Whatever Stutter Brown may secretly have thought concerning this new arrangement of his affairs, he indulged in no outward manifestations. Not greatly gifted in speech, he was nevertheless sufficiently prompt in action. The swift, nervous orders of the impulsive Mexican dancer had sufficiently impressed him with one controlling idea, that something decidedly serious was in the air; and, as she flitted across the room, looking not unlike a red bird, he watched her make directly toward a man who was leaning negligently back in a chair against the farther wall. For a moment he continued to gaze through the obscuring haze of tobacco smoke, uncertain as to the other's identity, his eyes growing angry, his square jaw set firm.
"W-who is the f-f-feller?" he questioned gruffly. "Wh-what 's she m-mean l-leavin' me to go over th-thar ter h-him?"
Beth Norvell glanced up frankly into his puzzled face.
"She has gone to keep him away from me," she explained quietly. "His name is Farnham."
Brown's right hand swung back to his belt, his teeth gripped like those of a fighting dog.
"Hell!" he ejaculated, forgetting to stutter. "Is that him? Biff Farnham? An' he 's after you is he, the damned Mormon?"
She nodded, her cheeks growing rosy from embarrassment. Brown cast a quick, comprehensive glance from the face of the woman to where the man was now leaning lazily against the wall.
"All r-right, little g-girl," he said slowly, and with grave deliberation. "I-I reckon I n-never went b-back on any p-pard yet. B-blamed if y-y-you hate thet c-cuss any worse th-than I do. Y-you bet, I 'll take you out o' h-h-here safe 'nough."
He drew her more closely against his side, completely shielding her slender figure from observation by the intervention of his giant body, and thus they passed out together into the gloomy but still riotous street. A block or more down, under the glaring light of a noisy saloon, the girl looked up questioningly into his boyish face.
"Are you Stutter Brown, of the 'Little Yankee'?" she asked doubtfully.
"I-I reckon you've c-c-called the t-turn, Miss."
She hesitated a moment, but there was something about this big, awkward fellow, with his sober eyes and good-natured face, which gave her confidence.
"Do—do you know a Mr. Ned Winston?"
He shook his head, the locks of red hair showing conspicuously under the wide hat-brim.
"I r-reckon not. Leastwise, don't s-s-sorter seem to r-recall no such n-name, Miss. Was the g-gent a f-friend o' your 'n?"
"Y-yes. He is a mining engineer, and, I have been told, is under engagement at the 'Little Yankee.'"
Brown's eyes hardened, looking down into the upturned face, and his hands clinched in sudden awakening suspicion.
"You d-did, hey?" he questioned sullenly. "Wh-who told you that r-rot?"
"Farnham."
The man uttered an unrestrained oath, fully believing now that he was being led into a cunningly devised trap. His mental operations were slow, but he was swift and tenacious enough in prejudice. He stopped still, and the two stood silently facing each other, the same vague spectre of suspicion alive in the minds of both.
"Farnham," the man muttered, for one instant thrown off his guard from surprise. "How th-the hell d-d-did he g-git hold o' that?"
"I don't know; but is n't it true?"
He turned her face around toward the light, not roughly, yet with an unconscious strength which she felt irresistible, and looked at her searchingly, his own eyes perceptibly softening.
"Y-you sure l-l-look all right, little g-girl," he admitted, slowly, "but I 've h-heard th-th-that feller was hell with w-women. I-I reckon you b-better go b-back to Farnham an' find out."
He paused, wiping his perspiring face with the back of his hand, his cheeks reddening painfully under her unfaltering gaze. Finally he blurted out:
"Say, w-who are you, anyhow?"
"Beth Norvell, an actress."
"You kn-kn-know Farnham?"
She bent her head in regretful acknowledgment.
"An' you kn-kn-know the señorita?"
"Yes, a very little."
Stutter Brown wet his lips, shifting awkwardly.
"Well, y-you 'll excuse me, M-Miss," he stuttered in an excess of embarrassment, yet plunging straight ahead with manly determination to have it out. "I-I ain't much used t-t-to this sorter th-thing, an' maybe I-I ain't got no r-r-right ter be a-botherin' you with m-my affairs, nohow. But you s-see it's th-this way. I 've sorter t-took a big l-l-likin' to that dancin' girl. Sh-she 's a darn sight n-n-nearer my s-style than anything I 've been up a-against fer s-some time. I-I don't just kn-know how it h-h-happened, it was so blame s-sudden, b-but she 's got her l-l-lasso 'bout me all r-right. But Lord! sh-she 's all fun an' laugh; sh-sh-she don't seem to take n-nothin' serious like, an' you c-can't make much ou-ou-out o' that kind; you n-never know just how to t-take 'em; leastwise, I don't. N-now, I 'm a plain s-s-sorter man, an' I m-make bold ter ask ye a m-mighty plain sorter qu-question—is that there M-M-Mercedes on the squar?"
He stood there motionless before her, a vast, uncertain bulk in the dim light, but he was breathing hard, and the deep earnestness of his voice had impressed her strongly.
"Why do you ask me that?" she questioned, for the moment uncertain how to answer him. "I scarcely know her; I know almost nothing regarding her life."
"Y-you, you are a w-woman, Miss," he insisted, doggedly, "an', I t-take it, a woman who will u-understand such th-th-things. T-tell me, is she on the squar?"
"Yes," she responded, warmly. "She has not had much chance, I think, and may have made a mistake, perhaps many of them, but I believe she 's on the square."
