CHAPTER XXVII
ABNER FOWNES was sitting in his library waiting for word from Sheriff Jenney. If matters went to-night as he felt certain they must go, he could live again in security, untroubled by conscience, with no apprehensions, and with his financial worries removed. Five truckloads of liquor had been discharged at the Lakeside Hotel. He knew that. The importation had been successful, without a hitch. Within a week the whisky would be distributed and the cash in hand.... It would be sufficient to clear his most troublesome obligations and to put him on his feet again. He considered this with a glow of satisfaction....
Carmel Lee had constituted a threat, but she was powerless to threaten now. At any moment word would arrive that she was in Jenney’s hands, her reputation in Gibeon would be destroyed, and she would be powerless. Public opinion would drive her from the place.
Abner sat back comfortably in his chair and looked forward to a life of quiet and importance. He would continue to live in security as Gibeon’s first citizen. He might even seek political preferment. In a year there would be a senatorial election. Why should he not stand for the position. To be Senator from hisstate—that was something, indeed. And why not? His reflections carried him to Washington. He saw himself in the Senate Chamber, listened to his voice rolling forth sonorous periods, heard with infinite satisfaction the applause of his fellow Senators....
The telephone rang and he was guilty of unseemly haste to reach the instrument.
“Hello!... Hello!... Who is it? Is it Jenney?”
“No,” said a voice, “it’s Deputy Jackson.... Look out for yourself.... There’s hell——”
“What’s that?”
“The whole town meetin’s rushin’ off to Peewee’s place. Reg’lar mob.... Jenney he set out to stop ’em, but he’s arrested.”
“Jenney arrested!”
“Federal authorities. Him and two others is pinched. Better look out for yourself. I’m goin’ to.”
The receiver banged on its hook at the other end of the line. He was alone. Washington vanished, glowing dreams of the future gave place to the grim reality of the present. The Federal authorities!... He had considered them negligible. Somehow one lost sight of the Federal government in that remote region; they were unfamiliar; it seemed a spot to which their writ did not run.
He tried to consider the fact coolly and calmly, but his brain refused to function in such a manner. He was confused; the suddenness, the unexpectedness of the blow from such a source shook him from his foundations. What did it mean? How had it comeabout.... Clearly, if Jenney was under arrest, he could not complete his raid on the Lakeside Hotel and so abolish Carmel Lee.... That was that.... But how did it affect him? How did it affect the thousands of dollars’ worth of liquor so necessary to his financial rehabilitation?...
The big question—was he threatened personally?—was one he could not answer. There had been no sign of threat. Jenney was arrested. Perhaps they did not mean to arrest him, had no evidence against him.... But could Jenney be depended upon to keep his mouth shut?... Jenney, he confessed to himself, did not seem a man capable of great loyalty, nor possessed of high courage. He would weaken. Under pressure he would tell all he knew.... The advice of the voice over the telephone was good. He would look out for himself....
He rushed up the stairs to make ready for flight. It would be a good idea to absent himself, no matter what happened. If worst came to worst—why, he would be out of reach of the law. If matters turned out otherwise it would be easy to return from a hurried business trip.... He began packing frantically. Having packed, he went to the safe in his library and transferred sufficient funds to his pocketbook. Then, as a precautionary measure, he carefully destroyed certain private papers.... This consumed time.
The telephone rang again, and Abner answered in no little trepidation.
“Mr. Fownes?” asked a voice.
“Yes. Who is it?”
“Tucker.... Say, the mob’s burned Lakeside Hotel. They’ve got Peewee.... Burned her up slick and clean—and everythin’ in it. The whole shipment’s gone....”
Fownes dropped the receiver and sank nerveless into a chair. At any rate, he was ruined. That much was certain. Nothing remained to fight for now but his personal security, his liberty. He snatched up his bag and moved toward the door.... His plan was not clear—only the first step of it. He would rent an automobile and drive out of town with what speed was possible.... As he reached the door he realized with a sudden sharp pang that he was leaving his house for good, leaving Gibeon forever. He, Abner Fownes, first citizen, man of substance, was fleeing from his native place like the commonest criminal.
Dazedly he wondered how it had come about ... somehow, he felt, that girl was at the bottom of the thing. His misfortunes were due to her meddling. He wished he could get his fingers upon her throat.
He descended the steps and walked toward the street. The night was dark, dark enough to conceal his movements, perhaps to avert recognition.... A certain confidence came to him. He would get away; he would possess liberty and his intelligence which had served him so well.... There were other places—and he was not old. Perhaps....
As he turned out upon the street a figure confronted him. He halted, drew back.
“Abner Fownes,” said a voice, “where are you going?”
