0302
THE stars were shining down on the stream that passed sluggishly under Van Deelen's bridge, but they found no answering twinkle there. A gloomy stream it was, winding a sort of way through the little farm, coming from—somewhere, off in the pines; going to—somewhere, off in the pines; brown by day, black by night; the only silent thing in the breathing, crackling forest. It seemed to come from the north, gliding out from under the green-black canopy with a little stumble of white foam, as if ashamed in the light of the clearing. Then, sullen as ever, it settled back, slipped under the bridge—where the road from Lindquist's swung sharply down—with never a swirl, and gave itself up to the pines and hemlocks that bent over. Behind the barn-yard it circled westward, and paralleled the road for a few hundred yards, as if it, too, were bound for Hewittson; but changed its mind, turned sharply south, and was gone. Whither? The muskrats and minks perhaps could tell.
The clearing, in spite of the house and barn, was desolate; the pines were pressing irresistibly in on every side to claim the land Dirck van Deelen had stolen from them. The road, after crossing the bridge, lost itself in the confused tracks between house and barn, only to reappear on the farther side and plunge again into the forest,—a weary, yellow road, telling of miles of stump land as well as of the fresher forest.
It was late, very late, but there was a light in the house. A woman, in man's clothing, lay on the parlor sofa, too tired to rest. She was white; her breath came hard; her eyes were too bright. McGlory stood over her with a pair of scissors in his hand. He had cut off her long hair, and now it lay curling on the floor.
“Here, you,”—he was speaking to Van Deelen,—“get a broom and take that up. Be quick about it. What are you gawking at?”
Van Deelen, slow of movement and slower of thought, obeyed.
“Now,” said McGlory to the woman, “come along!” And he took her arm.
“Oh, no, Joe! I can't go! It will kill me!”
“Cut that—get up!”
Roche, who had been eating in the next room, came in, looked at them, and then hurried out, where the leader of the party awaited him.
“Aren't they 'most ready?”
“Yes—coming right along—if it don't kill her.”
But when they heard a step and turned, only the woman appeared in the doorway.
“Where's Joe, Estelle?”
“He—he's coming.” She staggered. Roche caught her, helped her down the steps, and with his arm about her waist led her out to the road. “He says to go along, and he 'll catch us.” She was plucky, or frightened, for she staggered along biting her lip.
This was what McGlory had said to Van Deelen after he had got her to the door: “Give me some paper and a pen—quick!”
They were promptly placed on the diningroom table; and he scrawled off a few lines, folded the paper, and looked up with a scowl. The strain of the week had not improved his expression. “Give me an envelope; I want you to mail this for me.”
“I haven't got one.”
“The———you haven't!”
“Honest—that's the truth. I'd have to go to Hewittson, anyway. It 'll be quicker for you to take—”
“Oh, shut up. I'm sick o' your voice. Here, take this.” He thrust the letter into his pocket and counted out twenty-five dollars in bills. “This is for you. And mind, nothing said. You don't know us—never seen four men coming through here in the night. Don't remember ever having seen four men come through. Understand?”
Van Deelen drew back a step, and nodded. “No mistake about this now. If you say a word, the world ain't big enough to hide you.” His hand was straying toward a significant pocket. “None of your hemmings and haw-ings—if you're in a hurry to get to heaven, just give us away. Understand?”
Another nod,—all the farmer was capable of; and McGlory was gone with a bound, out the door, on toward the little group at the farther side of the clearing.
They heard his step and his loud breathing. “What's this?” He had just made out Roche's arm across Estelle's back. “What'sthis?” He tore the arm away, whirled Roche around, and slapped his face so hard that he——
“By———!” gasped Roche. “By———!”
They glared at each other; Estelle sobbed. “Try that again, Joe McGlory! Just try it! Hit me again! Why, you—why, I 'll break your neck!”
“Youwill?”
“Yes, I will. Just hit me again!”
McGlory looked him over, decided to accept the invitation, and plunged forward. Roche, without a moment's hesitation, turned and bolted up the road,—ran as if the fiends were on his heels. McGlory finally stopped, laughed viciously, and hurled a curse after him.
The third man let them go; he merely took Estelle's arm and helped her along, soothing her a little, trying to calm the outburst of hysteria that had been threatening for twenty-four hours. McGlory waited for them in the shadow of the woods; and a little farther on Roche fell in behind, muttering softly, and keeping well away from McGlory.
Estelle could hardly stagger along. McGlory passed his arm through hers and dragged her forward. Now she was silent, now she stifled a sob, now she begged piteously to be left behind. “Let me go back to Van Deelen's, Joe—please! I can't go on.”
“I thought you was such a walker.”