"Did—did sh-she come out t-to our m-m-mine spying for Farnham?"
"Really, I don't know."
His grave face darkened anxiously; she could perceive the change even in that shadow, and distinguish the sharp grind of his teeth.
"Damn him," he muttered, his voice bitter with hate. "It w-would be l-l-like one of his l-low-lived tricks. Wh-what is that g-girl to him, anyhow?"
It was no pleasant task to hurt this man deliberately, yet, perhaps, it would be best. Anyway, it was not in Beth Norvell's nature either to lie or to be afraid.
"He has been her friend; there are some who say her lover."
He stared fixedly at her, as though she had struck him a stinging, unexpected blow.
"Him? A-an' you s-s-say she 's on the squar?"
"Yes; I say she is on the square, because I think so. It's a hard life she 's had to live, and no one has any right to judge her by strict rules of propriety. I may not approve, neither do I condemn. Good women have been deceived before now—have innocently done wrong in the eyes of the world—and this Mercedes is a woman. I know him also, know him to be a cold-blooded, heartless brute. She is merely a girl, pulsating with the fiery blood of the South, an artist to her fingers' tips, wayward and reckless. It would not be very difficult for one of that nature to be led astray by such a consummate deceiver as he is. I pity her, but I do not reproach. Yet God have mercy on him when she awakes from her dream, for that time is surely coming, perhaps is here already; and the girl is on the square. I believe it, she is on the square."
For a silent, breathless moment Brown did not stir, did not once take his eyes from off her face. She saw his hand slip down and close hard over the butt of his dangling revolver. Then he drew a deep breath, his head thrown back, his great shoulders squared.
"D-damn, but that helps me," he said soberly. "It—it sure does. G-good-night, little g-girl."
"Are you going to leave me now?"
"Why, sure. Th-this yere is the h-h-hotel, ain 't it? W-well, I 've got t-to be back to th-the 'Little Yankee' afore d-d-daylight, or thar 'll be h-hell to pay, an' I sure m-mean to see her first, an'—an'—maybe h-him."
She stood there in thoughtful perplexity, oblivious to all else in her strange surroundings, watching the dark shadow of his burly figure disappear through the dim light. There was a strength of purpose, a grim, unchangeable earnestness about the man which impressed her greatly, which won her admiration. He was like some great faithful dog, ready to die at his master's bidding. Down in her heart she wondered what would be the tragic end of this night's confidence.
"There goes a good friend," she said slowly, under her breath, "and a bad enemy." Then she turned away, aroused to her own insistent mission of warning, and entered the silent hotel.
The night clerk, a mere boy with pallid cheeks and heavy eyes bespeaking dissipation, reclined on a couch behind the rough counter, reading a Denver paper. He was alone in the room, excepting a drunken man noisily slumbering in an arm-chair behind the stove. Miss Norvell, clasping her skirts tightly, picked her way forward across the littered floor, the necessity for immediate action rendering her supremely callous to all ordinary questions of propriety.
"Can you inform me if Mr. Winston is in his room?" she questioned, leaning across the counter until she could see the clerk's surprised face.
The young fellow smiled knowingly, rising instantly to his feet.
"Not here at all," he returned pleasantly. "He left just before noon on horseback. Heard him say something 'bout an engineering job he had up Echo Canyon. Reckon that 's where he 's gone. Anything important, Miss Norvell?"
Beth Norvell did not remember ever having fainted in her life, yet for a moment after these words reached her, all around grew dark, and she was compelled to grasp the counter to keep from falling. The strain of the long night, coupled with such unexpected news proving she had arrived too late with her warning, served to daze her brain, to leave her utterly unable either to think or plan. The clerk, alarmed by the sudden pallor of her face, was at her side instantly, holding eagerly forth that panacea for all fleshly ills in the West, a bottle of whiskey.
"Good Lord, Miss, don't faint away!" he cried excitedly. "Here, just take a swig of this; there 's plenty of water in it, and it's the stuff to pull you through. There, that's better. Great Scott, but I sure thought you was goin' to flop over that time." He assisted her to a convenient chair, then stepped back, gazing curiously into her face, the black bottle still in his hand. "What's the trouble, anyhow?" he questioned, his mind filled with sudden suspicion. "That—that fellow did n't throw you, did he?"
Miss Norvell, her fingers clasping the chair arm for support, rose hurriedly to her feet, a red flush sweeping into her pallid cheeks. For an instant her intense indignation held her speechless.
"'Throw' me? What is it you mean?" she exclaimed, her voice faltering. "Do you rank me with those shameless creatures out yonder? It is for Mr. Winston's sake I sought word with him; it has nothing whatever to do with myself. I chanced to learn news of the utmost importance, news which he must possess before morning; yet it is not a message I can trust to any one else. My God! what can I do?" She paused irresolute, her hands pressing her temples. The boy, his interest aroused, took a step forward.
"Can I be of service?"
"Oh, I hardly know; I scarcely seem able to think. Could—could you leave here for just ten minutes—long enough to go to the dance hall at the Gayety?"
"Sure thing; there 's nothin' doin'."
"Then please go; find a big, red-headed miner there named Brown—'Stutter' Brown they call him—and bring him back here to me. If—if he is n't there any longer, then get Mercedes, the Mexican dancer. You know her, don't you?"
The clerk nodded, reaching for his hat.
"Get one of those two; oh, you must get one of them. Tell them I say it is most important."
