refuse, in spite of all I can say to your injury?" he asked, even then doubtful of her meaning.
"I definitely decline to be your catspaw,—yes. Nothing you can relate truthfully will ever harm me in the estimation of a gentleman, and I shall certainly know how to combat falsehood."
"Quite pretty. Injured innocence, I perceive, is to be the line of defence. What! are you already going?"
"I am."
"Where?"
She turned again, standing erect, her face flushing, her hand upon the latch of the door.
"If it is imperative that you know, I will tell you. I intend seeking Mr. Winston, and informing him exactly who and what I am."
"Now? at this hour of the night?"
"Better now, and at this hour of the night, than venture waiting until after you have had an inning. I am not at all ashamed to confess the truth, if I can only be the first to tell my story."
She pressed the latch of the door, her breathing so rapid as to be positively painful. With an ill-repressed oath, Farnham sprang to his feet, his rising anger putting an end to all prudence.
"Wait!" he exclaimed gruffly. "Wait where you are until I am done. You have heard only a part of this thing so far. My God, girl! don't you know me well enough by this time to comprehend that I always have my way, whatever the cost may be to others? Lord! what do I care for this fellow? or, for the matter of that, what do I care for you? I don't permit people to stand in my path; and I supposed you had thoroughly learned that lesson, if no other. Faith, you had cause enough, surely. So you refuse all endeavor to keep Winston out of this affair, do you? Perhaps you had better pause a minute, and remember who it is you are dealing with. I reckon you never saw any signs of the quitter about me. Now, it 's true I 'd rather have you do this business up quietly; but if you refuse, don't forget there are other means fully as effective, and a damn sight quicker." He reached out suddenly, grasping her hand. "Did you ever hear the adage, 'Dead men tell no tales'?" he questioned savagely.
She drew her hand sharply back from its instant of imprisonment, with a smothered cry, her eyes filled with undisguised horror.
"You threaten—you threaten murder?"
"Oh, we never use that word out in this country—it is considered far too coarse, my dear," and Farnham's thin lips curled sardonically. "We merely 'silence' our enemies in Colorado. It is an extremely simple matter; nothing at all disagreeable or boorish about it, I can assure you. A stick of dynamite dropped quietly down a shaft-hole, or pushed beneath a bunk house—that's all. The coroner calls it an accident; the preachers, a dispensation of Providence; while the fellows who really know never come back to tell. If merely one is desired, a well-directed shot from out a cedar thicket affords a most gentlemanly way of shuffling off this mortal coil."
"You would not! You dare not!"
"I? Why, such a thought is preposterous, of course, for the risk would be entirely unnecessary. Quite evidently you are not well acquainted with one of the flourishing industries of this section, my dear. There are always plenty of men out of a job in this camp; conscience does n't come high, and the present market price for that sort of work is only about twenty-five dollars a head. Not unreasonable, all things considered, is it?"
If she had not thoroughly known this man, had not previously sounded his depths, she might have doubted his meaning, deceived by the lazy drawl in his soft voice, the glimmer of grim humor in his eyes. But she did know him; she comprehended fully the slumbering tiger within, the lurking spirit of vindictiveness of his real nature, and that knowledge overcame her, left her weak and trembling like a frightened child. For an instant she could not articulate, staring at him with white face and horrified eyes.
"You—you mean that?" and for the first time she clasped his loose coat between her clutching fingers.
"It is hardly a subject to be deliberately selected for jest," he replied coolly, "but if you prefer you might wait and see."
She stepped back from him, leaning heavily against the frame of the door, her face again hidden behind uplifted hands. The man did not move, his face emotionless, his lips tightly set. He was watching her with the intentness of a hawk, absolutely certain now of his victim. Suddenly she looked up, her eyes picturing the courage of desperation. One glance into his face and the woman stood transformed, at bay, the fierce spirit of battle flaming into her face.
"Have it so, then," she exclaimed sharply. "I pledge myself to do everything possible to prevent his remaining here." She drew herself up, her eyes darkening from sudden, uncontrollable anger. "Oh, how I despise you, you coward, you cur! I know you, what you are capable of, and I do this to preserve the life of a friend; but my detestation of you is beyond expression in words. My one and greatest shame is that I ever trusted you; that I once believed you to be a man. Good God! how could I ever have been so blind!"