“Oh, but—not so far as this. Let me go back there.”
“Wouldn't that be smart, now! To leave you where you could blab the whole thing!” She tried to walk a few steps farther; then she broke away, stumbled to the roadside, and, sinking to the ground, covered her face with her hands.
Roche stopped short and stared at her. The other spoke up: “This won't do, Joe. There's no use killing her. We 'll drop back in the woods and take a rest. We 'll all be better for it.”
McGlory sullenly consented. He dragged Estelle off through the undergrowth to the clearer ground under the trees, and they all stretched out. In five minutes Roche was the only one awake of the three men. Without raising his head he slipped over close to Estelle and rested his hand on her shoulder. She rolled over with a start. “S-sh! Not so loud, Estelle.”
“Oh, it's you?”
“Yes. You didn't think I'd forgot, did you, Estelle?”
“I—I don't understand.”
“Don't you think it's time to quit 'em? What's the use? I guess you know him now for what he is.”
“Yes, he's mean to me. But—”
“Don't you see—we can skip out and leave 'em here, and go back near the house and hide. He wouldn't dast come back after us. The boss wouldn't never let him.”
“Do you think we could? I'm afraid. He wouldn't stop at anything.”
“You just leave it to me. I can take care o'him:”
“I—I'm afraid. He's so determined. And I told him I'd go with him.”
“What was he a-doin' back there in the house after he sent you out?”
“I don't know.”
“Not so loud—whisper. Didn't you hear him say anything?”
“He asked for a pen and paper.”
“Must 'a' wrote a letter. There it is—look there—sticking out of his pocket. Wait a minute.”
“Don't you try to take it. He 'll shoot you.”
“Oh, damn him! I ain't afraid of two Joe McGlorys. Lemme go.” He crept over, drew out the letter skilfully, and returned. “I don't like to strike a match here—”
“Oh, no, no—don't!”
“Can you crawl off a little ways—behind them bushes?”
“I guess so; I 'll try.” He helped her. “S-sh—careful.”
Behind the bushes they felt safer. Roche lighted a match and held up the paper. This is what they read:—
“Dear Madge: There's a little misunderstanding up this way and I can't get back for a little while I want some money you put the bills in a envelope to generel dilivry South Bend Indiana. Don't you try to come to me because it ain't a very pleasent situation I 'll tell you later where to come don't forget the money and don't you put my name on it call me Joe Murphy. Burn this soon as you read it.
Neither saw the insolent brutality of this letter; their thoughts were elsewhere. Estelle gazed, thunderstruck. Roche held the match until it burned his finger. As he dropped it and the paper to the ground, and the dark closed in again, one of the sleepers tossed and mumbled. Estelle caught his arm.
“He told me it wasn't so,” she whispered. “He told me it wasn't so.”
“Oh, he's just a common, everyday liar. Madge is his wife. Didn't I tell you so the first day I come to Spencer's?”
“I don't know. What can we do? Do you think we could get away?”
“Sure thing.”
“But how?”
“We 'll sneak back a ways and off to one side in the woods. He can't come back and search the whole county for us. Don't you see?”
“But wouldn'ttheycatch us?” She glanced toward the east, whence pursuit might come.
“Not a bit of it. Just trust me. Come on—now's the time. Move cautious till we get on the road.”
He helped her up, and they stole away. For a few moments she was buoyed up by this new excitement, but soon fell back into the old weariness. She clung to Roche until he was almost carrying her. “Keep a-going,” he whispered. “I 'll skip back to the house and pick up something to eat, and then we 'll take to the woods. They can't never catch me, I tell you.I 'llfool 'em.”
They struggled along. Halfway back to the farm-house Estelle completely lost heart. “I can't do it!” she moaned. “Stop—let me sit down.”
“Not here, Estelle! Not in the road!”
“Let me down, I tell you!”
“But he may be along any minute.”
“I don't care. Let me down.”
“Look here, Estelle, can't you see how it is? If he gets you, he 'll half kill you. And you 'll have to walk farther with him than you would with me.”
She was beyond reason. She clung around his neck, holding herself up even while she begged to be let down. Her condition and the terrible loneliness of the night were unnerving Roche. “Come along,” he said angrily, “or I 'll make you come!”
“Don't hurt me!”
“By———! Don't you say another word!”
He jerked her roughly forward, while his wild eyes sought the road behind.
“You said you'd be good to me!”
“Well, ain't I good to you? Ain't I saving your life, and you haven't got the sense to see it?”
“O dear! Don't—”
“Keep still, now—come on—Don't you say any more.”