There was a terrible earnestness about the girl's words and manner, which instantly impressed the lad with the necessity for immediate haste. He was off at a run, slamming the door heavily behind him, and plunging headlong into the black street. As he disappeared, Miss Norvell sank back into the vacated chair, and sat there breathing heavily, her eyes fastened upon the drunken man opposite, her natural coolness and resource slowly emerging from out the haze of disappointment. Brown could surely be trusted in this emergency, for his interest was only second to her own. But why had she not told him the entire story before? Why, when she had opportunity, did she fail to reveal to him Farnham's threats, and warn him against impending danger? She realized fully now the possible injury wrought by her secrecy. She felt far too nervous, too intensely anxious, to remain long quiet; her eyes caught the ticking timepiece hanging above the clerk's desk, and noted the hour with a start of surprise. It was already after two. Once, twice, thrice she paced across the floor of the office and stood for a moment striving to peer through the dirty window-glass into the blackness without, faintly splotched with gleams of yellow light. Finally, she flung back the door and ventured forth upon the shadowed porch, standing behind the low railing, where those passing below were little likely to notice her presence. Her head throbbed and ached, and she loosened her heavy hair, pressing her palms to the temples. The boy returned at last hurriedly, bare-headed, but unaccompanied, and she met him at the top of the steps, realizing, even before he spoke, that those she sought had not been found.
"Not there? Neither there?"
"No, Miss." The clerk was breathing hard from his run, but his tone was sympathetic. "Darned if I did n't hustle that outfit from pit to boxes, but nobody there seemed to sabe this yere Brown. Mercedes, she was there all right, 'bout ten minutes ago, but just naturally faded away before I hit the shebang. Doorkeeper piped it she had a guy with her when she broke loose, an' he reckoned she must have lit out fer home."
"For home?" a faint ray of light breaking from the word. "Where does the girl live? Do you know?"
"Sure; I 'm wise; she has a couple of dandy rooms over at the old fort, just across the creek; you know where that is, don't you?"
She nodded silently, her eyes brightening with resolution.
"It 's a blame tough bit of hiking to take alone on a dark night like this," he commented gravely. "You was n't plannin' to try any such trip as that, was you, Miss?"
"Oh, no; certainly not. I'm going upstairs to wait for daylight. But I thank you so much," and she cordially extended her hand. "You see, I—I could hardly go to the Gayety myself at such an hour."
The boy colored, still clasping the extended hand. Something in her low tone had served to recall to his mind those hasty words uttered in the office.
"Sure not, Miss Norvell; it's a bit tough, all right, for anybody like you down there at this time o' night."
She opened the door, the bright light from within shining about her slender figure, yet leaving her face still in shadow.
"Did—did you chance to notice if Mr. Farnham remained in the dance hall?"
"Biff Farnham?" in sudden, choking surprise. "Great guns, do you know him, too? No, he was n't there, but I can tell you where he is, all the same. He 's at the Palace Livery, saddling up, along with half a dozen other fellows. I saw 'em as I come trottin' along back, and wondered what the dickens was on tap at this time o' night."
The girl made no attempt to answer. She stood clutching the edge of the door for support, her lips tightly compressed, feeling as if her heart would rise up and choke her. She realized instantly that the crisis had arrived, that Winston's life probably hung upon her next decision. Twice she endeavored bravely to speak, and when she finally succeeded, the strange calmness other voice made her doubt her own sanity.
"Thank you," she said gravely, "you have been most kind,—good-night," and vanished up the stairs.
Within the privacy of her own securely locked room Beth Norvell flung herself upon the narrow bed, not to sleep, not even to rest, but in an earnest effort to clarify her brain, to gain fresh conception of this grim reality which fronted her. She realized now precisely what Ned Winston stood for in her life—must ever stand for until the bitter end. There was no upbraiding, no reviling. Not in the slightest degree did she even attempt to deceive herself; with set, tearless eyes, and without a sigh of regret, she simply faced the naked truth. She had made the mistake herself; now she must bear the burden of discovery. It was not the dull inertia of fatalism, but rather the sober decision of a woman who had been tried in the fire, who understood her own heart, and comprehended the strength of her own will. Personal suffering and sacrifice were no new chapters written in her life; these had been met before, and now, in yet another guise, they could be courageously met again. She sat up quickly upon the edge of the bed, her hands pressing back the heavy hair from off her hot forehead. What right had she to lie there shuddering at destiny when lives—his life—might be trembling in the balance? She could at least serve, and, whatever else of weakness may have lurked in Beth Norvell, there was no germ of cowardice. Clearer and more clear she perceived duty, until it overshadowed love and brought her upon her feet in active preparation, in burning desire for action.
Standing before the little mirror, she wondered dimly at those dark circles beneath her eyes, the unusually sharp lines visible at the corners of her mouth. She felt hot, feverish, and in hope of thus relieving the painful throbbing of her temples she buried her face in the bowl of cool water. Rapidly, almost carelessly, she gathered up her dishevelled locks, fastening them in some simple, yet secure fashion back out of the way. From the open trunk standing against the wall, she caught up a plain, soft hat, one she had used in character upon the stage, and drew it down firmly over the mass of soft hair, never noting how coquettishly the wide brim swept up in front, or what witchery of archness it gave to her dark eyes. She took a quick step toward the door, and then, her hand already on the latch, she paused in uncertainty; finally, she drew a small, pearl-handled revolver from the bottom tray, and placed it carefully in a pocket of her jacket.