She opened the door with her hand extended behind her, and backed slowly away, facing him where he stood motionless, smiling still as though her sudden outburst of passion merely served to feed his conceit.
"Then I may trust you in this?"
Her eyes shone fairly black with the depth of scorn glowing in them.
"Have—have you ever known me to lie?" she asked, her voice faltering from reaction.
The door closed.
Her eyes blinded by a strange mist of tears, Beth Norvell clung to the latch of the closed door, fearful lest the man within might decide to follow, endeavoring to gaze about, while gaining control over her sorely shattered nerves. Strong as she had appeared when nerved by indignation and despair, that stormy interview with Farnham—his scarcely veiled threats, his heartless scoffing—had left her a wreck, for the moment scarcely mistress of her own mind. One thing alone stood forth as a rallying point for all her benumbed energies—she must save Winston from a real danger, the nature of which she did not in the least doubt. The gambler's boast was no idle one; she, who had before tasted of his depravity, felt fully convinced of his intention now. Yet what could she hope to do? How best might she accomplish that imperative duty of rescue?
There occurred to her only one feasible plan—a complete surrender of her womanly pride, an immediate acceptance of the young man's proffered aid to Denver, with an insistence that he also accompany her. Woman enough to realize her power, she could not but have faith in the results. The color crept back in her cheeks at this daring conception, for, after those hastily uttered words of the previous night, what construction would he be likely to put on this sudden yielding? An instant she hesitated, afraid, shrinking back before the sacrifice as from fire. Then her fine eyes darkened, the clinging tears vanishing while her fingers clinched in passionate resolve. Do it? Why, of course she must do it! What was her pitiful pride in the balance against his life? He might never dream what so great a sacrifice cost her; might even despise her for such an exhibition of weakness; but she would know, and be the stronger in her own soul from the brave performance of duty. Besides, she intended to tell him the whole miserable story of her wrecked life—not now, not even to-night, but some time, on their way back into the world,—as they were nearing Denver, perhaps, and at the moment of final parting. It almost seemed easy as she faced the stern necessity, so easy that her parted lips smiled sarcastically when she heard Farnham rise and leave the darkened box through the opposite entrance. Perhaps, when he comprehended it all, this other, who had spoken love words to her, would understand where the real blame lay, and so prove manly enough to absolve her from any conception of evil. This hope was sweet, strengthening, yet it faded immediately away. Ah, no; such result was not natural, as she understood the world—it was always the woman who bore the burden of condemnation. Far safer to expect nothing, but do the right simply because it was right. She no longer questioned what that would be. It stood there before her like a blazing cross of flame; she must hold those two men apart, even though they both trampled her heart beneath their feet. This was her destiny, the payment she must return the world for having once made a mistake. One out of the multitude, she felt strong enough in the crisis to choose deliberately the straight and narrow path leading through Gethsemane.
And this very choosing gave back her womanhood, cleared her dazed brain for action, and sent the red blood throbbing through her veins. Her immediate surroundings began to take definite form. To the left the great, deserted stage extended, wrapped in total darkness, silent, forsaken, the heavy drop-curtain lowered to the floor. Through its obscuring folds resounded noisily a crash of musical instruments, the incessant shuffling of feet, a mingled hum of voices, evidencing that the dance was already on in full volume. Far back, behind much protruding scenery, a single light flickered like a twinkling star, its dim, uncertain radiance the sole guide through the intricacies of cluttered passageways leading toward the distant stage entrance. Half frightened at this gloomy loneliness, the girl moved gingerly forward, her skirts gathered closely about her slender figure, with anxious eyes scanning the gloomy shadows in vague suspicion. Suddenly a hand gripped her extended wrist, and she gazed for a startled instant into fiercely burning eyes, her own heart throbbing with nervous excitement.
"Vat vas he to you? Answer me! Answer me quick!"
The blood came back into her blanched cheeks with a sudden rush of anger. Instantly indignation swept back the mists of fear. With unnatural strength she wrenched free her captured hand, and sternly fronted the other, a barely recognized shadow in the gloom.
"Permit me to pass," she exclaimed, clearly. "How dare you hide here to halt me?"
The other exhibited her teeth, gleaming white and savage behind parted lips, yet she never stirred.
