CHAPTER XVIIA STAB IN THE NIGHT
Raindrizzled monotonously down on the Traps; cold, raw rain swept slantwise by wind. Along Mohonk and the Great Wall crawled clammy fog, blinding all vision and chilling all flesh within its folds. Through rain and fog feebly penetrated the sickly light of a dismal dawn.
In the dankness and the dimness moved a bedraggled figure laden with a sodden blanket-pack and a dripping shotgun; a man whose blue lips and hollow eyes betokened a gnawing chill and scant sleep. Downward through dripping bushes he meandered uncertainly, avoiding steep slants of smooth rock on which his slippery boot-soles would inevitably precipitate him into disaster, and peering continuously about in search for a thin spot in the creeping cloud-bank. Only the unmistakable slant of the mountainside told him which way he was heading—back into the Traps gulf which he had left on the previous day.
“A gorgeous sunrise—I guess so!” he grumbled. “Mister Jupiter Pluvius, this is a dirty, low-down trick. And Mister Ninety-Nine, you can keep your mine till the crack of doom, for all I care. Go to thunder, both of you! I’m cured.”
If the two old-timers whom he addressed werelistening, they must have chortled in malicious mirth—especially the former. Catching this mortal asleep beside a dying fire, the rain-god had called up his soggy servitors in the night and let them wreak their will on the lone man—drowning his fire in the first drenching assault and then battering him right merrily. Without shelter, without light, he had been compelled to huddle up and endure it until dawn; and even now, though he was in motion once more, he had to shut his teeth to keep them from chattering.
From side to side he wormed along his erratic way, swinging from one ghostly bush-clump to another, ever following the rambling line of safe footholds, gradually descending toward the lower edge of the enshrouding mist. After a time the bare rock ended and he came into dense forest where the footing was secure. Down through this he passed with swinging strides. The rain ceased, and the wind died to a breath. Faster and faster he pressed on, warmer now, but eager to reach his house and dry out. Then suddenly he slowed.
Dead ahead opened a cleared space, and beyond, vague in the gray-white blur, were the faint outlines of a rough shack. Scanning the place as he moved on, he became sure that it was one which he had not seen in his previous wanderings. The exterior of the house was decidedly uninviting, but from its lopsided chimney smoke was drifting thinly away into the fog. His stride lengthened again. Since the inhabitants of this house were up, he would stop there and ask for some hot coffee.
But the quick decision was as quickly reversed. As he neared the door it stealthily opened. Out stole Lou Brackett.
“Morning,” he sang out, speeding up again. “Lovely day.”
She started, turned her head, looked behind, advanced with hand uplifted for silence. He paused.
“Don’t talk so loud,” she implored as she reached him. “Snake, he’s a-sleepin’, but ye might waken him up. What ye want round here?”
“Nothing. Just going home. Been up above and got wet.” Smiling a little, he added: “I wanted to see where the sun hit the wall first in the morning, but it isn’t hitting to-day.”
Into the black eyes came a sudden light. She laid a plump, not over-clean hand on his wet shoulder.
“Ye’re a-huntin’ the mine! I bet ye’ll find it, too, if ye jest keep a-lookin’ long ’nough. Ye ain’t got nawthin’ else to do—keep a-huntin’! An’ when ye git to it ’member ye promised me some o’ the silver. Will ye? An’ don’t tell nobody. Jest me an’ you—we can git outen here together then.”
The broad hint brought a tart retort to his tongue, but he swallowed it. Instead he asked: “So you still want to leave? Why don’t you go, then?”
She stared as if he had lost his senses.
“Go wher’? Go how? I ain’t got no folks, mister—I ain’t got no place to go—I ain’t got no money—I ain’t got nawthin’. I ain’t never been nowheres—wha’d I do outside o’ the Traps? An’ Snake, he’d kill me sure’s shootin’, he would. ’Course, if I had some silveror somethin’—but I ain’t got none. ’Less’n ye want to take me out with ye——”
“No, I don’t,” he broke in bluntly. “But you can get work in plenty of places outside where he never would bother you.”
“I can’t!” she disputed, drawing back. “Them that’s borned into the Traps lives into the Traps an’ dies into the Traps. Ther’ ain’t no place for us outside.”
“All right. That doesn’t match very well with what you said about leaving, but never mind. How did you and Snake make out that day about—er—the bridge?”
A slow smile spread across her face, revealing anew the gap in her teeth.
“Oh, we got ’long all right—I done what ye told me. He’d hearn ’bout it, but when he come at me I cracked him good with the sadiron an’ jumped onto him ’bout them Oakses. It kinder took the tuck outen him. But”—her smile faded and her face turned hard—“that red-head o’ Nat’s better leave my man ’lone! Fust thing she knows I’ll—wal, she better look out, tha’s all!”
