The gray of dawn was slowly gladdening toward the warmer hue of day. The eastern skies lit with that pallid yellow which precedes the gold and amber of the rising sun. Somewhere, far below the horizon, the great day god was marching onward, ever onward, shedding its splendor upon a refreshed and waking world.
The valley of Leaping Creek was stirring.
Whatever the shortcomings of the citizens of Rocky Springs, morning activity was not one of them. But they knew, on this day of days, a fresh era in the history of the village was about to begin. Every man knew this. Every woman. Even every child who had power to understand anything at all.
So, as the golden light spread upward toward the vault of the eastern heavens, the spirals of smoke curled up from among the trees on the breathless air. Every cookstove inthe village was lit by the unwillingly busy hands of the men-folk, while the women bedecked themselves and their offspring, as befitted the occasion and their position.
Breakfast ensued. It was not the leisurely breakfast of every day, when men required an ample foundation to sustain their daily routine of laborious indolence, but a meal at which coffee was drunk in scalding gulps, and bread and butter, and some homely preserve, replaced the more substantial fare of chops and steak, or bacon and cereals.
Then came the real business of the day. Doors opened and men looked out. Children, with big bow ties upon their heads and sashes at their waists, scuttled through, about the legs of their parents, and reached the open. Neighborly voices hailed each other with a cheery greeting, and the tone was unusual. It was the tone of those who anticipate pleasantly, or are stirred by the excitement of uncertainty.
Minutes later the footpaths and unpaved tracks lost their deserted appearance. Solitary figures and groups lounged along them. Men accompanied by their well-starched womenfolk, women striving vainly to control their legions of offspring. They all began to move abroad, and their ways were convergent. They were all moving upon a common goal, as though drawn thither by the irresistible attraction of a magnet.
From the lower reaches of the village, toward the eastern river, that better class residential quarter, where the houses, four in number, of Mrs. John Day, of Billy Unguin, of Allan Dy, and the local blacksmith were located, an extremely decorous cortege emerged. Here there was neither bustle nor levity. These were the chief folk of Rocky Springs, and their position, as examples to their brethren of lesser degree, weighed heavily upon them.
Mrs. John was the light about which all social moths fluttered. The women supporting her formed a bodyguard sufficiently impressive and substantial. The men-folk were allowed no nearer than the fringe of their bristling skirts. It was like the slow and stately progress of a swollen, vastly overfed queen bee, moving on her round of the cells to deposit her eggs. The women were the attendant bees, the men were the guarding drones, whose habits in real life in no way detracted from the analogy, while Mrs. John—well, Mrs.John would have made a fine specimen of a queen bee, except, perhaps, for the egg-laying business.
They, too, were being drawn to the magnet point, but, as the distance they had to travel was greater than that of the other villagers, they would certainly be the last to arrive. This had been well calculated by Mrs. John, who was nothing if not important. She had well seen to it that the ceremony, so shortly to take place, was on no account to begin until her august word had been given. To further insure this trifling piece of self-aggrandizement she was defraying the whole of the expenses for the demolishment of the aged landmark of the valley.
The saloonkeeper, O’Brien, coldly cynical, but eager to miss nothing of the doings of his fellow citizens, took up his position at an early hour with two of the most faithful adherents of his business house.
It was his way to observe. It was his way to watch, and read the signs going on about him. This valley, and all that belonged to it, had little enough attraction for him beyond its possibilities of profit to himself. Therefore the signs about him were at all times important. And the signs of the doings of the forthcoming day more particularly so.
Those who accompanied him were Danny Jarvis and “fighting” Mike. They were entirely after his own heart, and, perhaps, if opportunity ever chanced to offer, after his pocket as well. They accompanied him because he insisted upon it, and with a more than tacit protest. As yet they had not sufficiently slept off the fumes of their overnight indulgence in rye whisky. But O’Brien, when it suited him, was quite irresistible to his customers.
Having roused these two inebriates from their drunken slumbers on the hay in his barn with a healthy kick, he proceeded to herd them out into the daylight with a whole-hearted enthusiasm.
“Out you get, you lousy souses,” he enjoined them. “There’s a big play up at the old tree goin’ to happen right away. Guess that old crow bait, Ma Day’ll need all the youth an’ beauty o’ Rocky Springs around to get eyes on her glory. I can’t say either o’ you boys fit in with these things, but if you don’t git too near hoss soap and cold water mebbe you’ll pass for the picturesque.”
After a brief interval of blasphemous upbraiding and protest, after these two men had exhausted their complimentary vocabulary on the subject of the charms of the lumber merchant’s wife, to all of which O’Brien turned a more or less deaf ear, the three set out for the scene of action, and took up an obscure position whence they could watch every detail of the proceedings without, themselves, being too closely observed.
As O’Brien looked out upon the preparations already made, and while his two friends stood chewing the silent cud of angry discontent, with a diluting of black plug tobacco, he had to admit that the moment certainly was a moment, and the scene had assumed a fascination which even contrived to take possession of his now somewhat rusty imagination.
There, in the center of all, stood the villainous old pine, clothed in all its atmosphere of unconscionable evil. It stood out quite by itself in the midst of a clearing, which had been carefully prepared. Every tree and every bush had been cut away, so that nothing should interfere with the impressive fall of the aged giant.
O’Brien studied the position closely. His eye was measuring, and he was forced to admit that the setting was impressive. More than that, he felt constrained to appreciate the imagination of Mrs. John Day. With a view to possibilities the approximate height of the tree had been taken, and a corresponding radius had been cleared of all lesser growths. This was excellent. But—and he contrived to find one objection—the old Meeting House was well within the radius. It was the preparation for its defense to which he took exception. He scorned the surrounding of lesser trees which had been left to guard it from the crushing impact should the tree fall that way. Nor was he slow to air his opinions.
He eyed the discontented features of his companions, and snorted violently.
“Say,” he cried, forcefully. “Look at that, you two bokays o’ beauty.” He pointed at the Meeting House. “There—right there. If that darnation stack o’ kindlin’ was to fall that aways, why, I guess them vegetables wouldn’t amount to a mush o’ cabbige.”
Fighting Mike deliberately spat.
“An’ who in hell cares?” he snarled.
O’Brien turned on the other for a sign of interest. But Danny’s stomach was in bad case.
“Oh, hell!” he cried, and promptly turned his gaze in another direction.
O’Brien looked from one to the other, torn by feelings of pity and anger, with a desire for bodily assault uppermost.
“You sure are bright boys,” he said at last, a sort of sardonic humor getting the better of his harsher feelings.
He had no intention of having his enjoyment spoiled by what he termed “bad bile,” so he yielded his full attention to the tree itself. It certainly was a magnificent piece of Nature’s handiwork. Somehow he regretted that he had never studied it carefully before. From the tree he turned to a mild appreciation of the other preparations for its fall. Long guide ropes had been set in place, high up the vast, bare trunk. These, four of them in number, had been secured at the four points of the compass to other trees of stout growth on the fringe of the clearing. They were new ropes provided for the purpose. Then again, a heavy cable chain had been girded about the lower trunk, and to this, well out of range of the fall of the tree, were hitched two teams of heavy draught horses. It was obvious that they were to haul as the tree, steadied by the guides, began to fall.