"Dare? Pah! you vaste time to talk so," she cried brokenly, her voice trembling from passion. "You no such fine lady now, señorita. You see dis knife; I know how use eet quick. Bah! you go to him like all de rest, but I vill know de truth first, if I have to cut eet out you. So vat ees de Señor Farnham to you? Say quick!"
The American remained silent, motionless, her breath quickening under the threat, her eyes striving to see clearly the face of the one confronting her.
"Do you expect to frighten me?" she asked, coldly, her earlier anger strangely changing to indifference. "It is you who wastes time, señorita, for I care little for your knife. Only it would be an extremely foolish thing for you to do, as I have not come between you and your lover."
The impulsive Mexican dancer laughed, but with no tone of joy perceptible.
"My lofer! Mother of God! sometime I think I hate, not lofe. He vas like all you Americanos, cold as de ice. He play vis Mercedes, and hurt—gracious, how he hurt! But I must be told. Vat vas he to you? Answer me dat."
Beth Norvell's eyes softened in sudden pity. The unconscious appeal within that broken voice, which had lost all semblance of threat, seemed to reveal instantly the whole sad story, and her heart gave immediate response. She reached out, touching gently the hand in which she saw the gleam of the knife-blade. There was no fear in her now, nothing but an infinite womanly sympathy.
"He is nothing to me," she said, earnestly, "absolutely nothing. I despise him—that is all. He is unworthy the thought of any woman."
The slender figure of the Mexican swayed as though stricken by a blow, the fierce, tigerish passion dying out of her face, her free hand seeking her throat as though choking.
"Nothing?" she gasped, incredulously. "Sapristi, I think you lie, señorita. Nothing? Vy you go to him in secret? Vy you stay and talk so long? I not understand."
"He sent for me; he wished me to aid him in a business matter."
The other stared incredulous, her form growing rigid with gathering suspicion that this fair American was only endeavoring to make her a fool through the use of soft speech. The white teeth gleamed again maliciously.
"You speak false to Mercedes," she cried hotly, her voice trembling. "Vy he send for you, señorita? You know him?"
There was a bare instant of seeming hesitation, then the quiet, better controlled voice answered soberly:
"Yes, in the East, three years ago."
Like a flash of powder, the girl of the hot-blooded South burst into fresh flame of passion, her foot stamping the floor, her black eyes glowing with unrestrained anger.
"Dios de Dios! Eet ees as I thought. He lofe you, not Mercedes. Vy I not kill you?—hey?"
Miss Norvell met her fiercely threatening look, her single step of advance, without tremor or lowering of the eyes. She even released her grasp upon the uplifted knife, as if in utter contempt. For a moment they confronted each other, and then, as suddenly as she had broken into flame, the excitable young Mexican burst into tears. As though this unexpected exhibition of feeling had inspired the action, the other as quickly decided upon her course.
"Listen to me, girl," she exclaimed gravely, again grasping the lowered knife hand. "I am going to trust you implicitly. You feel deeply; you will understand when I tell you all. You call me a fine lady because I hold myself aloof from the senseless revelry of this mining camp; and you believe you hate me because you suppose I feel above you. But you are a woman, and, whatever your past life may have been, your heart will respond to the story of a woman's trouble. I 'm going to tell you mine, not so much for my sake as for your own. I am not afraid of your knife; why, its sharp point would be almost welcome, were it not that I have serious work to do in the world before I die. And you are going to aid me in accomplishing it. You say you do not really know now whether you truly love or hate this man, this Farnham. But I know for myself beyond all doubt. All that once might have blossomed into love in my heart has been withered into hatred, for I know him to be a moral leper, a traitor to honor, a remorseless wretch, unworthy the tender remembrance, of any woman. You suppose I went to him this night through any deliberate choice of my own? Almighty God, no! I went because I was compelled; because there was no possible escape. Now, I am going to tell you why."
Mercedes, the tears yet clinging to her long, black lashes, stood motionless, gazing at the other with fascination, her slender, scarlet-draped figure quivering to the force of these impetuous words. She longed, yet dreaded, to hear, her own lips refusing utterance. But Beth Norvell gave little opportunity; her determination made, she swept forward unhesitatingly. As though fearful of being overheard, even in the midst of that loneliness, she leaned forward, whispering one quick, breathless sentence of confession. The startled dancer swayed backward at the words, clutching at her breast, the faint glimmer of light revealing her staring eyes and pallid cheeks.