Soon they reached the clearing, and, pausing for breath in the shadows, they looked about. The night was far advanced, but a light showed in an upper window of the house. Over in the barn a horse was thrashing about his stall; the noise was deafening after the stillness. Roche released Estelle, and to his horror she sank to the ground in a faint. He spoke to her—she did not hear. He bent over and shook her, felt her wrist and her forehead. Then he straightened up and looked back along the road. His breath came fast and hard; the loneliness was closing in on his soul. He shivered, though the air was not cold, then stepped back, mopped the sudden sweat from his face, looked down again at the woman,—even stirred her with his foot,—then turned and ran. Not down the road, for the lowbrowed McGlory lay sleeping there; not to the south, for the stream barred the way; but skirting the clearing to the northern edge and then plunging into the woods, endlong and overthwart, with a thousand ugly fancies hounding him, with a traitor in his bosom that opened the door for the mad thoughts freely to enter and gnaw there. He tripped on a log, pitched headlong and rolled over, scrambled up with bleeding hands, and ran on in an ecstasy of fear. And the vast black forest shut in behind him and swallowed him.
0315
When Estelle's eyes opened, she returned from peace to wretchedness. Yes, the trees and the night and the swollen feet were real. She crawled toward the farm-house; something within her warned her not to try to rise. She lived months in dragging that hundred yards; the one goal of life was the low stoop and the door under the light. When she reached it,—her clothes torn, the dust ground into her face and hands,—she fainted again, and clung to the steps.
Dirck van Deelen was sitting at the window with a shot-gun across his knees. He had watched the—he could not see what it was—crawling to his door. Now he looked out and saw it lying there. Whatever, whoever it was, this would not do; so he opened the door and carried her up to the room where his frightened wife was trying to sleep.
“We 'll have to take her in, Saskia.”
“What is the matter? Is she hurt?”
“I don't know. I found her on the stoop. Help me examine her.”
But they found no mark of bullet, knife, or blunt instrument. And while the Dutch woman worked over her, the man went for water. At last she was brought to a sort of consciousness, and, leaving his wife to care for her, Van Deelen returned to his window and his gun.
Roche and Estelle had not been gone an hour when McGlory, haunted by the fear of pursuit, awoke. He stretched himself, sat up, and looked over to the spot where Estelle had been lying when he fell asleep. At first he thought he saw her, a darker shadow, but on rising and walking over he found no sign of her. He looked about, and called. Roche, too, was not in sight. He hesitated, not yet fully awake, then turned back and woke his companion.
“Well, what's the matter?”
“They're gone.”
“Who's gone?”
“Roche and Estelle.”
“How do you know? Have you looked around?”
“Come over here.”
They prowled behind the trees, parted the bushes here and there, called as loud as they dared, lighted matches, and examined the ground. Finally McGlory broke out with an oath: “The little fool! So she thinks she can serve me this way, eh?”
“You think they've skipped out?”
“Think? Do I think it? What do I want tothinkfor? Didn't I see him a-hugging her?”
“He was just helping her then.”
“Oh, just helping her, was he?”
“Well, what you going to do about it?”
“What'm I going to do?” McGlory was lashing his anger. His voice swelled until he was roaring out the words: “What'm I going to do? I'm going to run that Pete Roche down if I have to go to hell for him! I'm going to—-”
“Drop your voice, Joe. I can hear you. How're you going to find him?”
“Who you telling to shut up?”
“Hold on, now. None o' that talk to me!”
“Oh, you think you can boss me, do you?”
“Think? I know it. Don't waste your breath trying to bluff me. I asked you how you're going to find him.”
“How'm I going to—how'm I—why, I 'll break his head—I 'll—”
“Don't work yourself up. It won't help you any.”
“You think you can talk like that to me? If you ain't careful, I 'll breakyourhead. I 'll—”
“How are you going to find him?”
“You say another word, and I 'll knock your teeth down your throat.”
“I've got my hand in my pocket, Joe, and I've got a loaded gun in my hand, and if you threaten me again, I 'll blow a hole through you. I've half a mind to do it anyway. A fool like you has no business getting into a scrape if he can't keep his head. I'd a heap rather kill you than get caught through your fool noise. The sooner you understand me, the better for you. Now tell me how you're going to find out which way to take.”
“How—” McGlory was not a coward, but he could not face down the seasoned courage of the man before him. “Why—that's a cinch. Ain't he headed the same way we are?”
“Now, Joe, hold on. Don't be a bigger fool than you can help. You don't really think he'd take her right along over this road, do you?”
“Why—dam' it!”
“It's no good talking to you if you can't quiet down. You want to kill Roche, and you're right. I want him killed, too. The longer he's alive, the more danger for us. But if you go at him this way, he may kill you.”