"I—I hardly believe I could ever use it," she thought, "but maybe I might."
Outside, in the narrow, deserted hall, she stood at the head of the steep flight of stairs and listened. The snoring of the drunken man in the office below was the only disturbing sound. Out through the open office door a dull bar of yellow light streamed across the lower steps. Like a ghost she stole silently down, treading so softly not a stair creaked beneath her cautious footfalls. The next moment she had opened the door, and was alone in the dark street.
Dark it was, but neither deserted nor silent. The unleashed evil of San Juan was now in full control, more madly riotous than ever beneath the cloak of so late an hour. Nothing short of complete return of daylight would bring semblance of peace to that carnival of saloons, gambling dens, and dance halls. Through the shadows stalked unrebuked, uncontrolled, the votaries of dissipation and recklessness, of "easy money" and brutal lust. Yellow rays of light streamed from out dirty, uncurtained windows, leaving the narrow street weirdly illuminated, with here and there patches of dense shadows. Shifting figures, often unsteady of step, appeared and disappeared like disembodied spirits, distorted from all human semblance by that uncertain radiance; on every side the discordant sounds of violins and pianos commingled in one hideous din, punctuated by drunken shouts and every species of noise of which civilized savagery is capable.
Yet this was not what she feared, this saturnalia of unbridled passion, for the way was comparatively well lighted, and in traversing it she was reasonably certain to be within call of some one sober enough to protect her from insult or injury. Even in drink these men remained courteous to women of the right sort. No, she had travelled that path alone at night before, again and again, returning from her work. She shrank, womanlike, from the sights and sounds, but was conscious of no personal fear. What she dreaded beyond expression was that long, black stretch of narrow, desolate alley-way leading down toward the creek bridge and the old fort beyond. She had been over that path once in broad daylight, and it made her shudder to think she must now feel her way there alone through the dark. The growing fear of it got upon her nerves as she stood hesitating; then, almost angry with herself, she advanced swiftly down toward the distant glowing lights of the Gayety. It was just beyond there that the alley turned off toward the foothills, a mere thread of a path wandering amid a maze of unlighted tents and disreputable shacks; she remembered this, and the single rotten strip of plank which answered for a sidewalk.
There was an unusually boisterous, quarrelsome crowd congregated in front of the Poodle-Dog, and she turned aside into the middle of the street in order to get past undisturbed. Some one called noisily for her to wait and have a drink, but she never glanced about, or gave slightest heed. At the curb a drunken woman reeled against her, peering sneeringly into her face with ribald laugh, but Beth Norvell pushed silently past, and vanished into the protecting shadows beyond.
The wide doors of the brilliantly illuminated Gayety were flung open, the bright light from within streaming far across the road. Many of its patrons, heated with liquor and the dance, had swarmed forth upon the broad platform outside in search of fresher air. To avoid pushing her way through this noisy crowd the girl swiftly crossed the street into the darkness opposite. As she paused there for an instant, scarcely conscious that the glow of the lamps reflected full upon her face, there sounded a sudden clatter of horses' hoofs to her right, and a half-dozen riders swept around the sharp corner, dashing forward into the glare. She had barely time in which to leap backward out of their direct path, when one of the horsemen jerked his mount upon its haunches, and, uttering an oath of astonishment, leaned forward across his pommel, staring down into her startled face. Then he laughed.
"Go on, boys," he cried, sitting erect, with a wave of his hand to the others. "I 'll catch up within half a mile. I 've got a word to say first to this precious dove fluttering here." He struck the flank of his horse, causing the sensitive beast to quiver, his own lips curling maliciously. The girl, panting between parted lips, never lowered her eyes from his face, and the steady look angered him.
"Still hunting for Winston?" he questioned, sneeringly. "Well, I can inform you where he may very easily be found."
"Indeed!"
"Yes, out at the 'Little Yankee.' It seems you were a trifle late in getting him word, or else your fascinations failed to move him. You must be losing your grip."
She neither moved nor spoke, her eyes—dark, unwinking beneath the wide hat-brim—telling him nothing. Yet her hand closed upon the pearl handle hidden away in the jacket pocket, and her lips formed a straight line.
"I 'm damned sorry you did n't land the fellow, Lizzie," he went on brutally. "He 's about the best catch you 're liable to get, and besides, it leaves me a rather unpleasant job. Still, I thought I 'd better tell you, so you would n't feel it necessary to hang around the streets here any longer. Fact is, I 'm anxious to shield your reputation, you know." He looked about carelessly, his glance settling on the open doors of the Gayety. "Don't strike me this is exactly the sort of place for one of your moral respectability to be discovered in. Lord! but what would the old man or that infernal prig of a brother of yours say, if they could only see you now? A monologue artist at the Gayety was bad enough, but this, this is the limit."
There was a flash of something white and glittering within six inches of his face, a sharp click, and an eye looked directly into his own across a short steel barrel.
"Go!" The word was like the spat of a bullet.
"But, Lizzie—"
"Go, you cur! or, as God is my witness, if you stay I'll kill you!"
With a sharp dig of the spur his horse sprang half-way across the road, a black, prancing shadow against the glare of light. She saw the rider fling up one arm, and bring down the stinging quirt on the animal's flank; the next instant, with a bound, they were swallowed up in the darkness. A moment she leaned against the shack, nerveless, half fainting from reaction, her face deathly white. Then she inhaled a long, deep breath, gathered her skirts closely within one hand, and plunged boldly into the black alley.