“What’s that? Why, you’re crazy! She hates the sight of him. Don’t you start any trouble with her, or you’ll be mighty sorry. And what’s more, you can tell your man that unless he lets her alone he’ll run into something hard—the same thing that hit him on Dickie Barre awhile ago. She belongs to——”
The next word on his tongue was “Steve,” with more words to follow. But his habitual avoidance of that name suddenly stopped his speech. She grinnedsneeringly, interpreting his abrupt silence according to her lights.
“She does, hey? Then ye better take her into yer own house an’ watch her. Me an’ Snake don’t git ’long none too well, but no red-headed catamount like her is a-goin’ to git him. He was down ther’ last night late, I know he was—he never tells me nawthin’, but I ain’t simple, an’ I know. He come back ’way ’long late, an’ he hadn’t been a-drinkin’, an’ if he ain’t drinkin’ to Oaks’s what’s he a-doin’ ther’? He’s——”
All at once she turned hurriedly, as if sensing something in the house behind her. When she faced back she looked perturbed.
“I got to git in. He might waken up any time. G’by.”
“All right. But you mind what I told you!”
Without reply, she padded hastily doorward. Frowning, he pushed away down-hill. The door opened and softly closed, and the woman was gone. The mist sifted around the man, and he too was gone. And neither of them knew that Sanders, sleeping with one ear open, had started up at the sound of the intruder’s first careless greeting and since then had watched snakily from the interior gloom.
He had heard nothing of what was said, for he was in his bedroom, behind a shut door and a closed window; and he had preferred to remain there, using his eyes rather than his ears, making no move. Furthermore, something about the appearance of that man in the ghostly fog had seemed to paralyze him for a momentwhen he first looked out. Then, recovering himself, he had watched the colloquy with the eyes of evil, interpreting it with the brain of evil. And now, though again in bed and to all appearances asleep when the woman Lou stealthily peeped in at him, he was mentally gliding along a black, black path—like a copperhead slithering through a sunless morass wherein moved nameless things.
Onward down the slope marched Douglas, scowling ahead at a well-marked path which his feet now were following but which his mind hardly noticed. The half-spoken threat of the woman behind against Marion Oaks bothered him. Primitive, ignorant, unmoral, willing to abandon her “man” for a better one but jealous of any other woman who might attract him—there was no knowing what she might do in some vindictive rage. Douglas was not one of those men who look on all women as children and scoff at their dangerous moods; his newspaper experience had repeatedly brought him into contact with stark tragedies resulting from feminine jealousy; and he recalled the Indian cheek-bones of Lou. Marion, he felt, should be warned.
But he shrank from the thought of delivering that warning himself. Not only was the rôle of tale-bearer utterly repugnant to him, but that wall of Pride loomed high and hard, as before. Moreover, the girl had repeatedly shown that she wished her acquaintance with him to remain unknown, had commanded him to remain away from Nigger Nat’s house. What, then, should he do?
The problem solved itself. The mist thinned, then lifted a little, and he found himself nearing the road, only a short distance above the Oaks place. And when, striding along the road itself, he approached the house of Nigger Nat, he saw both Marion and her “mom” outside the door, apparently looking around for some one. To his astonishment, Eliza Oaks hailed him.
“Say! See anythin’ o’ my man anywheres?”
“Why, no. Lost him?” He turned into the yard.
“I dunno. Ye didn’t see him up the road nowheres?”
“Nope. But I haven’t been up the road very far. Just came down across-lots.”
Her gaze went over him, taking in his thorough wetness and the soggy blanket-pack. His eyes turned to the girl, who had drawn back a little and was steadfastly watching him. Over her thin dress she was wearing a ragged old coat, evidently the property of her father; and down the shoulders of the threadbare garment, unconfined by the few pins which generally held it up on her head, her hair cascaded in rippling glory. Meeting his eyes, her own contracted a little; but they held, unwavering. As swiftly as he had decided what to do for Steve that day at Uncle Eb’s, he determined what to do for her.
“Am I correct in assuming that this is Miss Marion Oaks?” he asked formally, with the tiniest droop of the off eyelid.
“You are,” she answered with a cold dignity matching his own. “What of it?”
A subdued gurgle from the older woman drew his gaze to her. On her shrewish lips he found a sour smile.
“Ye needn’t to be so awful perlite,” she drawled. “Marry told me ’bout what ye done to that ’ere catamount, an’ how ye made them fellers leave her ’lone onto the road, an’ ’bout—wal, we’re ’bliged to ye.”
“Good! Glad you know we’ve met before, I mean—there’s no obligation. Er—how does Nat feel about it?”
A scowl wiped off the thin smile. After a moment of silence she answered guardedly: “He dunno nawthin’ ’bout it.”