“Him! Kill me! Why—”
“I mean it. He's desperate, too. You can't be too sure that he 'll always run like he did to-night. He's got Estelle to look out for, too. Now, it's plain that he hasn't gone down the road, because, look here,—she isn't good for more than a mile an hour, and he'd have sense enough to know we'd catch him.”
“Where is he gone, then?”
“Not very far—we know that much. Likely they're back here in the woods. Or maybe they went back to Van Deelen's.”
“They'd never go there.”
“They might have to. I guess you don't know much about women, Joe.”
“I reckon I know more 'n's good for me.”
“Then you ought to see she's pretty near done for.”
“Estelle? She's bluffing.”
“No, she isn't. Not a bit of it. When a woman's worked up and tired out at the same time, something's likely to break. You were a fool to bring her, anyhow. I don't know why I let you.”
“You! Youlet me!”
“You said so much about her being strong. Why, she's a child.”
“Look here, you've said some things tonight that I don't like.”
“Oh, have I? But this isn't getting us along any. The first thing is to look around here a little more. There are any number of ways they might have taken without going down the road.”
Even McGlory could see the reason in this suggestion. They lighted matches and prowled about, peering behind trees and bushes, looking for broken or bent twigs, for any indication of the passage of a human being. But the heavy growth of trees shut out what light there was overhead, and neither was skilful enough to direct his search well.
“Find anything, Joe?”
“Not a thing. When it comes to sneaking off, Roche has head enough. It's the only thing he's good for.”
“The more I think of it, Joe, the more I believe they've gone to the house.”
“You're off there.”
“No, I'm not. Listen a minute. Supposing they started off in the woods and tried to dodge the house. Pretty soon Estelle gives out—surer than New Year's. And it would be pretty soon, too, because the excitement wouldn't keep her up long. Now what is Roche going to do? He isn't the man to face out a bad situation like that—never in this world. He'd do one of two things—he would skip out and leave her, or he would get her to the house. If he skipped, there isn't one chance in a thousand of our finding either of them. If he took her to the house, we can get one or both. We can't stay around here much longer. We'd better try the house, and if they aren't there, or anywhere about the place, we 'll go on toward Hewittson.”
“You 'll have to go without me, then.”
“You think so?”
“I don't leave this place till I see Roche curled up stiff.” This was said as quietly as McGlory could say anything, but it was convincing. The other looked keenly at him.
Suddenly McGlory, feeling in his pockets, muttered a curse and started back toward the spot where they had slept.
“What's up? Lost something?”
“None of your business!” McGlory was searching the ground feverishly.
“If you told me what it was, maybe I could help you.”
No answer. McGlory's temper was rising again. Finding nothing where he had lain, he began thrashing about the bushes.
“Unless it's something important, Joe, you're wasting a lot of time.”
“Well, say—you—you ain't seen a paper—or anything, have you?”
“A letter?”
“Not exactly. It wasn't in an envelope.”
“Oh, you mean this, maybe.” With a lighted match in one hand, he drew a folded paper from his pocket and started to open it. McGlory sprang forward, recognized it, and tried to snatch it away.
“It ain't necessary to read that. It's private business.”
“I have read it.”
“You have read it! You've been prying into my affairs, have you?”
“Not at all. I found this on the ground and read it. You must have written it back there when you kept us waiting. You had no business to do it. I never saw such a fool as you are.” As he spoke, he touched the match to the paper.
“Here, quit that! Don't you burn that letter!”
“Now, Joe, you didn't think for a minute I'd let you send this, did you?”
“What right you got—”
“The right of self-preservation. We can't do any letter writing yet awhile. I 'll help you out with money, but I won't let you do this sort of thing. Let's start back.” He led the way to the road, McGlory sullenly following; and side by side they stepped out for the farmhouse. “Beastly sort of a thing to do, Joe,—ask Madge for money to help you run off with this woman.”
“Well, I'd like to know—Ain't she had enough from me—”
“I don't doubt she has stood a good deal from you. What sort of a woman is she, Joe?”
“Madge? Oh, she's all right.”
“Pretty fond of you, isn't she?”
“I guess there ain't much doubt about that.”
“I've noticed her a little.”
“Oh, you have, have you?”
“Certainly. What else can you expect, skylarking around this way?”
“That's all right. A man's got to have his fling. But when it comes to—”
“Madge is a fine-looking woman. I don't believe you know how pretty she is, Joe. If you got her decent clothes, and took her out to the theatre now and then, so she could keep her spirits up, she would be hard to beat.”
This was a new idea to McGlory. But what he said was, “Seems to me you've done a lot of thinking about my wife.”
“It's your own fault. But look here, do you think such an awful lot of Estelle?”