He summed up the result of his observations for the benefit of his companions, in a pleasantly conversational manner.
“Makes a dandy picture,” he said doubtfully, “but I guess there’s a whole heap o’ things women don’t understand. Hand ’em a baby, an’ they got men beat a mile, an’ they most gener’ly don’t forget to say so. That’s all right, an’ we ain’t kickin’ a thing. Guess we ain’t yearnin’ to share that glory—none of us. But babies and fellin’ trees ain’t got a spark o’ resemblance far as I kin see, ’cep’ it is an axe is a mighty useful thing dealing with ’em when they ain’t needed. What I was comin’ to was this old sawdust bag, Ma Day’ll have a hell of a mouthful to chew when that tree gets busy. These guides ain’t a circumstance. They won’t hold nothin’. An’ I guess I don’t get a step nearer things than I am now.”
Mike gazed around on the speaker with billious scorn.
“Don’t guess that’ll hurt nothin’,” he sneered.
Danny was beginning to revive.
“Ain’t you goin’ to hand the leddy compliments?” he inquired sarcastically. “You got an elegant tank o’ hot air laid on.”
O’Brien remained quite unruffled.
“She’ll hand herself all the compliments she’s yearnin’ for. Women like her can’t do without bokays, an’ they don’t care a cuss how they get ’em. Say——”
He gazed up at the tattered crest of the tree. But the immensity of its height, looking so directly up, turned him dizzy, and he was glad to bring his gaze back to the unattractive faces of his companions.
“——I’m gettin’ clear on to higher ground. You boys stop right ther’. If the old tree gets busy your ways it won’t matter nothin’. Guess your score’s overrun down at the saloon, but I lose that without a kick. You’re too bright for me.”
He turned away, and, moving up the hill, took up a fresh position.
Here he had a better view. He had abandoned the pleasure of listening to any speeches which he felt sure would be made, but his safety more than compensated him. Without the distractions of his companions’ society he was better able to concentrate his attention upon details. He observed that the tree was already sawn more than half way through, and he congratulated himself that he had not discovered it before. Also he saw a number of huge, hardwood wedges lying on the ground, and beside them two heavy wooden mauls.
Their purpose was obvious, and he wondered who were the men who would handle them. And, wondering, he cast an interested eye up at the sky with the thought of wind in his mind. The possibility of such a tragedy as the sudden rising of a breeze to upset calculations, and, incidentally, the half-sawn tree, had no effect upon him. He was out of range. Those gathering about the tree in the open were welcome to their belief in the strength of the guide ropes.
In a few moments all his interest was centered about the gathering of the villagers. He knew them all, and watched them with the keenest interest. He could hear the babel of tongues from his security. Nor could he help feeling how much these people resembled a flock of silly, curious sheep.
His eyes quickly searched for those whom he felt were really the more important in the concern of the tree. Where were Charlie Bryant, and those men who were concerned in his exploits? His eyes scanned every face, and then, when his search was completed, something like excitement took possession of him.
Charlie Bryant was absent. So were his associates, Kid Blaney, Stormy Longton, Holy Dick, and Cranky Herefer. Where were Pete Clancy and Nick Devereux, Kate Seton’s hired men? They were all absent. So was Kate herself. Ah, yes, he had heard she had gone to Myrtle. Anyway, her sister, Helen, was there—with Mrs. John Day. Where was her beau—Charlie Bryant’s brother?
His excitement rose. The coincidence of these absences suggested possibilities. The possibilities brought a fresh train of thought. He suddenly realized that not a single policeman was present. This, of course, might easily be accounted for on the score of duty. But their absence, taken in conjunction with the absence of the others, certainly was remarkable.
But now the ceremony was beginning. Mrs. John Day had assumed command, and, surrounded by her select bodyguard, she was haranguing the villagers, and enjoying herself tremendously. Yes, there was no manner of doubt about her enjoyment. O’Brien’s maliciously humorous eyes watched her expression of smiling self-satisfaction, and estimated it at its true worth. Her face was very red, and her arms swung about like flails, beating the air in her efforts to carry conviction upon an indifferent audience. He felt that the glory of that moment was something she must have lived for for days, and a feeling of awful anticipation swept over him as he considered her possible verbal and physical antics at such time as the new church should be opened. He felt that it would really be necessary to take a holiday on that occasion.
However, the speech terminated, as speeches sometimes do, and a chorus of applause dutifully followed, as such choruses generally do. And now the great interest of the day was to begin.
Menfolk began to press the crowd back beyond the safety line, and two of Mrs. Day’s lumbermen, evidently sent downfor the occasion by her husband from his camp, picked up the two wooden mauls. At the same time a man took his place at each guide rope.
O’Brien rubbed his hands. Now for the fun, and he thought of the old legend. He wondered which of those silly-looking sheep, gazing in open-mouthed expectation, were to be the victims of the old Indian curse. And curiously enough, hard-headed, callous as he was, O’Brien was convinced someone was to pay the penalty.
The great wedges were placed in position, and the heavy stroke of one of the mauls resounded through the valley. A second wedge was placed, and a second stroke fell. Then several strokes in swift succession, and the men stood clear, and gazed upward with measuring eye.
O’Brien, too, looked up. The tree had begun to lean, and two of the guides were straining taut. He wondered. He wondered if the men at the guides were used to the work. Now, for the first time, he realized that the crest of the tree had a vast overhang of foliage on one side, and mighty misshapen limbs. He regarded it speculatively.
Then he glanced at the lumbermen. They were still looking up at the lean of the tree. Suddenly he found himself expressing his opinions aloud, as he ominously shook his head.
“They’re raw hands, or—jest mill hands,” he muttered. “They sure ain’t sawyers.”
And again his eyes lifted to the ominous overhang.
A further scrutiny enlightened him. They were endeavoring to fell the tree so that its crest should drop somewhere on or near the trail toward the new church. This made its fall in the direction of, but to the south of, the old Meeting House. This was obviously for the purpose of simplifying haulage. Good enough—if all went well.
The lumbermen seemed satisfied and turned again to their wedges. As they did so a gleam of smiling irony began to grow in O’Brien’s eyes. He had detected a slight swing in the overhang of the crest, and the strain on the two guides was unequally distributed. The greater strain was on thewrongguide.
The swing of the tree was slightly out of its calculated direction, and inclining a degree or two nearer the direction of the Meeting House.
As the heavy strokes of the mauls fell he glanced over the faces of the onlookers. What a picture of expectancy, what idiotic delight he saw there!
A crack, sharp and loud, echoed over the clearing. The double team were straining mightily on their heavy tugs. The lumbermen had stood clear. The strain on thewrongguide had increased.