Mercedes stood in the shade of the towering hillside, the single beam of light shining from an uncurtained window alone faintly revealing her slenderness of figure in its red drapery. No other gleam anywhere cleft the prevailing darkness of the night, and the only perceptible sound was that of horses' hoofs dying away in the distance. The girl was not crying, although one of her hands was held across her eyes, and her bosom rose and fell tumultuously to labored breathing. She stood silent, motionless, the strange radiance causing her to appear unreal, some divinely moulded statue, an artist's dream carven in colored stone. Suddenly she sprang backward from out that revealing tongue of light and crouched low at the angle of the house, not unlike some affrighted wild animal, her head bent forward intently listening. There was a plainly perceptible movement in the gloom, the sound of an approaching footstep and of rapid breathing, and finally a shadow became visible. The watcher leaped to her feet half angrily.
"Ah! so eet vas you, señorita!" she exclaimed, her voice betraying her emotion,—"you, who come so dis night.Sapristi! vy you follow me dis vay? By all de saints, I make you tell me dat! You vant him, too? You vant rob me of all thing?"
The visitor, startled by this sudden challenge, stood before her trembling from head to foot with the nervous excitement of her journey, yet her eyes remained darkly resolute.
"You recognize me," she responded quickly, reaching out and touching the other with one hand, as if to make certain of her actual presence. "Then for God's sake do not waste time now in quarrelling. I did not make this trip without a purpose. 'He,' you say? Who is he? Who was it that rode away from here just now? Not Farnham?"
Mercedes laughed a trifle uneasily, her eyes suddenly lowered before the other's anxious scrutiny.
"Ah, no, señorita," she answered softly. "Eet surprises me mooch you not know; eet vas Señor Brown."
Miss Norvell grasped her firmly by the shoulder.
"Brown?" she exclaimed eagerly. "Stutter Brown? Oh, call him back; cannot you call him back?"
The young Mexican shook her head, her white teeth gleaming, as she drew her shoulder free from the fingers clasping it.
"You vas too late, señorita," she replied, sweetly confident. "He vas already gone to de 'Little Yankee.' But he speak mooch to me first."
"Much about what?"
"Vel, he say he lofe me—he say eet straight, like eet vas vat he meant."
"Oh!"
"Si, señorita; he not even talk funny, maybe he so excited he forgot how, hey? An' vat you tink dat he say den to Mercedes—vat?"
The other shook her head, undecided, hesitating as to her own purpose.
"He ask me vould I marry him. Si, si, vat you tink of dat—me, Mercedes Morales, de dancer at de Gayety—he ask me vould I marry him. Oh, Mother of God!"
The young American stared at her upturned animated face, suddenly aroused to womanly interest.
"And what did you say?"
Mercedes stamped her foot savagely on the hard ground, her eyes glowing like coals of fire.
"You ask vat I say? Saints of God! vat could I say? He vas a good man, dat Señor Brown, but I—I vas not a good voman. I no tell him dat—no! no! I vas shamed; I get red, vite; I hardly speak at all; my heart thump so I tink maybe eet choke me up here, but I say no. I say no once, tvice, tree time. I tell him he big fool to tink like dat of me. I tell him go vay an' find voman of his own race—good voman. I tell him eet could nevah be me, no, nevah."
"Then you do not love him?"
The puzzled dancer hesitated, her long lashes lowered, and outlined against her cheeks.
"Lofe? Dat vas not nice vord as eet come to me. I know not ver' vell just vat. Maybe if I not lofe him I marry him—si; I no care den. I make him to suffer, but not care; ees eet not so? Anyhow, I—vat you call dat?—respect dis Señor Brown mooch, ver' mooch. Maybe dat last longer as lofe—quien sabe?"
Scarcely comprehending this peculiar explanation, Beth Norvell's first conception was that the girl had chosen wrong, that she had allied herself upon the side of evil.
"You mean you—you will go back to Biff Farnham?" she asked, her tone full of horror.
Mercedes straightened up quickly, her young, expressive face filled with a new passion, which struggled almost vainly for utterance through her lips.
"Go back to dat man!" she panted. "Me?Sapristi! and you tink I do dat after Señor Brown ask me be hees vife! Blessed Mary! vat you tink I am? You tink I not feel, not care? I go back to dat Farnham? Eet vould not be, no! no! I tol' him dat mooch, an' he got mad. I no care, I like dat. I no lofe him, nevah; I vas sold to him for money, like sheep, but I learn to hate him to kill." The deep glow of the black eyes softened, and her head slowly dropped until it touched the other's extended arm. "But dis Señor Brown he vas not dat kind—he ask me to marry him; he say he not care vat I been, only he lofe me, an' he be good to me alvays. I vas hungry for dat, señorita, but I say no, no, no! Eet vas not for me, nevah. I send him avay so sorry, an' den I cry ven I hear his horse go out yonder. Eet vas like he tread on me, eet hurt dat vay. Maybe I no lofe him, but I know he vas good man an' he lofe me. Eet vas de honor ven he ask me dat, an' now I be good voman because a good man lofes me. Holy Mother! eet vill be easy now dat he vanted to marry me."
Impulsively Beth Norvell, her own eyes moist, held the other, sobbing like a child within the clasp of sympathetic arms. There was instantly formed between them a new bond, a new feeling of awakened womanhood. Yet, even as her fingers continued to stroke the dishevelled hair softly, there flashed across her mind a recurring memory of her purpose, the necessity for immediate action. Not for an instant longer did she doubt the complete honesty of the other's frank avowal, or question the propriety of requesting her aid in thwarting Farnham. She held the slight, quivering figure back, so that she might gaze into the uplifted, questioning face.