“Oh, yes. I've had some fun with her. Of course, she ain't the woman that Madge is.”
“I was wondering a little—” McGlory's companion paused.
“What was you wondering?”
“What you're going to do with Estelle when you find her.”
“Do with her? Why—why—”
“You didn't think she'd come right back to you—things the same as they was before—did you?”
“Why—”
“Did she know you had a wife?”
“Well, no,—she didn't know that.”
“But she does now. She has read the letter.”
McGlory had not thought of this.
“Estelle isn't altogether a fool, you know. Not so bad as Roche—or you. If I were you, I'd stick to Madge. If you don't, some better fellow will.”
“Who do you mean now, for instance?”
“Never mind who I mean. I don't think you've seen yet how mussy this business is. Here Estelle is, like enough, on our hands. Now we can't leave her behind. She wouldn't come along with you; and even if she would, she isn't strong enough. If we did leave her here, it simply means that she would be blabbing out the whole story to the first goodlooking chap that asked her a few questions.”
“But don't you see? I can't let a man insult me like Roche done.”
“No, you can't. But if you could fix things so Roche nor nobody could get her, and still you'd be free to go back to Madge, you wouldn't object, would you?”
“Why, no—sure not. How do you mean?”
“If you find her there at the house, or in the barn, or anywhere around, you'd better just—here, your knife ain't much good. Take mine.” He opened his clasp knife—the blade was five inches long—and held it out.
McGlory took it, stood still in his tracks looking at it, and then raised his eyes to the face of his companion.
“Well—have you got the nerve?”
“Have I got the nerve!” McGlory laughed out loud, and thrust the open knife into his belt, at the side, under his coat.
“I wouldn't use a gun unless I had to.” He paused, laid his hand on McGlory's arm, and dropped his voice. “Look there! There's a light in the window.”
McGlory swelled with rage. “I 'll put a stop to this!”
“Hold on a minute, Joe. I 'll slip around the bank of the creek here, the other side of the barn, so I can watch the road and the barn both.” He ran silently away, dodging among the trees, and in a moment had disappeared. While McGlory was standing there, breathing hard and twitching impatiently, he passed behind the barn-yard, keeping always among the trees of the bank, and on to the bridge. Here he looked carefully around, then stooped under the beams of the bridge flooring and got into a scow that lay there.
McGlory stood still as long as he could, then, throwing, the reins to his temper, he strode toward the house.
0332
IT was between eleven o'clock and midnight when McGlory and his companion returned to Van Deelen's; it was between ten and eleven of this same Thursday night when Axel Lindquist was taken sick on the road, not a long walk from his father's house.
In less than an hour Beveridge and his companions reached a turn in the road and found themselves at the top of the slope,—it was hardly a hill,—with Van Deelen's bridge a little way below them, and the farm-yard beyond. Beveridge extinguished the lantern. “Look there!” Wilson exclaimed.
“Where?”
“At the house yonder. Don't you see there's a light burning?”
“That's a fact. We 'll move a little quietly, boys. Bert, you step around between the house and the barn and keep an eye on the back door. Harper will be with you.”
They started down toward the bridge while Beveridge was speaking. When they had crossed over, Harper stopped.
“Can you wait just a minute? I've got a stone in my shoe.”
“We 'll go ahead. Come on as soon as you can and join Bert out by the barn.” And the three passed on, leaving Pink on a log at the roadside.
Beveridge and Smiley went up to the front door and knocked. There was no response. But for the light in one window, the house might have been deserted. Beveridge knocked again. “Open up in there!” he shouted. But no one answered. Smiley turned and looked around the dim clearing with a shudder. “Lonesome, isn't it?” he said. “What a place to live!”
Beveridge's mind was bent on getting in. “So they won't answer, eh? We 'll see.” He stepped back to the ground, picked up a length of cord-wood, and struck a heavy blow on the door. At this, a head appeared in an upper window.
“Who's there?”
“Open your door and I 'll tell you.”
“Tell me who you are, first.”
“A special agent of the United States Treasury Department.”
“What do you want me for?”
“I don't care anything about you. I want the men you have hidden here.”
“There ain't nobody here but my wife and me.”
“Will you open, or shall I break in your door?”
“Wait a minute! Don't break it! How do I know you're what you say you are?”
“Smiley, fetch a rail, will you please?”
“Hold on there! I 'll be down in a minute.” The minute was not a quarter gone when the same voice was heard through the door, saying, “You haven't told me your names yet.”
“Are you going to open this door?”
“Yes, yes. Don't get impatient now.” The bolt slid back, and the door opened a few inches. These inches were promptly occupied by Beveridge's foot.
“What's your name, my friend?” asked the special agent.