O’Brien looked up. The swing had changed several more degrees, further out of its direction.
The expression of the upturned faces had changed, too. Now it was evident that others had realized what O’Brien had discovered already. Loud voices began to point it out, and the lumbermen stared stupidly upward. The tree was in the balance, and slowly moving, bearing all its crushing weight upon that singlewrongguide.
There was a rapid movement near O’Brien, and Mike and Danny Jarvis joined him hurriedly.
“Say,” cried the latter, “the blamed galoots’ll bust up the whole durned shootin’ match.”
Which remark warned O’Brien that Danny had awakened to the threatening danger to the Meeting House.
“They done it,” returned O’Brien calmly, his eyes riveted upon the leaning tree.
Mike thrust his hands into the tops of his trousers.
“It sure was time to quit,” he said with satisfaction.
The saloonkeeper’s only comment was to rub his hands in a sort of malicious glee. Then in a moment, he pointed at the straining guide. “It’s got way,” he cried. “Look, she’s spinning. The rope. She’ll part in half a tick. Get it? Say, might as well try to hold a house with pure rubber, as a new rope. It’s got such a spring. It’s give the old tree way. Now it’s——. Gee!”
His final exclamation came as a terrific rending and cracking, far louder than heavy gunshots, came from the base of the tree. There was a vision of the lumbermen running clear. The next instant the straining guide parted with a report that echoed far down the valley. Then, caught by the other restraining guide, the whole tree swung around, pivoting on its base, and fell with a roar of splitting and rending, and a mighty final boom, along the whole length of the roof of the Meeting House.
All O’Brien had anticipated had come to pass. Furthermore, the mush of “vegetables” surrounding the house was more than fulfilled. The vast trunk cut its way through the building, everything, like a knife passing through butter, and finally came to rest upon the ruined flooring inside.
With the final crash an awful silence prevailed. Not a voice was raised among the onlookers. The old superstitions were fully stirring. Was this the beginning of some further disaster to come? Was this the work of that old-time curse? Was this only a part of the evil connected with that tree? It was not the destruction of the house alone that filled them with awe. It was the character of the house that had been destroyed.
But in a moment the spell was broken, and O’Brien was the first to help to break it. The tree had fallen. It lay there quite still, like some great, dead, evil giant. Now his callous mind demanded to know the full extent of the damage done.
He left his post, followed closely by his companions, and ran down toward the wrecked building. With his movement a rush came from other directions among the spectators, and, in the twinkling of an eye, the ruined Meeting House was swarmed with an eager, curious throng of men and women clambering over the wreckage.
What a gladdening result for the sensation-loving minds of the callous! O’Brien and his companions were among the first to reach the scene.
There lay the fallen giant, the greater part of its colossal crest far beyond the extreme end of the demolished building. Only a few of the lower, bare branches, just beneath the foliage, had caught the house, these and the trunk. But the wreckage was complete. The walls had fallen as though they had been made of loose sand, walls that had withstood the storms of years, and the old, heavy-timbered roof was torn to shreds, and lay strewn about like matchwood.
As the eager crowd swarmed over thedebrisan extraordinary sight awaited them. The weight of the tree, and the falling roof timbers, had almost completely destroyed the flooring, and there, in its place, gaped an open cavity extending the length of the building. The place was undermined by one huge cellar, divided by now crushed and broken cross-supporting walls.
The searching eyes of the saloonkeeper and his companions lost no detail. Nor did the prevailing astonishment at the discovery seem to concern them. With some care they clambered among thedebristo add further to the discovery, if such additions were to be made. And their efforts were rewarded without stint. The all-unsuspected and unknown cellar was no simple relic of a bygone age, but displayed every sign of recent usage. Furthermore, it was stocked with more than a hundred liquor kegs, many of which were empty, but, also, many of which were full of smuggled rye whisky.
Within five minutes the entire village, from Mrs. John Day down to the youngest child, knew that the cache of the whisky-runners had been laid bare by the fall of the old pine.
The wave of sentimental superstition again broke out and fastened itself upon the minds of the people, and the miracle of it was spoken of among them with almost bated breath.
But O’Brien had no time to waste upon any such thought. He clambered round through the cellars with eyes and wits alert. And he chuckled delightedly, as, groping in the half-light among the kegs, he discovered and recognized his own markings upon many of the empty kegs.
The whole thing amused him vastly, and he dilated upon his various discoveries to those who accompanied him.
“Say, Danny, boy, don’t it beat hell?” he cried gleefully. “While all them psalm-smiters were busy to death sweepin’ the cobwebs out o’ their muddy souls upstairs, the old wash-tub o’ sins was full to the bung o’ good wholesome rye underneath ’em. Was it a bright notion? Well, I’d smile. If it don’t beat the whole blamed circus. Is there a p’liceman in the country ’ud chase up a Meetin’ House for liquor? Not on your life. That dope was as safe right there from discovery as if it was stored in the United States Treasury. Say, them guys was smart. Smart? Hell—say—what’s that?”
Excited voices were talking and calling loudly beyond the walls of the ruined building. Even amid the dark surroundings of the cellars O’Brien and his companions detected the words “police” and “patrol.”
Ready for any fresh interest forthcoming, the saloonkeeper clambered hurriedly out of the cellar with the othermen close behind him. They mounted the broken walls and looked out upon the crowd.
All eyes were turned along the trail coming up from the village, and O’Brien followed the direction of their gaze. A half-spring police wagon, followed closely by a wagon, which many recognized as that of Charlie Bryant, were coming up the trail, escorted by Inspector Fyles and a patrol of police troopers. The horses were walking slowly, and as they approached a hush fell upon the crowd of spectators.
Suddenly Stanley Fyles urged his horse forward, and came on at a rapid canter. He pulled up at the ruined building and looked about him, first at the wreckage and then at the silent throng. Then, as he beheld O’Brien standing on the wall, he pointed at the ruins.
“An—accident?” he inquired sharply.
O’Brien’s eyes twinkled.
“A damn piece of foolish play by folks who orter know better,” he said. “They tried wreckin’ this durned old tree an’ succeeded in wreckin’ the soul laundry o’ this yer village. Mebbe, too, you’ll find things down under it to interest you, inspector. I don’t guess you’d be lookin’ for whisky an’ religion goin’ hand in hand, so to speak.”
The officer’s eyes were sharply questioning.
“How’s that?”
“Why, the cellars are full o’ kegs of good rye—some full, some empty. Gee, but I’d hate spilling it.”
The wagons had come up, and now it was to be seen that coarse police blankets were laid out over them, the soft material displaying something of the ominous figures hidden under them.
“Say——” cried the startled saloonkeeper, and paused, as his quick eyes observed these signs. Then, in an excited voice, he went on. “Say, them—wagons—are loaded some.”
Fyles nodded.
“I was bringing ’em along to have them laid out here—in the Meeting House, before—burial.”