“I see. You don’t tell him all you know. Good idea, maybe. He’s still sore at me, then. All right. Just keep him away from me and we won’t have any trouble. I’m sorry I had to shoot up those dogs of yours, but——”
“Oh, ’t’s all right. I was mad then, but we’re better off ’thout ’em—they et more’n they was wuth. An’ mebbe ye done right to crack Nat when he come for ye. He don’t mean no harm, Nat don’t, but he—he’s kind o’ funny—he gits spells when he ain’t his own self, like.” She looked worriedly around again. “I wisht I knowed what’s ’come o’ him. He ain’t been to home all night.”
Douglas eyed her, remembering what Lou had said—that Snake had been here until late last night. But then, feeling that the jealous woman might have been utterly mistaken in her statement, he kept his thoughtto himself. As for Nat, he probably was drunk somewhere. He turned to Marion.
“Miss Marion, I’ve heard something which I think you ought to know,” he plunged. “Er—well, a certain woman up yonder thinks you and Snake Sanders are too friendly to suit her. It’s absurd, of course, but still—folks get queer ideas, and sometimes they do queer things, and—maybe you’d better—er—keep your eyes open——”
He floundered to a stop, reddening under the steady gray gaze, in which he read mounting scorn. Humiliated already by his position, he squirmed at her drawling answer.
“So that’s where you’ve been to. Ain’t Snake to home yet? You’re takin’ big chances, seems like. But that ain’t anything to me. You needn’t worry for me, Mister Hampton—I can take pretty good care of my own self. But you can tell your friend, when you see her the next time, if she’ll jest bust Snake’s head so he won’t never come to, I’ll be much ’bliged.”
Before he could retort, her mother’s voice broke in.
“That ’ere Lou’s a bigger fool ’n Snake, ’n’ he’s crazy ’nough. I ast him only yestiddy, says I, ‘Ye mizzable idjit, how d’ye think ye’d ever git Marry when ye got Lou already? I’ve told ye time an’ time to keep outen here——’”
She checked herself suddenly, as if regretting her outburst. The blond man’s eyes were on hers again, boring like gimlets.
“So Snake was here last night,” he said. “And where was Nat?”
“Nat—he was here—it warn’t last night—’twas in the aft’noon. Then they went away, an’ Nat ain’t back. I wisht I knowed——”
Once more she looked up and down the road.
“Snake’s at home,” he told her. “At least I was told he was, when I came by his place just now. Maybe Nat’s there with him. I don’t know. Well, good-day.”
Without another look at the girl he swung about. At his first step, however, Marion stopped him.
“Wait a minute,” she said. As he glanced at her he found another change in her attitude. She still stood with unconscious dignity, but the smouldering scorn had died from her eyes, and her face had softened.
“I want to say thank you for what you done that day onto the road—makin’ that detective feller let go of me; and, more’n that, for helpin’ out—you know who—up to Uncle Eb’s. And you meant all right by tellin’ me jest now to look out, I shouldn’t wonder. So I say thank you for that too. G’by.”
With that she was gone into the house. He opened his mouth, shut it, glanced at Eliza Oaks, saw a faint smile in her face, and laughed shortly. With a wave of his free hand he started off again, and kept going.
“What a wayward, fiery little thoroughbred!” he thought. “Quick as a cat—now you see her mind and now you don’t. She made one awful fool of you, Hamp. Serves you right, too, confound you, with your tattling! But she thanked you, at that, like the real little lady she is. If she only had a chance to besomebody—if it weren’t for the black blood—and Steve—— Lordy, what a woman she’d make!”
The thought kept revolving in his mind until he entered the fallow little field beside his bleak abode. Then it fled.
His front door was open.
Instinctively he slowed. His searching scrutiny revealed no other change in the house. Only that door, which he had made to fit tightly by tacking on strips, stood as if shoved back by a hurried entrance—or departure.
“Wind?” he debated. “Wind blew last night, but not hard. H’m! How come?”
Approaching guardedly, he peered within. Nobody was there. Nothing seemed altered. The place not only looked empty—it felt empty.
But before stepping over the threshold he shoved the door hard with one foot. It swung back and struck the wall, proving that nothing waited behind it. Entering, he shot a glance into the bedroom where lay the forgotten dummy of burlap. For a second he stood rigid. Then he leaped into the room.
The dummy still lay there. But it had been visited in the night. The visitor had left a memento of his call. Its handle jutted horizontally from the huddled sacks.
Douglas grasped that handle and drew upward. From the burlap and the corn-husk mattress beneath slid a long blade. Grimly he inspected it. When he turned toward the outer room his face was flint.
He had seen that murderous tool before. It was the corn-hook of Nigger Nat Oaks.