“Van Deelen. I don't see what you want here. There ain't nobody here but us.”
“We 'll see about that.” Beveridge, as he spoke, threw his weight on the door and forced it open so abruptly that the farmer was thrown back against the wall. He entered with Smiley close at his heels. “Of course,” he went on, as he shut it behind him, “if there isn't anything really the matter here, you won't mind my looking around a little.”
“Why, no—oh, no—only—”
“Only what?”
“My wife's down sick, and any noise or excitement might upset her.”
“Nervous trouble, maybe.”
“Yes, something of that sort.”
“Has to keep her room, I suppose?”
“Yes, yes.”
“Room shut up so noise won't disturb her?”
“Yes, we keep it shut.”
“Place got on her nerves a little, maybe. Should think it would be sort of monotonous here. No doctor, I suppose?”
“No, not this side of Hewittson.”
“How long has she been troubled?”
“Why—”
“Sudden attack, to-day or yesterday? Sick headache, and all that?”
“Yes—she has a bad headache.”
“Good deal of nausea, too? Sight of food distasteful?”
“Oh, yes, she doesn't want anything to eat.
“Can't keep anything on her stomach? Lost interest in living—no enthusiasm for anything? Is that the form it takes?”
“Why, yes—yes—”
“Curious thing. Seems to prevail in this neighborhood. Young Lindquist, back up the road, has the same trouble.”
Van Deelen's stolid face wore a puzzled expression. He seemed not to know how far to resent this inquisition. “Say,” he asked, “what do you want?”
“I want to know if you always receive folks with a shot-gun?”
“Why—”
“Bad characters in the neighborhood, maybe. Have they been giving you trouble to-night?”
“Who're you talking about?”
“McGlory and the rest. When did they come?”
“There hasn't anybody been here.”
“Oh, all right. That's first-rate—would you mind stepping up and telling your wife the doctor has come?”
“You ain't a doctor.”
“Come, my friend, don't contradict. I'm afraid we 'll have to take a look into her room.”
“Oh, you will!”
“Yes. We 'll walk around this floor a little first. Will you entertain him a minute, Smiley?”
Beveridge slipped away, leaving the two standing at the foot of the stairs. He moved from room to room, carrying a lamp which he had found in the front room and had lighted. Soon he returned, set down the lamp where he had found it, and joined Smiley and the farmer. “So Estelle's had her hair cut,” he observed.
Van Deelen shot a glance at him, but Beveridge went easily on. “Now we 'll go upstairs, Dick.”
Van Deelen, gun in hand, retreated upward a few steps and barred the way. Beveridge looked at him, then he stepped quickly up and seized the gun by barrel and stock. The farmer could easily have shot him, but he made no attempt. And now the two men silently wrestled there, Van Deelen in the more advantageous position, but Beveridge showing greater strength than his figure seemed to promise. Finally, with a quick wrench, the special agent got possession of the weapon and passed it down to Smiley. “Now, Mister van Deelen,” he said, “will you please stand aside?”
For reply the farmer began retreating backward up the stairway, always facing Beveridge, who followed closely. Dick drew the shells from the gun, tossed it into the front room, and came after. The upper hall was square, and of the three doors around it only one was closed. Beveridge stepped into each of the open rooms, and then tried the door of the third, while Van Deelen stood sullenly by.
“Will you open this door?” Beveridge asked, with the beginnings of impatience.
No reply from the farmer. Smiley drew Beveridge aside and whispered, “Maybe it's true that she's sick in there.”
“Not much.”
“But we haven't found her anywhere around the house.”
“If sheisthere, she isn't alone.”
“But I kind of hate to break into a woman's room this way.”
“Don't get chicken-hearted, Dick.” He turned to the farmer and asked again, “Will you open this door?”
There was no reply.
Without another word Beveridge threw himself against it; but it was stoutly built and did not yield. All three heard a gasp of fright from within.
“Hold on, Bill,” Smiley exclaimed. “No use breaking your collar-bone. I 'll get a rail.”
He said this with the idea of bullying either the farmer or the persons within the room into opening the door, but Van Deelen remained sullen and motionless. Beveridge, however, caught up the idea; and with a “Wait here, Dick,” he ran down the stairs. In entering the house they had closed the door after them, and now Beveridge had to stop and fumble a moment with the lock.
But it was only a moment, and pulling it open he plunged out.
A breathless man with his hat pulled down was starting up the steps. Beveridge stopped short; so did the breathless man. For an instant they stood motionless, one staring down from the top step, the other staring up from the bottom. Then Beveridge saw, in the shadow of the hat-brim, a black mustache; and at the same instant the owner of the mustache recognized the figure above him.