"Mercedes, yes, yes, I understand it all," she cried eagerly. "But we cannot talk about it any longer now. It is a wonderful thing, this love of a good man; but we are wasting time that may mean life or death to others, perhaps even to him. Listen to what I say—Farnham has already gone to the 'Little Yankee,' and taken a gang of roughs with him. They left San Juan on horseback more than half an hour ago. He threatened me first, and boasted that Mr. Winston was out there, and that I was too late to warn him of danger. Oh, girl, you understand what that means; you know him well, you must realize what he is capable of doing. I came here as fast as I could in the dark," she shuddered, glancing backward across her shoulder. "Every step was a way of horrors, but I did n't know any one who could help me. But you—you know the way to the 'Little Yankee,' and we—we must get there before daylight, if we have to crawl."
All that was savagely animal in the other's untamed nature flamed into her face.
"He say vat? Señor Farnham he say vat he do?"
"He said dynamite told no tales, but sometimes killed more than the one intended."
Mercedes' hand went to her head as though a pain had smitten her, and she stepped back, half crouching in the glow like a tiger cat.
"He say dat? De man say dat? Holy Angels! he vas de bad devil, but he find me de bad devil too. Ah, now I play him de game, an' ve see who vin! De 'Leetle Yankee,' eet tree mile, señorita, an' de road rough, mooch rough, but I know eet—si, I know eet, an' ve get dare before de day come; sure ve do eet,bueno." She grasped the arm of the other, now fully aroused, her slight form quivering from intense excitement. "Come, I show you. See! he vas my pony—ah! eet makes me to laugh to know de Señor Farnham give him me; now I make him to upset de Señor Farnham.Sapristi! eet vas vat you call de vay of de vorld, de verligig; vas eet not so? You ride de pony, señorita; I valk an' lead him—si, si, you more tired as Mercedes; I danseuse, no tire ever in de legs. Den I find de vay more easy on foot in de dark, see? You ride good, hey? He jump little, maybe, but he de ver' nice pony, an' I no let him run. No, no, de odder vay, señorita, like de man ride. Poof! it no harm in de dark.Bueno, now ve go to surprise de Señor Farnham."
She led promptly forth as she spoke, moving with perfect confidence down the irregular trail skirting the bank of the creek, her left hand grasping the pony's bit firmly, the other shading her eyes as though to aid in the selection of a path through the gloom. It was a rough, uneven, winding road they followed, apparently but little used, littered with loose stones and projecting roots; yet, after a moment of fierce but useless rebellion, the lively mustang sobered down into a cautious picking of his passage amid the debris, obedient as a dog to the soft voice of his mistress. The problems of advance were far too complicated to permit of much conversation, and little effort at speech was made by either, the principal thought in each mind being the necessity for haste.
Swaying on the saddleless back of the pony, her anxious gaze on the dimly revealed, slender figure trudging sturdily in front, Beth Norvell began to dread the necessity of again having to meet Winston under such conditions. What would he naturally think? He could scarcely fail to construe such action on his behalf as one inspired by deep personal interest, and she instinctively shrank from such revealment, fearing his glance, his word of welcome, his expressions of surprised gratitude. The awkwardness, the probable embarrassment involved, became more and more apparent as she looked forward to that meeting. If possible, she would gladly drop out, and so permit the other to bear on the message of warning alone. But, even with Mercedes' undoubted interest in Brown, and her increasing dislike of Farnham, Beth could not as yet entirely trust her unaccompanied. Besides, there was no excuse to offer for such sudden withdrawal, no reason she durst even whisper into the ear of another. No, there was nothing left her but to go on; let him think what he might of her action, she would not fail to do her best to serve him, and beneath the safe cover of darkness she blushed scarlet, her long lashes moist with tears that could not be restrained. They were at the bottom of the black canyon now, the high, uplifting rock walls on either side blotting out the stars and rendering the surrounding gloom intense. The young Mexican girl seemed to have the eyes of a cat, or else was guided by some instinct of the wild, feeling her passage slowly yet surely forward, every nerve alert, and occasionally pausing to listen to some strange night sound. It was a weird, uncanny journey, in which the nerves tingled to uncouth shapes and the wild echoing of mountain voices. Once, at such a moment of continued suspense, Beth Norvell bent forward and whispered a sentence into her ear. The girl started, impulsively pressing her lips against the white hand grasping the pony's mane.
"No, no, señorita," she said softly. "Not dat; not because he lofe me; because he ask me dat. Si, I make him not so sorry."
She remembered that vast overhanging rock about which the dim trail circled as it swept upward toward where the "Little Yankee" perched against the sky-line. Undaunted by the narrowness of the ledge, the willing, sure-footed mustang began climbing the steep grade. Step by step they crept up, cautiously advancing from out the bottom of the cleft, the path followed winding in and out among bewildering cedars, and skirting unknown depths of ravines. Mercedes was breathing heavily, her unoccupied hand grasping the trailing skirt which interfered with her climbing. Miss Norvell, from her higher perch on the pony's back, glanced behind apprehensively. Far away to the east a faint, uncertain tinge of gray was shading into the sky. Suddenly a detached stone rattled in their front; there echoed the sharp click of a rifle hammer, mingled with the sound of a gruff, unfamiliar voice:
"You come another step, an' I 'll blow hell out o' yer.Sabe?"