“Burial?”
O’Brien’s eyes opened wide. A sort of gasp went through the silent crowd of onlookers, hanging on the police officer’s words.
“Yes, it was a brush with—the runners,” Fyles said seriously.“We got them red-handed last night. It was a case of shooting, too. Two of our boys were shot up. They’re in the wagons. There’s three of the gang—dead, and the boss of it, Charlie Bryant. They’re all in the wagons. The rest are across the border by now. Guess there’ll be no more whisky run in this valley.”
The hush which followed his announcement was far more eloquent than words.
It was O’Brien whose temerity was strong enough to break it.
“That’s so,” he remarked thoughtfully. Then he sighed a world of genuine regret, and his eyes glanced along the vast timber of the old pine. “Guess the old cuss has worked out,” he went on. “No, there’ll be no more whisky-running.” Then he climbed slowly down from the wall. “I’ll have to get—moving on.”
The nine days’ wonder had come and passed. Never again could the valley of Leaping Creek return to the conditions which had for so long prevailed there. And strangely enough the victory won was far more a moral than a physical one. True, one or two lives had paid for the victory, but this was less than nothing compared with the effect achieved.
Within three weeks a process of emigration had set in which left the police with scarcely an excuse for their presence in the valley at all. All those who, for long years, had sought sanctuary within the shelter of the vast, forest-clad slopes of the valley, began to realize that the immunity which they had enjoyed for so long was rapidly becoming doubtful. The forces of the police suddenly seemed to have become possessed of a too-intimate knowledge of the shortcomings which had driven them to shelter. In fact, the limelight of government authority was shining altogether too brightly, searching out the shadowed corners in the lives of the citizens, and yielding up secrets so long and so carefully hidden.
The first definite result of the police raid apparent was the “moving on” of Dirty O’Brien. It came quite suddenly, and unexpectedly. Rocky Springs one morning awoke to find that the old saloon was closed. Inquiry soon elicited the true facts. O’Brien had vanished. The barn was empty. His team and spring wagon had gone, and the house, and bar, had been stripped of everything worth taking. The night before O’Brien had served his customers up to the usual hour, and there was nothing unusual to be observed. Therefore, the removal must have been effected swiftly and silently in the dead of night, performed as the result of careful, well-laid plans.
This was the first result of the definite establishment of police authority. Evidently the future of Rocky Springs no longer appealed to the shrewd saloonkeeper, and so he “moved on.”
This was the cue for further goings. With the saloon closed, and the police authority established, Rocky Springs was Rocky Springs no longer. So, one by one, silently, without the least ostentation, men began to yield up their claims as citizens, and, vanishing over the distant horizon, were heard of no more.
The sledgehammer of police methods had penetrated through the case-hardening of the village, and the place became hopelessly impossible for its population of undesirables.
For Helen Seton those first three weeks left her with a dull, apathetic feeling that quite suddenly her whole world had been turned upside down. That somehow a complete wreckage of all the life about her, her new life, had been consummated. Nor did she understand why, or how. It seemed to her she was living in a new world where all was misery and depression. Her usually bubbling spirit was weighted down as with an avalanche of responsibility and unhappiness.
For her the change had begun with almost the very moment of the felling of the old pine, and, somehow, it seemed to her as if that wicked, mischievous monument of bygone crimes were responsible.
With the yielding up of the secrets of the Meeting House had started a succession of shocks, each one harder than its predecessor to bear, until she was left almost paralyzed and quite powerless to resist them.
With Stanley Fyles heading the procession of death, with the man’s brief outline of the circumstances attending his raid, her heart seemed suddenly to have turned to stone. Her thought turned at once to her sister. That sister, even now away from home, waiting in dreading unconsciousness for the completion of the disaster she so terribly feared. To Helen’s sympathetic heart the horror of the position was magnified an hundredfold. Kate had been right. Kate had understood where they had all been blind, and Kate, loyal, strong, brave Kate, must learn that the very disaster she had prophesied had come, and, in coming, had overtaken the one man they had all so earnestly desired to shield—Charlie Bryant.
Without waiting another moment she left the scene. She had blindly rushed from the proximity of that gaping, awe-stricken, curious crowd. And her way had taken her straight home. She had no thought for any object. How could she? Her mind and heart were overflowing with fear and concern, and a world of sympathy for Kate—the absent Kate. Charlie was dead. Charlie had been caught red-handed. Charlie, that poor, helpless, besotted drunkard. He—he—after all their faith in his integrity, after all Kate’s lavish affection, he was the real criminal, and—Fyles had run him to his death. She had no thought now of Bill’s absence from her side. She had no thought of anything but this one overwhelming disaster.
So she ran on home. Nor did she pause till she flung herself upon the coverlet of her little white bed in a passionate storm of weeping.
How long she lay there she never knew. A merciful Providence finally sent sleep to her weary brain and heart. And when she ultimately awoke it was to start up dazedly, and find herself staring into the solemn, dreadful eyes of her sister, Kate, who was standing just beyond the open doorway of her bedroom, gazing in upon her.
Then followed a scene never likely to be wholly forgotten.
She sprang from her bed and ran toward that ominous figure. She was prepared to fling herself upon that strong support which had never yet failed her. But, for once, no such support was forthcoming. Long before she reached her side Kate had stepped into the room and seemed to collapseinto the rocker beside the dressing bureau. The brave Kate was reduced to a pitiful outburst of tearless sobs.
For one brief instant Helen was again on the verge of tears, but she remembered. With a great effort she forced them back, and held herself in a strong grip. Then, slowly, a change began to creep over her. It was not she who must look for support from Kate. It was she who must yield support, and the memory of all those years when Kate, never by word or act had failed her, came to her aid.
But though she sought by every means in her power to comfort the heartbroken woman, her efforts were wholly unavailing. They were perhaps worse than unavailing. For Kate proved as unreasonable as any weak, hysterical girl, and, rebuffing her at every turn, finally broke into such a storm of bitter self-reviling as to leave her sister helpless.
“Leave me, Helen,” she cried, through her grievous sobs. “Don’t come near me. Go, go. Don’t look at me; don’t come near. I’m not fit to live. I’m a—murderess. It’s I—I who’ve killed him. Oh, God, was there ever such punishment. No—no. Go away—go away. I—I can’t bear it.”
Horrified beyond words, stunned and confused, poor Helen knew not where to turn, or what to do. She stood silently by—wondering. Then, without reasoning or understanding, something came to her help just as she was about to yield to her own woman’s weakness once more.
She moved out of the room, nor did she know for what reason. Nor was her next action any impulse of her own. Mechanically she set about the housework of her home.
It was her salvation, the salvation of the situation. She worked, and gradually a great calm settled upon her. Thought began to flow. Practical, helpful thought. And as she worked she saw all those things she must do for poor Kate’s well-being.
It was a long and terrible day. And when night fell she was utterly wearied out in mind and body. She had already prepared a meal for Kate, which had been left untouched, and now, as evening came, she prepared another.