Not for worlds would Beveridge have called out. He had McGlory fairly in his hands,—the moment he had been hoping for, almost praying for, had come,—and he could never have resisted the desire to take him singlehanded. McGlory was heavy, muscular, desperate—these were merely additional reasons. Beveridge had known little but plodding work for weeks and months—here was where the glory came in. And glory was what he craved—a line in the papers, the envy of his associates, the approbation of his superiors.
And so, when he saw McGlory before him in the flesh, silently tugging at something in his hip pocket, he not only sprang down on him as a mountain lion might leap on its prey,—not only this, but he took pains, even in this whirling moment, to make no noise in the take-off. McGlory got the revolver out, but he was a fifth of a second too late. Just as he swung it around, the special agent landed on him, caught his wrist, gripped him around the neck with his other arm, and bore him down in the sand of the dooryard. Neither made a sound, save for occasional grunting and heavy breathing. They rolled over and over, Beveridge now on top, now McGlory. McGlory was hard as steel; Beveridge was lithe and quick. If McGlory gripped him so tight around the body that it seemed only a question of seconds before his ribs must go, one after another, Beveridge never slackened his hold of that bull-like neck. McGlory struggled to turn the revolver toward Beveridge; but Beveridge held to his wrist and bent it back—back—until any other man must have dropped the weapon for the sheer pain of it.
The door had swung to behind Beveridge as he went out; the horse was thrashing in the barn; and Dick, leaning against the closed door of Mrs. van Deelen's bedroom, looking at the farmer, heard nothing of the struggle that was going on outside. He was wondering what interest this farmer could have in a gang of smugglers. He decided to ask. This business of standing opposite him and exchanging the glances of two hostile dogs was not a pleasant experience for a man of Dick's sociable humor.
“I've been wondering, Van Deelen, what you're acting this way for.”
A suspicious glance was all this remark drew out.
“I don't believe you're mixed up with that crew, and I don't see how you can be interested in covering their tracks. Are you sure you aren't taking the wrong tack?”
“I ain't covering anybody's tracks. You don't know what you're talking about.”
“Can't you see that we don't enjoy breaking into people's houses and prying around in bedrooms?”
“What do you do it for then?”
“What do we do it for! Why, McGlory and his gang are Smugglers—they're a bad lot. And this man with me is a government officer.”
“That ain't telling why you comehere.”
“Now, Van Deelen, what's the use of keeping up that bluff? It doesn't fool anybody. We know all about their coming here. We've tracked them this far. This officer will never leave the house until he has opened this door and seen who you've got in here. I can promise you he 'll act like a gentleman. Now don't you think it would be a good deal better just to open up and be done with it?”
Having no reasonable answer to this, Van Deelen fell back into his sullen silence.
“Wonder what's taking him so long,” Dick observed. “Would he have to go far for a rail?”
There was no answer.
Altogether, it was not a cheerful situation. Dick, who had borne up capitally so far, now experienced a sinking of spirits. He looked first at the glum figure before him, then at the dingy walls and ceiling, then down into the shadows of the stairway. Seeing nothing that could prop his spirits, he fell to humming “Baby Mine.”
“Oh, I beg your pardon,” he broke out, interrupting himself; “maybe I'm disturbing your wife?”
There was no answer.
“You're a hilarious old bird,” said Dick.
No answer—nothing but that glum Dutch face.
“Oh, well—go to thunder!”
Not even a gleam of anger disturbed those Dutch eyes. Dick, his feeble struggle over, succumbed to the gloom and was silent. And such silence as it was! The horse, over in the barn, had ceased kicking about; the air was still. The creakings of the old house sounded like the tread of feet. The loud breathing of the person within the closed room could be distinctly heard.
There was a shot outside—then silence—two more shots—again the silence. It is curious how a revolver shot, in the stillness of the night, can be at once startling and insignificant. Curious, because it is not very loud—no deafening report—no reverberation—but merely a deadthud, as if the sound were smothered in a blanket. And yet it was loud enough to raise goose-flesh all over Dick's body and send the creepy feeling that we all know through the roots of his hair, as if a thousand ants had suddenly sprung into being there. At the first report he stiffened up; the second and third met his ears halfway down the stairs. Van Deelen, frightened, bewildered, ran down close after him.
Dick paused at the foot of the steps and looked around. In an instant he made out the familiar figure of Beveridge a dozen yards away. The special agent was standing over a prostrate man, one hand gripping a revolver, the other fumbling in his pocket for a handkerchief. The sweat was glistening on his face, his collar and tie hung down his breast, his coat was torn clear across the back.
Dick joined him, and knelt over the man on the ground.