It all occurred so quickly that neither spoke; they caught their breath and waited in suspense. A shadow, dim, ill-defined, seemed to take partial form in their front.
"Well, can't yer speak?" questioned the same voice, growlingly. "What yer doin' on this yere trail?"
Mercedes released the pony's bit, and leaned eagerly forward.
"Vas dat you, Beell Heeks?" she questioned, doubtfully.
The man swore, the butt of his quickly lowered rifle striking sharply against the rock at his feet.
"I 'm damned if it ain't that Mexican agin," he exclaimed, angrily. "Now, you get out o' yere; you hear me? I 'm blamed if I kin shoot at no female, but you got in one measly spyin' job on this outfit, an' I 'll not put up with another if I have ter pitch ye out inter the canyon. So you git plum out o' yere, an' tell yer friend Farnham he better take more care o' his females, or some of 'em are liable ter get hurt."
There was the harsh crunch of a footstep in the darkness, another figure suddenly slid down the smooth surface of rock, dropping almost at the pony's head. The animal shied with a quick leap, but a heavy hand held him captive.
"Y-you sh-sh-shut up, B-Bill," and the huge form of Stutter Brown loomed up directly between them, and that menacing rifle. "I-I reckon as how I'll t-t-take a h-hand in this yere g-g-game. Sh-she ain't no s-spy fer Farnham, er I 'm a l-l-liar." He touched her softly with his great hand, bending down to look into her face, half hidden beneath the ruffled black hair. "C-come, little g-g-girl, what's up?"
She made no response, her lips faltering as though suddenly stricken dumb. Beth Norvell dropped down from the pony's back, and stood with one hand resting on Mercedes' shoulder.
"She only came to show me the way," she explained bravely. "I-I have a most important message for Mr. Winston. Where is he?"
"Important, d-did you s-s-say?"
"Yes, its delivery means life or death—for Heaven's sake, take me to him!"
For a single breathless moment Brown hesitated, his eyes on the girl's upturned face, evidently questioning her real purpose.
"I c-can't right n-now, Miss," he finally acknowledged, gravely; "that's s-straight; fer ye s-s-see, he 's down the 'I-I-Independence' shaft."
It was a daring ruse that had taken Ned Winston down the shaft of the "Independence" mine with the midnight shift. Not even the professional enthusiasm of a young engineer could serve to justify so vast a risk, but somehow this battle of right and wrong had become a personal struggle between himself and Farnham; he felt, without understanding clearly why, that the real stake involved was well worth the venture, and would prove in the end of infinitely more value to him than any settlement of the mere mining claims at issue. For several hours he had been below in the tunnel of the "Little Yankee," measuring distances, and sampling the grade of ore. All the afternoon and much of the early night had been utilized in a careful exploration of the surface ledges; creeping in, under protection of the low-growing cedars, as closely as a vigilant rifle-guard would permit, to the great ore dump of the busy "Independence"; diligently studying their system of labor, and slowly crystallizing into shape his later plan of action. He was already morally convinced that the Farnham people were actively engaged in stealing the "Little Yankee" ore; that they were running their tunnel along the lead of the latter; that they were doing this systematically, and fully conscious of the danger of discovery. His lines of survey, the nature of the ore bodies, the muffled sound of picks, plainly discernible in the silent breast of the "Little Yankee" while he lay listening with ear to the rock, as well as the close secrecy, all combined to convince him fully of the fact. Yet such vague suspicions were perfectly useless. He must have absolute, convincing proof, and such proof could be obtained nowhere excepting at the bottom of the "Independence" shaft.
He talked over the situation frankly with the two partners in the little single-roomed cabin perched on the cliff edge, while the obedient though grumbling Mike, rifle in hand, sat solemnly on the dump pile without. Little by little the three conspirators worked out a fairly feasible plan. There were numerous chances for failure in it, yet the very recklessness of the conception was an advantage. Winston, his face darkened as a slight disguise, and dressed in the rough garments of a typical miner, was to hide beside the footpath leading between the "Independence" bunk-house and the shaft. Should one of the men chance to loiter behind the others when the working shift changed at midnight, Brown was to attend to him silently, relying entirely upon his giant strength to prevent alarm, while Winston was promptly to take the vacated place among the descending workmen. By some grim fate this crudely devised scheme worked like a well-oiled piece of machinery. A sleepy-headed lout, endeavoring to draw on his coat as he ran blindly after the others, stumbled in the rocky path and fell heavily. Almost at the instant Stutter Brown had the fellow by the throat, dragging him back into the security of the cedars, and Winston, lamp and dinner-pail in hand, was edging his way into the crowded cage, his face turned to the black wall.
That was five hours before. At the very edge of the black, concealing chaparral, within easy rifle range of the "Independence" shaft-house, Hicks and Brown lay flat on their faces, waiting and watching for some occasion to take a hand. Back behind the little cabin old Mike sat calmly smoking his black dudheen, apparently utterly oblivious to all the world save the bound and cursing Swede he was vigilantly guarding, and whose spirits he occasionally refreshed with some choice bit of Hibernian philosophy. Beneath the flaring gleam of numerous gasoline torches, half a dozen men constantly passed and repassed between shaft-house and dump heap, casting weird shadows along the rough planking, and occasionally calling to each other, their gruff voices clear in the still night. Every now and then those two silent watchers could hear the dismal clank of the windlass chain, and a rattle of ore on the dump, when the huge buckets were hoisted to the surface and emptied of their spoil. Once—it must have been after three o'clock—other men seemed suddenly to mingle among those perspiring surface workers and the unmistakable neigh of a horse came faintly from out the blackness of a distant thicket. The two lying in the chaparral rose to their knees, bending anxiously forward. Brown drew back the hammer of his rifle, while Hicks swore savagely under his breath. But those new figures vanished in some mysterious way before either could decide who they might be—into the shaft-house, or else beyond, where denser shadows intervened. The two watchers sank back again into their cover, silently waiting, ever wondering what was happening beyond their ken, down below in the heart of the hill.