"Mother of God!" she sobbed convulsively. "No, no! not dat! He could not lie to me like dat!"
"Lie?" in bitter scornfulness. "Lie! Why, it is his very life to lie—to women. God pity us! This world seems filled with just such men, and we are their natural victims. Love? Their only conception of it is passion, and, that once satiated, not even ordinary kindness is left with which to mock the memory. In Heaven's name, girl, in your life have you not long since learned this? Now, I will tell you what this monster wanted of me to-night." She paused, scarcely knowing how best to proceed, or just how much of the plot this other might already comprehend.
"Have you ever heard of the 'Little Yankee' mine?" she questioned.
"Si, señorita," the voice faltering slightly, the black eyes drooping. "Eet is up in de deep canyon yonder; I know eet."
"He told me about it," Miss Norvell continued more calmly. "He is having trouble with those people out there. There is something wrong, and he is afraid of exposure. You remember the young man who walked home with me last night: Well, he is a mining engineer. He has agreed to examine into the claims of the 'Little Yankee' people, and this—this Farnham wants him stopped. You understand? He sent for me to use my influence and make him go away. I refused, and then this—this creature threatened to kill Mr. Winston if he remained in camp, and—and I know he will."
The Mexican's great black eyes widened, but not with horror. Suddenly in the silent pause she laughed.
"Si, si; now I know all—you lofe dis man.Bueno! I see eet as eet vas."
The telltale red blood swept to the roots of Miss Norvell's hair, but her indignant reply came swift and vehement.
"No, stop! Never dare to speak such words. I am not like that! Can you think of nothing except the cheap masquerade of love? Have you never known any true, pure friendship existing between man and woman? This mining engineer has been good to me; he has proved himself a gentleman. It is not love which makes me so anxious now to serve him, to warn him of imminent danger—it is gratitude, friendship, common humanity. Is it impossible for you to comprehend such motives?"
The other touched her for the first time with extended hand, her face losing much of its previous savagery.
"I know so ver' leettle 'bout such kinds of peoples, señorita," she explained regretfully, her voice low, "de kind vat are good and gentle and vidout vantin' somting for eet. Eet ees not de kinds I meet vis ver' much. Dey be all alike vis me—lofe, lofe, lofe, till I get seek of de vord—only de one, an' I not know him ver' vell yet. Maybe he teach me vat you mean some day. He talk better, not like a fool, an' he not try to make me bad. Is dat eet, señorita?"
"Yes; who is it you mean?"
"He? Oh! it vas most odd, yet I do not laugh, señorita, I know not vy, but he make me to feel—vat you calls eet?—si, de respect; I tink him to be de good man, de gentle. He was at de 'Little Yankee' too. I vonder vas all good out at de 'Little Yankee'?Sapristi! he vas such a funny man to talk—he sputter like de champagne ven it uncorked. I laugh at him, but I like him just de same, for he act to me like I vas de lady, de ver' fine lady. I never forget dat. You know him, señorita? So big like a great bear, vis de beautiful red hair like de color of dis dress. No? He so nice I just hate to have to fool him, but maybe I get chance to make eet all up some day—you tink so? Merciful saints! Ve are queer, ve vomens! Eet vas alvays de voman vat does like de vay you do, hey? Ve vas mooch fools all de time."
"Yes, we are 'much fools'; that seems ordained. Yet there are true, noble men in this world, Mercedes, and blessed is she who can boast of such a friendship. This Mr. Winston is one, and, perhaps, your stuttering giant may prove another." She caught at a straw of hope in thus interesting the girl. "So he is at the 'Little Yankee'? and you wish to serve him? Then listen; he is in danger also if this scheme of revenge carries—in danger of his life. Dynamite does not pick out one victim, and permit all others to escape."
"Dynamite?"
"That was Farnham's threat, and God knows he is perfectly capable of it. Now, will you aid me?"
The young Mexican girl stood staring with parted lips.
"Help you how? Vat you mean?"
"Warn the men of the 'Little Yankee.'"