“You!... You!...” he said, hoarsely. His fingers twitched, fury burned in his heart, and the desire to slay. He looked about him. All was blackness.... Here she was, this girl who was sending him crashing down in ruin....
“He is dead,” said Carmel. “You are a murderer again. Abner Fownes.... You’re running away.”
“Out of my way, you—you——”
“You’ve killed him,” she said. “You must be punished for that.... You must not go away. You must wait until they come.”
“You—you’ve done this—you——” He was working himself into a rage. He was not the man to do a violence in cold blood.
“I have done it.... But to what good? He is dead—is dying.... Nothing can pay for that. He will go away from me forever.... Abner Fownes, you are a murderer, and you must pay for it.... Oh, if I could make you pay a thousand, thousand times.... And you shall pay!”
He dropped his bag and reached for her throat with clutching fingers. She stepped back, avoiding him.
“They are coming now,” she said. “See.... There are their lights.... Wait, Abner Fownes. You cannot get away. If you try to go I shall hold you.”
He turned. Up the road approached a multitude of automobile lights. Gibeon was returning fromits crusade!... He uttered a shrill, unnatural cry and made as if to rush past her, but Carmel grasped his arm. “Wait,” she said.
He waited. A feeling of powerlessness swept over him. A sense of impotence and defeat and despair.... He could not force himself to raise his hand against this girl. He was afraid. He was afraid ofher.
She remained standing in the middle of the walk, blocking his way, but it was unnecessary to block his way. He could not have moved.... A cold, clinging dread was upon him. He was afraid of the night, of the darkness. He dared not be alone with the night.... If Carmel had gone Abner Fownes would have followed her, would have called her back, begged her to stay with him....
The lights of the first car rested upon them, illuminating the spot.... Carmel stepped forward and signaled. The car stopped, halting the procession.... Men got down and surrounded him....
“Where,” said Carmel, “is Sheriff Churchill?”
“There,” said a man.
“Carry him here,” she ordered, and it was done.
Wrapped in blankets, the thing that had been Sheriff Churchill was laid on the sidewalk at Abner Fownes’s feet.
“Uncover his face. Let this man look at him,” Carmel said. “Make him look.... Make him look....”
Fownes covered his face, staggered back. “No.... No.... Take—take it away.”
“Uncover his face,” said Carmel. “Take this man’s hands from his eyes.... Make him look....”
They obeyed. Fownes stood quivering, eyes tightly shut.
“Look,” said Carmel. “Look!”
She overmastered him. He opened his eyes and looked at the dreadful sight. He stared, bent forward. His hands stretched out, clawlike, as he stared at the horror. Then he threw back his head and laughed, and the laughter ended in a shriek.... He swayed, half turned, and fell back into the arms of the men of Gibeon....
Jared Whitefield forced his way to Fownes’s side. “I will take charge of him,” he said. “Will some one take care of this girl.... She hain’t herself.... Take her back to Doc Stewart’s....”
Morning penetrated the room where Carmel sat, entering gently, gently pushing back the night. Carmel sat wide-eyed, waiting, waiting. She had not slept, had not closed her eyes. From time to time she had climbed the stairs to look upon Evan Pell’s face, to be told that he lived, that his condition was unchanged.... She was worn, weary. Nothing mattered now. She was at the end of things, wishing for death.
Doctor Stewart came to the door.
“Can you step upstairs, Miss Lee?”
“Is—is he——”
The doctor shook his head.
Carmel followed. Doubtless he was sinking, andshe was summoned to be present at the end.... She entered the room. Her heart was cold, heavy, dead. As she approached the beside she could not lift her eyes to Evan’s face.
“Carmel—dear....” said a voice.
Her heart came to life; it warmed, leaped in her bosom. She dared to look. His eyes were open, conscious, intelligent.
“Evan!... Evan!...” she cried and sank on her knees beside him. Her eyes devoured his face, and he smiled.
“Doctor—Doctor,” she cried, “is he—will he——”
“I think,” said the doctor, “we can have him on his feet in a week, slightly damaged, of course.”
“And I thought—I thought you would die,” she said.
“Die!” Evan Pell’s voice, weak and faint, nevertheless carried a note of surprise. “Er—of course not. I had not the slightest intention—of dying.” He fumbled for her hand. “Why my dear—I have—just come to—life.”
“You would have given your life for me!... Oh, Evan, I love you! ... and I’m so—so proud of you.”
“Er—very gratifying,” said Evan. Then, for a moment he was silent, reflecting.
“It is—very satisfying to—be in love,” he said. “I—like it.” Then. “I want you to—be proud—of me.” He smiled. “There’s just—one thing—I am proud of.”
“What is that, sweetheart?”
“The—er—way I—handled that doorknob—with so little practice,” he said. “It was—er—so foreign to my training.... It—showed adaptability....”
THE END