But this, like the first, was never partaken of by her sister. When she went into her own bedroom, where Kate had remained, to make her second attempt, she found to her relief and joy that her sister was lying on her bed sound asleep.
She stole out and closed up the house for the night.
Nor was Helen prepared for the miracle of the next morning. When she arose it was to find her bedroom empty, and her bed made up. She hurriedly set out in search of her sister. She was nowhere in the house. In rapidly rising dismay she hurried out to search the barn, fearing she knew not what. But instant relief awaited her. Kate was outside doing all those little necessary duties by the livestock of her homestead, which she was accustomed to do, in the calm unruffled fashion in which she always went about her work.
Helen stared. She could scarcely believe her eyes. The miracle was altogether beyond her comprehension. But her delight and relief were profound. She greeted her sister and spoke. Then it was that she realized that here was no longer the old Kate, but a changed, utterly changed woman. The big eyes, so darkly ringed, no longer smiled. They looked out at her so full of unutterable pain, as full of dull aching regrets. There was such a depth of yearning and misery in them that her greeting suddenly seemed to jar upon her own ears, and come back to her in bitter mockery. In a moment, however, understanding came. Intuitively she felt that her sister’s grief was her own, into which she could never pry. She must ask no questions, she must offer no sympathy. For the moment her sister’s mantle had fallen upon her shoulders. Hers had suddenly become the strength, and it was for her to use it in Kate’s support.
So the days wore on, long dreary days of many heartaches and bitter speculation. Kate remained the dark, brooding figure she had displayed herself on that first morning after her return. She was utterly unapproachable in those first days, while yet at the greatest pains to conceal the sorrow she was enduring. No questions or explanations passed between the two women, and Helen was left without the faintest suspicion of the truth.
Sometimes, Helen, in the long silent days, strove to solve the meaning of everything for herself. She thought and thought till her poor head ached. But she always began and ended with the same thought. It was Charlie’s capture, Charlie’s death which had wrought this havoc in her sister, and she felt that time alone could remove the shadow which had settled itself so hopelessly upon her.
Then she began to wonder and worry at the prolonged absence of her—Bill.
Kate had just finished removing the remains of the evening meal. Helen had curled herself up in the old rocker. She was reading through the numerous pages of a long letter, for perhaps the twentieth time. She was tired, bodily and mentally, and her pretty face looked drawn under its tanning.
Her sister watched her, moving silently about, returning the various articles to the cupboards where they belonged. Her eyes were shadowed. The old assurance seemed to have gone entirely out of her. Her whole manner was inclined to a curious air of humility, which, even now, seemed to fit her so ill.
She watched the girl turn page after page. Then she heard her draw a long sigh as she turned the last page.
Helen looked up and caught the eyes so yearningly regarding her.
“I—I feel better now,” she declared, with a pathetic little smile. “And—please—please don’t worry about me, Kate, dear. I’m tired. We’re both tired. Tired to death. But—there’s no help for it. We surely must keep going, and—and we’ve no one now to help us.” She glanced down at the letter in her lap. Then she abruptly raised her eyes, and went on quickly. “Say, Kate, I s’pose we’ll never see Nick or Pete again? Shall we always have to do the work of our little patch ourselves?” Then she smiled and something of her old lightness peeped out of her pretty eyes. “Look at me,” she cried. “I—I haven’t put on one of my nice suits since—since that day. I’m—a tramp.”
Kate’s returning smile was of the most shadowy description. She shook her head.
“Maybe we’ll get some hired men soon,” she said, quietly. Then she sighed. “I don’t know. I hope so. I guess we’ll never see Nick again. He got away—I believe—across the border. As for Pete,” she shuddered, “he was found by the police—shot dead.”
Helen sat up.
“You never told me,” she cried.
Kate shook her head.
“I didn’t want to distress you—any more.” Just for onemoment she averted her eyes. Then they came back to Helen’s face in an inquiry. “When—when is—Bill coming back?”
“Bill?” Helen’s eyes lighted up, and a warm smile shone in them as she glanced down at her letter again. “He says he’ll be through with Charlie’s affairs soon. He’s in Amberley. He’s had to see to things through the police. He’s coming right on here the moment he’s through. He’s—he’s going to wire me when he starts. Kate?”
“Yes, dear.”
Kate turned from the cook stove at the abruptness of her sister’s tone. Helen began to speak rapidly, and as she talked she kept her gaze fixed upon the window.
“It’s—it’s a long while now, since—that day. We were both feeling mighty bad ’bout things then. We,” she smiled whimsically, “sort of didn’t know whether it was Rocky Springs, or Broadway, did we? And there was such a lot I didn’t know or understand. And I never asked a question. Did I?”
Kate winced visibly. The moment she had always dreaded had come. She had realized that it must eventually come, and for days she had wondered vaguely how she would be able to meet it. The smile which strove to reach her eyes was a failure, and, for a moment, a hunted look threatened. In the end, however, she forced herself to perfect calmness.
“I don’t think I could have answered them then if you had,” she said gently. “I don’t know that I can answer many now—for both our sakes.”
Helen thought for some moments. Then she appeared to have arrived at a determination.
“How did you—come home that day—and why? I didn’t expect you until the next day.”
Kate drew a deep breath.
“I came back—riding,” she said. “I came back because—because I had to.”
“Why?”
“Because of the—disaster out there.”
“You knew?”
Kate nodded.
“Pretty well everything. That is all I can tell you, dear.” Kate crossed the room, and stood beside her sister’s chair.She laid one gentle hand upon her shoulder. “Don’t ask me any more about that. It—it is like—like searing my very soul with red-hot irons. That must be my secret, and you must forgive me for keeping it from you. Ask me anything else, and I will tell you—but leave that alone. It can do nobody any good.”
Helen leaned her head on one side till her soft cheek rested caressingly upon her sister’s hand.
“Forgive me, Kate,” she said. “I didn’t mean to hurt you. I’ll never mention it again—never.”
For some moments neither spoke. But Kate was waiting. She knew there were other questions that must be asked and answered.
“Was it because of the felling of that tree you went away?” Helen asked presently.
Kate shook her head.
“No.”
Helen started up.
“I knew it wasn’t. Oh, Kate, I knew it wasn’t. It was so unlike you. I know why you went. Listen,” she went on, almost excitedly. “You always defended Charlie. You pretended to believe him straight. You—you stuck to him through thick and thin. You flouted every charge made against him. It was because of him you went away. You went to try and help him—save him. All the time you knew he was against the law. That’s why you went. Oh, Kate, I knew it—I knew it.”
Helen was looking up into her sister’s shadowed face with loyal enthusiasm shining in her admiring eyes.
Kate gravely shook her head.