The other laughed behind her white teeth, yet with no mirth in the sound.
"Ah, maybe I see, señorita; you try make a fool out me. No, I not play your game. You try turn me against Señor Farnham. I tink you not catch Mercedes so."
"You do not believe me?"
"Sapristi! I know not for sure. Maybe I help, maybe I not. First I talk vis Señor Farnham, an' den I know vether you lie, or tell true. Vatever ees right I do."
"Then permit me to pass."
Miss Norvell took a resolute step forward, clasping her skirts closely to keep them from contact with the dusty scenery crowding the narrow passage. The jealous flame within the black eyes of the Mexican dimmed.
"You can no pass dat vay," she explained swiftly, touching the other's sleeve.
"Not through the stage door?"
The other shook her head doggedly.
"Eet is alvay locked, señorita."
Beth Norvell turned about in dismay, her eyes pleading, her breath quickening.
"You mean we are shut in here for the night? Is n't there any way leading out?"
"Oh, si, si," and Mercedes smiled, waving her hands. "Zar is vay yonder vare de orchestra goes. Eet leads to de hall; I show you."
"Did he know?"
"Vat? Señor Farnham? No doubt, señorita. Come, eet ees but de step."
The bewildered American hung back, her eyes filled with dread resting upon the black shadow of the curtain, from behind which clearly arose the strains of a laboring orchestra, mingling with the discordant noise of a ribald crowd. Farnham understood she was locked in; knew she might hope to escape only through that scene of pollution; beyond doubt, he waited in its midst to gloat over her degradation, possibly even to accost her. She shrank from such an ordeal as though she fronted pestilence.
"Oh, not that way; not through the dance hall!" she exclaimed.
Mercedes clapped her hands with delight. To her it appeared amusing.
"Holy Mother! Vy not? Eet make me laugh to see you so ver' nice. Vat you 'fraid 'bout? Vas eet de men? Pah! I snap my fingers at all of dem dis vay. Dey not say boo! But come, now, Mercedes show you vay out vere you no meet vis de men, no meet vis anybody. Poof, eet ees easy."
She danced lightly away, her hand beckoning, her black eyes aglow with aroused interest. Reluctantly the puzzled American slowly followed, dipping down into the black labyrinth leading beneath the stage. Amid silence and darkness Mercedes grasped her arm firmly, leading unhesitatingly forward. Standing within the glare of light streaming through the partially open door. Miss Norvell drew a sudden breath of relief. The chairs and benches, piled high along the side of the great room, left a secluded passageway running close against the wall. Along this the two young women moved silently, catching merely occasional glimpses of the wild revelry upon the other side of that rude barrier, unseen themselves until within twenty feet of the street door. There Miss Norvell hesitated her anxious eyes searching the mixed crowd of dancers now for the first time fully revealed. Even as she gazed upon the riot, shocked into silence at the inexpressible profligacy displayed, and ashamed of her presence in the midst of it, a merry peal of laughter burst through the parted lips of the Mexican dancer.
"Dios de Dios, but I had all forgot dis vas your night for de dance, señor. But you no so easy forget Mercedes, hey?"
He stood directly before them, plainly embarrassed, gripping his disreputable hat in both hands like a great bashful boy, his face reddening under her smiling eyes, his voice appearing to catch within his throat. Mercedes laughed again, patting his broad shoulder with her white hand as though she petted a great, good-natured dog. Then her sparkling black eyes caught sight of something unexpected beyond, and, in an instant, grew hard with purpose.
"Holy Mother! but eet 's true he ees here, señorita—see yonder by de second vindow," she whispered fiercely. "Maybe it vas so he tink to get you once more, but he not looked dis vay yet.Bueno! I make him dance vis me. Dis man Stutter Brown, an' he go vis you to de hotel; ees eet not so,amigo?"
"I-I have no t-t-time," he stuttered, totally confused. "Y-you see, I 'm in a h-hell of a h-h-hurry."
"Pah; eet vill not take five minute, an' I be here ven you come back. Si, señor, I vait for you for de dance, sure." She turned eagerly to Miss Norvell. "You go vis him, señorita; he ver' good man, I, Mercedes, know."
The American looked at them both, her eyes slightly smiling in understanding.
"Yes," she assented quietly, "I believe he is."