Some of this even Winston never knew, although he was a portion of it. He had gone down with the descending cage, standing silent among the grimy workmen crowding it, and quickly discerning from their speech that they were largely Swedes and Poles, of a class inclined to ask few questions, provided their wages were promptly paid. There was a deserted gallery opening from the shaft-hole some forty feet below the surface; he saw the glimmer of light reflected along its wall as they passed, but the cage dropped to a considerably lower level before it stopped, and the men stepped forth into the black entry. Winston went with them, keeping carefully away from the fellow he supposed to be foreman of the gang, and hanging back, under pretence of having difficulty in lighting his lamp, until the others had preceded him some distance along the echoing gallery. The yellow flaring of their lights through the intense darkness proved both guidance and warning, so he moved cautiously forward, counting his steps, his hand feeling the trend of the side wall, his lamp unlit. The floor was rough and uneven, but dry, the tunnel apparently having been blasted through solid rock, for no props supporting the roof were discernible. For quite an extended distance this entry ran straight away from the foot of the shaft—directly south he made it—into the heart of the mountain; then those twinkling lights far in advance suddenly winked out, and Winston groped blindly forward until he discovered a sharp turn in the tunnel.
He lingered for a moment behind the protection of that angle of rock wall, struck a safety match, and held the tiny flame down close against the face of his pocket compass. Exactly; this new advance extended southeast by east. He snuffed out the glowing splinter between his fingers, crossed over to the opposite side, and watchfully rounded the corner to where he could again perceive the twinkling lights ahead. His foot met some obstacle along the floor, and he bent down, feeling for it with his fingers in the dark; it proved to be a rude scrap-iron rail, evidence that they carried out their ore by means of mules and a tram-car. A few yards farther this new tunnel began to ascend slightly, and he again mysteriously lost his view of the miners' lamps, and was compelled to grope his way more slowly, yet ever carefully counting his steps. The roof sank with the advance until it became so low he was compelled to stoop. The sound of picks smiting the rock was borne to him, made faint by distance, but constantly growing clearer. There he came to another curve in the tunnel.
He crouched upon one knee, peering cautiously around the edge in an effort to discover what was taking place in front. The scattered lights on the hats of the miners rendered the whole weird scene fairly visible. There were two narrow entries branching off from the main gallery not more than thirty feet from where he lay. One ran, as nearly as he could judge, considerably to the east of south, but the second had its trend directly to the eastward. Along the first of these tunnels there was no attempt at concealment, a revealing twinkle of light showing where numerous miners were already at work. But the second was dark, and would have remained unnoticed entirely had not several men been grouped before the entrance, their flaring lamps reflected over the rock wall. Winston's eyes sparkled, his pulse leaped, as he marked the nature of their task—they were laboriously removing a heavy mask, built of wood and canvas, which had been snugly fitted over the hole, making it resemble a portion of the solid rock wall.
There were four workmen employed at this task, while the foreman, a broad-jawed, profane-spoken Irishman, his moustache a bristling red stubble, stood a little back, noisily directing operations, the yellow light flickering over him. The remainder of the fellows composing the party had largely disappeared farther down, although the sound of their busy picks was clearly audible.
"Where the hell is Swanson?" blurted out the foreman suddenly. "He belongs in this gang. Here you, Ole, what 's become o' Nelse Swanson?"
The fellow thus directly addressed drew his hand across his mouth, straightening up slightly to answer.
"Eet iss not sumtings dot I know, Meester Burke. He seems not here."
"Not here; no, I should say not, ye cross-oied Swade. But Oi 'm dommed if he did n't come down in the cage wid' us, for Oi counted the lot o' yez. Don't any o' you lads know whut 's become o' the drunken lout?"
There was a universal shaking of heads, causing the lights to dance dizzily, forming weird shadows in the gloom, and the irritated foreman swore aloud, his eyes wandering back down the tunnel.
"No doubt he's dhrunk yet, an' laid down to slape back beyant in the passage," he growled savagely. "Be all the powers, but Oi 'll tache that humpin' fool a lesson this day he 'll not be apt to fergit fer a while. I will that, or me name 's not Jack Burke. Here you, Peterson, hand me over that pick-helve." He struck the tough hickory handle sharply against the wall to test its strength, his ugly red moustache bristling. "Lave the falsework sthandin' where it is till I git back," he ordered, with an authoritative wave of the hand; "an' you fellers go in beyant, an' help out on Number Wan till Oi call ye. Dom me sowl, but Oi'll make that Swanson think the whole dom mounting has slid down on top o' him—the lazy, dhrunken Swade."
The heavy pick-handle swinging in his hand his grim, red face glowing angrily beneath the sputtering flame of the lamp stuck in his hat, the irate Burke strode swiftly back into the gloomy passage, muttering gruffly.