“I believed every word I said of Charlie. As God is my witness I believed it. And I tell you now, Helen, that as long as I live my heart will be bowed down beneath a terrible weight of grief and remorse at the death of a brave, honest, and loyal gentleman. I have no more to say. I never shall have—on the subject. I love you, Helen, and shall always love you. My one thought in life now is your welfare. If you love me, dear, then leave those things. Leave them as part of a cruel, evil, shadowed time, which must be put behind us. All I want you to ever remember of it—when you are the happy wife of your Big Brother Bill—is that Charlie was allwe believed him, in spite of all appearances, and he died the noblest, the most heroic death that man ever died.”
Kate bent down and tenderly kissed the beautiful head of fair, wavy hair. Then, without waiting for the astonished sister’s reply, she moved across to the door.
“Some day,” she said, pausing with her hand on the catch, and, turning back, smiling gently through the gathering tears, “Bill will tell you it all. He knows it all—everything. Just now he is bound to secrecy, but he will be released from that some day, and then—he will tell you.”
A girl was leaning against a solitary post, a hundred yards or so from where the descent into the valley of Leaping Creek began. All about her stretched the vast plains of grass, which seemed to know no end. The wide flat trail, so bare and hard, passed her by, and vanished into the valley behind her. In the opposite direction, at long intervals, it showed up in sections as it passed over the rises in the prairie ocean, until the limits of her vision were reached.
Not a single object stood out to relieve the monotony of that desert of grass. Any dwelling of man within reach of the searching eye must have been hidden in the troughs between the crests of summer grass. It was all so wide, so vast, so dreadful in its unspeakable solitude.
Helen’s eyes were upon the last section of the trail, away to the northwest, just as far as her bright eyes could see. She was searching, searching. Her heart was beating with a great and buoyant hope, and every little detail she beheld in that far-off distance she searched, and sought to mould into the figure of the horseman she was waiting for.
The sun was hot. It’s relentless rays, freed from the wealth of shade in the valley below, beat down upon the parching land with a fiery intensity which must have been insupportable to unaccustomed human life. But to Helen it meant nothing, nothing but the fact that its brilliant light was in keeping with every beat of the warm, thrilling heart within her bosom.
He was on the road. Bill—her Big Brother Bill. He was on the road, and must be somewhere near now, for the telegram in her hand warned her that he hoped to reach the valley by sundown.
Four long weeks since the dreadful day. Four long weeks in which her aching heart and weary thought had left her in wretched unhappiness. Four weeks of doubt and trouble, in which her sister seemed to have shut herself out of her life, leaving her to face all her doubts and fears alone.
Bill was away on his dead brother’s affairs. Loyal Bill, seeking by every means in his lumbering power to shield the memory of the dead man from the effects of the manner of his death. Helen honored her lover for it. He was just the good, loyal soul she had believed. And now, as she stood with the tinted paper message, announcing his return in her hand, she smiled, and wondered tenderly what blunders he would contrive in the process.
Sundown. Sundown would not be for at least two hours. Two hours. Two hours meant some fourteen or sixteen miles by horse upon the trail. She told herself she could not see for sixteen miles, nor even for eight. It was absurd waiting there. She had already been waiting there over an hour. Then she smiled, laughing at herself for her absurd yearning for this lover of hers. He was so big, so foolish, so honest and loyal—and, he was just hers.
She sat down again on the ground, as already she had seated herself many times. She would restrain her impatience. She would not just get up at every——
She was on her feet again at the very moment of making her resolve. This time her eyes were straining and wide open. Every nerve in her body was at a tension. Some one was on the trail this time. Certain. It was a horseman, too. There was no mistake, but he was near, quite near, comparatively. How had she come to miss him in the far distance?
She saw the figure as it came over a rising ground. She watched it closely. Then she saw it was not on the trail, but was making for it—across country. Now she knew. Now she was certain, and she laughed and clapped her hands. It must be Bill, and—of course he had lost himself, and now, at last, had found his way.
The horseman came on at a great pace.
As he drew nearer a frown of doubt crossed the girl’s face. He did not appear big enough—somehow.
He dropped down into a hollow, and mounted the next crest. In a moment, as he came into view, Helen felt like bursting into tears of disappointment.
The next moment, however, all thought of tears passed away and a steady coldness grew in her eyes. She felt like hiding herself back there in the valley. She had recognized the man. Without a doubt it was Stanley Fyles. But he wore no uniform. He was clad in a civilian costume, which pronouncedly smacked of the prairie.
It was too late to hide. Besides, to hide would be undignified. What was he coming to the valley for? Helen’s eyes hardened. Nor did she know quite why she felt resentful at the sight of him. Yes, she did. It was for poor Charlie, Bill’s brother. And Kate had sworn that Charlie was innocent.
She stood thinking, thinking, and then a further change came over her. She remembered this man’s work. She remembered his duty. Ought she to feel badly toward him?
And Kate? What of Kate? Would she——What on earth brought him to the valley—now?
It was too late to avoid him now, if she had wanted to. And, somehow, on reflection, she was not sure she did want to. So she stood her ground as he came up.
He reined Peter in as he came abreast, and his dark eyes expressed his surprise at sight of the waiting girl.
“Why—Miss Helen, this——” He broke off abruptly, and, turning in his saddle, looked back over the long, long trail. When his eyes came back to the girl’s face they were smiling. “It’s kind of hot out here,” he said. “Aren’t you afraid of the sun?” Then he became silent altogether, while he interpreted to himself the somewhat stony regard in her eyes.
In a moment something of the awkwardness of the encounter occurred to him. His mind was full of other things, which before he had missed the possibility of.
“I don’t mind the sun, Mr. Fyles,” said Helen coldly. “Besides, I guess I’m not standing around here for—fun. I’m waiting for some one.”
Fyles glanced back over the trail. Then he nodded. “He’scoming along,” he said quietly. “Guess he started out from Amberley before me. Say, he’s a bully feller, sure enough, and I like him. I’ve seen a good deal of him in Amberley. But I guessed he wouldn’t be thanking me for my company on the trail, so I came another way, and passed on ahead. You see—I, well, I had to do my duty—here, and—well, he’s a bully feller, Miss Helen, and—you’ll surely be happy with him.”
While he was talking, just for a moment, a wild impulse stirred Helen to some frigid and hateful retort. But the man’s evident sincerity won the day and the girl’s eyes lit with a radiant smile.
“He’s—on the trail?” she cried, banishing her last shadow of coldness. “He is? Say, tell me where, and when he’ll get in. I—I had this message which said he’d be here by sundown, and—and I thought I’d just come right along and meet him. Have—have you seen him? And—and——”
Fyles shook his head. “Not until just now,” he said kindly. “He’s about four miles back. Say,” he added, with less assurance, “maybe your sister’s home?”
For a moment Helen stared incredulously. “Yes,” she answered slowly. Then in agitation: “You’re not going to——?”
The man nodded, but his smile had died out. “Yes. That’s why I’ve come along,” he said seriously. “Is—is she well? Is she——?”
But Helen left him no time to finish his apprehensive inquiries. At that moment she caught sight of a distant figure on the trail. It was the figure of a big man—so big, and her woman’s heart cried out in love and thankfulness.
“Oh, look! It’s Bill—my Bill! Here he comes. Oh, thank God.”
Stanley Fyles flung a glance over his shoulder. Then without a word he lifted Peter’s reins. Then he seemed to glide off in the direction of the setting sun.
As he went he drew a long sigh. He was wondering—wondering if all the happiness in the world lay there, behind him, in the warm heart of the girl who was waiting to embrace her lover.
Kate Seton was standing at the window of her parlor.Her back was turned upon the room, upon the powerful, loose-limbed figure of Stanley Fyles.
Her face was hidden, she wanted it to remain hidden—from him. She felt that he must not see all that his sudden visit, without warning, meant to her.
The man was near the center table. One knee was resting upon the hard, tilted seat of a Windsor chair, and his folded arms leaned upon the back of it. His eyes were full of a deep fire as he gazed upon the woman’s erect, graceful figure. A great longing was in him to seize her, and crush her in arms that were ready to claim and hold her against all the world.
All the atmosphere of his calling seemed to have fallen from him. He stood there just a plain, strong man of no great eloquence, facing a position in which he might well expect certain defeat, but from which there was no thought of shrinking.
Silence had fallen since their first greeting. That painful silence when realization of that which lies between them drives each to search for a way to cross the barrier.
It was Kate who finally spoke. She moved slightly. It was a movement which might have suggested many things, among them uncertainty of mind, perhaps of decision. Her voice came low and gentle. But it was full of a great weariness and regret, even of pain.
“Why—why did you come—now?” she asked plaintively. “It seems as though I’ve lived through years in the last few weeks. I’ve tried to forget so much. And now—you come here to remind me—to stir once more the shadows which have nearly driven me crazy. Is it merciful—to do that?”
The woman’s tone was baffling. Fyles searched for its meaning. Resentment he had anticipated. He had been prepared for it, and to resist it, and break it down by the ardor of his appeal. That dreary regret was more than he could bear, and he hastened to protest.
“Say, Kate,” he cried, his sun-tanned features flushing with a quick shame. “Don’t think I’ve come here to remind you. Don’t think I’ve come along to taunt you with the loss of our—our mad wager. I want to forget it. It became a gamble on a man’s life, and—and I hate the thought. You’re free of it, and I wish to God it had never been made.”
The bitter sincerity of his final words was not without itseffect. Kate stirred. Then she turned. Her beautiful eyes, so full of pathos, so full of remorse, looked straight into his.
“Then—why did you come here?” she asked.
The man started up. The chair dropped back on to its four legs with a clatter. His arms were outstretched, and the passionate fire of his eyes blazed up as the quick, hot words escaped his lips.
“Why? Why?” he demanded, his eyes widening, his whole body vibrant with a consuming passion. “Don’t you know? Kate, Kate, I came because I couldn’t stay away. I came because there’s just nothing in the world worth living for but you. I came because I just love you to death, and—there’s nothing else. Say, listen. I went right back from here with one fixed purpose. Maybe it won’t tell you a thing. Maybe you won’t understand. I went back to get quit of the force—honorably. I’d made my peace with them. Oh, yes, I’d done that. Then I demanded leave of absence pending my resignation. They had to grant it. I am never going back. Oh, yes, I knew what I was up against. I wanted you. I wanted you so that I couldn’t see a thing else in any other direction. There is no other direction. So I came straight here to—to ask you to forget. I came here to tell you all I feel about—the work I had to do here. I came here with a wild sort of forlorn hope you could forgive. You see, I even believed that but for—for that—there was just a shadow of hope for me. Kate——!”
The woman suddenly held up her hand. And when she spoke there was nothing of the Kate he had always known in the humility of her tone.
“It is not I who must forgive,” she said quickly. “If there is any forgiveness on this earth it is I who need it.”
“You? Forgiveness?”
The man’s face wore blank incredulity.
Kate sighed. It was the sigh of a broken-hearted woman.
“Yes. If there is any forgiveness I pray that it may come my way. I need it all—all. I can never forgive myself. It was I who caused Charlie’s death.”
Quite suddenly her whole manner changed. The humility, the sadness of her tone rose quickly to a passionate self-denunciation.
“Yes, yes. I will tell you now. Oh, man, man. Your words—every one of them, have only stabbed me more and more surely to the heart. You don’t understand. You can’t, because you do not know what I mean. Oh, yes,” she went on desperately, “why shouldn’t I admit it? I love you. I always have loved you. Let me admit everything fully and freely.”
“Kate!” The man stepped forward, his eyes alight with a world of happiness, of overwhelming joy. But she waved him back.
“No, no,” she cried, almost harshly. “I have told you that just to show you how your words have well nigh crazed me. I can be nothing to you. I can be nothing to anybody. It was I who brought about Charlie’s death. He, the bravest, the loyalest man I ever knew, gave his life to save me from the police, who were hunting me down. Oh,” she went on, at sight of Fyles’s incredulous expression, “you don’t need to take my word alone. Ask Charlie’s brother. Ask Bill. He was there. He, too, shared in the sacrifice, although he did not understand that which lay in the depths of his brother’s brave heart. And now—now I must live on with the knowledge of what my wild folly has brought about. For weeks the burden of thought and remorse has been almost insupportable, and now you come to torture me further. Oh, God, I have paid for my wanton folly and wickedness. Oh, God!”
Kate buried her face in her hands, and abruptly flung herself into the rocker close behind her.
Fyles looked down upon her in amazed helplessness. He watched the woman’s heaving shoulders as great, dry, hard sobs broke from her in tearless agony. He waited, feeling for the moment that nothing he could say or do but must add to her despair, to her pain. Her self-accusation had so far left him untouched. He could not realize all she meant. All that was plain to him was her suffering, and he longed to comfort her, and help her, and defend her against herself.
The moments slipped away, heavy moments of intense feeling and bitter grief.
Presently the grief-stricken woman’s sobs grew less, and with something like a gesture of impatience she snatched her hands from her face, and raised a pair of agonized eyes to his.
“Leave me,” she cried. “Go, please go. I—I can’t bear it.”
Her appeal was so helpless. Again the impulse to take her in his arms was almost too strong for the man, but with an effort he overcame it.
“Won’t you—go on?” he said, in the gentlest possible tone. “It will help you. And—you would rather tell me.”
The firmness of his manner, the gentleness, had a heartbreaking effect. In a moment the woman’s eyes were flooded with tears, which coursed down her cheeks. It was the relief that her poor troubled brain and nerves demanded, and so Fyles understood.
He waited patiently until the passion of weeping was over. Then again he urged his demand.
“Now tell me, Kate. Tell me all. And remember I’m not here as your judge. I am here to help—because—I love you.”
The look from the woman’s eyes thanked him. Then she bowed her head lest the sight of him should leave her afraid.
“Must I tell it all?”
Kate’s tone was firmer. There was a ring in it that reminded the other of the woman he used to know.
“Tell me just what you wish. No more—no less. You are telling it for your own sake, remember. To me—it makes no difference.”
“There’s no use in telling it you from the start. The things that led up to it,” she began. “I have been smuggling whisky for nearly five years. It’s a pretty admission, isn’t it? Yes, you may well be horrified,” she went on, as Fyles started.
But the man denied.
“I am not horrified,” he said. “It is—the wonder of it.”
“The wonder? It isn’t wonderful. It was so simple. A little ingenuity, a little nerve and recklessness. The law itself makes it easy. You cannot arrest on suspicion.” Kate sighed, and her eyes had become reflective, so that their calmness satisfied the waiting man. “I must tell you this,” she went on quickly. “My reasons were twofold. Helen and I came here to farm. We came here because I was crazy for adventure. We had money, but I soon found that we, two women,could never make our farm pay. We were here surrounded by outlaws, who were already smuggling liquor, and their trade appealed to me. I was just crazy to take a hand in it for the excitement of it, and—to replenish our diminishing capital.”
“Helen knows nothing about it,” she went on, her voice hardening as though the shameful story she was about to tell were forcing the iron deeper and deeper into her soul. “She has never guessed, or suspected, and I could almost hope she never will. It didn’t take me long to make up my mind. This was about the time Charlie came to the valley,” she sighed. “Well, I quickly contrived to get at the men I wanted. I talked to them carefully, and finally unfolded to them a plan I had worked out to smuggle whisky on a large and profitable scale. It doesn’t matter about the details. They all came in at once. It pleased their sense of humor to be run by a woman. I was to disguise myself as a man, which nature made easy for me, and my real personality was to be our chief safeguard. No one would suspect unless we were caught red-handed. And that—well, that was not a great chance, anyway, in those days. I was responsible. I was to purchase cargoes across the border. The others were only my helpers, under my absolute orders. And I ruled them sharply.”
The man nodded without other comment.
“But Charlie had arrived, and very soon his coming began to complicate matters,” Kate went on, after the briefest of pauses. “He came out here to ranch. He was turned out of his home. And I—I just pitied him, and strove to turn him from his drunken habits. This is where the mischief was done. I liked him. I sort of felt like a mother to him. He was so gentle and kind-hearted. He was clever, too—very clever. Yes, I looked upon him as a son, or brother—but he didn’t look on me in the same way. I don’t know. I suppose I didn’t think. I was foolish. Anyway, Charlie asked me to marry him. I refused him, and he drank himself into delirium tremens.”
Again came a long-drawn sigh at the memory of that poor, wasted life.
“Well, I nursed him, and finally he got better, and again I went on with my work. Then, one day, I received a shock. Charlie came to me and told me he’d found a mysterious oldcorral, away up, hidden in the higher reaches of the valley. He begged me to let him show it me. Feeling that I owed him something, I consented to go with him. So we rode out. You know the place. But maybe you don’t know its secret.”
Fyles nodded.
“Yes—you mean the—cupboard in the lining of the wall.”
“You know it?” Kate’s surprise was marked. However, she went on rapidly. “Well, while we were there he showed it to me, and then, looking me straight in the eyes, he said, ‘Wouldn’t it be a dandy hiding place for things? Suppose I was a big whisky smuggler. Suppose I wanted to disguise myself. I could keep my disguise here. No chance of its being found by police or any one. It would be a great place.’ Then he went on, enlarging enthusiastically upon his idea. He said, ‘A feller wants to do things right if he’s going to beat the law. If I were running liquor I’d take no chances. I’d run it on a big scale, and I’d cache my stuff in the cellars under the Meeting House. No one knows of ’em. I only lit on ’em by chance.
“‘Not a soul even suspects they’re there. Guess they were used for caches in the old days. Now, I’d take on the job of looking after the place, keeping it clean, and all that. That would let me be seen there without anybody getting suspicious.’ All this time his eyes were watching me shrewdly, speculatively. Then, still pretending, he went off in another direction. He told me he’d bought a good wagon. He said, ‘I’d keep it here in the corral. It would be better than a buckboard.’ Then I knew for certain that he was aware of my doings. For I used a buckboard. It was a desperate moment. I waited. All of a sudden he dropped his mask of lightness, and became serious. I can never forget his poor, dear face as he gave me his final warning. ‘Kate,’ he said, ‘if there was anybody I—liked, and was anxious about, running whisky in this place, I’d show them the corral and tell them what I’ve told you. You see,’ he added ingenuously, ‘I’d give my life for those I like, then how readily would I help them like this. This is the safest scheme I can think of. And I’m rather proud of it. Anyways, it’s better than keeping disguises kicking around for any one to find, and caching liquor under bushes.’ He had discovered all my secret. All—how? The thought set me nearly crazy.”
“Did you—question him?” The man’s voice cut sharply into the momentary silence.
Kate shook her head.
“No. I couldn’t. I don’t know why, but I couldn’t.” She drew a deep breath. “The next thing I knew was that I was shadowed in all my work, and I knew that shadow was—Charlie. Here came a memorable day. I think the devil was in me that day. I remember Charlie came to me. He smiled in his gentle, boyish fashion. He said, ‘No one’s adopted my scheme yet—and I’ve left the wagon down at the old corral, too.’ It was too much. I laughed. I told him that now no one could ever use his scheme for I had secured the work—voluntarily—of seeing to the Meeting House. His response was deadly serious. ‘I’m glad,’ he said. ‘That will end temptation for—others.’”
“He thought of using it—on your behalf—himself!”
“I fancy so.” Kate paused. Then, with an effort, she seemed to spur herself to her task. “There seems so much of it. Such a long, dreary story. I must skip to the time you came on the scene. It was then that serious trouble began. Danger really increased. But I was used to it by then. I loved it. I didn’t care. I was pleased to think I was pitted against the police. You remember White Point? Like all the rest, I planned that. I was there. We beat your men on the trail, too. We contrived to temporarily cache the cargo, and afterward remove it to the Meeting House. Then later. You remember the night that you found Bill by the pine tree, which, by the way, served me as a mail office for orders from my local customers? They placed money and orders in one of the old crevices under the bark. You see, I never came into personal contact with them. It was I you saw there. I had just been there to get an order from O’Brien. Bill saw me—and mistook me for Charlie. Charlie was probably there, but it was I you saw drop down into hiding. That night was a great shock to me. I discovered that, disguised as a man, by some evil chance I became the double of Charlie. You can imagine my distress. In a flash I was made aware of the reason that he was bearing the blame for all my doings. This brought me another realization, too. My personality had been discovered. People must have seen me before. I was known by, perhaps distant, sight, andCharlie was blamed for all my doings. It left me with a resolve to defend him to my utmost, all the more so that I was convinced in my mind that he was doing his utmost to divert suspicion from me to himself. Even his own brother believed in his guilt.