“We've wasted time enough on him,” said Beveridge, catching his breath.
“Who—oh, it's McGlory! Is—is he—”
“Shouldn't wonder. Help me get a rail, will you?”
They started without further words toward the barn-yard fence.
“Hold on,” said Dick. “There's that cord-wood we used on the front door.”
“That will do.”
So they went back and picked up the heavy stick. At this moment Harper came running up, his shoe in his hand. “I didn't know you was going to be in such a thundering hurry to begin the shooting, Mr. Beveridge. I 'most cut my foot to pieces running up here.”
“Come along, Dick,” said Beveridge.
“Good Lord!” gasped Harper, suddenly taking in the figure of the special agent. “What they been doing to you?”
But Beveridge gave no heed to the question. “Stay here at the steps, Harper, and if any more come up, don't let 'em get away from you.” With the cord-wood on his shoulder, he entered the house and started up the stairs. But Van Deelen hurried after him and caught his arm.
“Well, what do you want?”
“You needn't use that.”
“You 'll let me in?”
“Yes.”
Beveridge promptly set down his burden on the stairs, and stood aside to let the farmer take the lead.
Van Deelen tapped at the door, and softly, called, “Saskia!”
“What is it?”
“You have to open the door and let this gentleman in.”
“Mercy, no!”
“But you have to!”
“Then,—” the voice was very fluttery and agitated—“then wait a minute after I unlock the door.”
The bolt was slipped, and they could hear a frantic rustling and scampering. Van Deelen opened the door and entered the room with Beveridge and Smiley at his heels. As they entered, another door, evidently leading to a closet, was violently closed.
The three men stood a moment in the middle of the room without speaking, then Beveridge walked over to the bed. The woman lying there had turned to the wall and drawn the coverlet over her face. Beveridge bent over and jerked it back. “Smiley,” he called, “come here and see if this ain't your old friend, Estelle!”
The woman struggled to hide her face again, but Beveridge rudely held her quiet. Dick would have turned away but for the special agent's impatience. As it was he made him speak twice. Then he went slowly and shamefacedly to the bed. “Yes, I guess this is Estelle, all right.”
They saw her shudder. Her face was flushed with fever. Dick took Beveridge's arm and whispered, “For heaven's sake, Bill, don't be a beast.” But Beveridge impatiently shook him off.
“Well, Estelle,” he said, “the game's up. We've got them.”
Her eyes were wild, but she managed to repeat. “You've got them?”
“Yes. You 'll never see McGlory again.”
“And Pete—have you got Pete?” Beveridge glanced inquiringly at Smiley, who, after a moment of puzzling, nodded, and with his lips formed the name “Roche.”
“Yes, we've got Roche. Pretty lot they were to leave you here.”
But Estelle had fainted.
“Here, Dick,” said Beveridge, “bring some water.”
Van Deelen indicated the washstand, and Smiley fetched the pitcher. Beveridge sat on the edge of the bed and stroked her forehead with the cool water. He asked Van Deelen for some whiskey, and forced a little between her teeth. Finally her eyes opened.
“There,” said Beveridge, “that's better. You 'll be all right in a minute. Now tell me why they left you.”
“Look here, Bill,” said Dick, “I can't stand this.”
Beveridge paid no attention, but went on stroking her forehead. “Tell me why they left you, Estelle. They weren't very square with you.”
“It was Pete—” The whiskey had revived her a very little.
“Yes, I know. You were mistaken in Pete. He never meant to stand by you.”
“He said—”
“Yes—go on.”
“He said we—we could get away—and—”
“Yes?”
“—and they were asleep and—and then we saw the house, and—oh, I can't think—”
“Bill,—for heaven's sake!” cried Dick. “Yes, it's all right, Estelle. You're all safe now. Try to think.”
“I guess I fainted—Pete was gone—and I—I don't know—how I got to the house—”
“That will do. Go to sleep, Estelle. We 'll take good care of you.” Beveridge rose, and looked significantly toward the closet door. “Now, Mister,” he said, addressing the farmer, “we 'll just take a look in that closet before we go, and—”
A protesting voice, muffled by hanging garments, but shrill nevertheless, came from the closet, and Beveridge smiled. “Is it your wife?” he asked. Van Deelen nodded. And then, the smile lingering, Beveridge led the way out of the room.
As they started down the stairs, Dick observed: “You were awful quiet down there with McGlory, Bill. I'd heard your second shot before I knew anything was happening.”
“You never heard my second shot.”
“I didn't? I'd like to know why I didn't.”
“Because I only fired once.”
“Then who did the rest of it? By Jove! Where's Wilson?”
Beveridge turned sharply at the question. “That's a fact,” he muttered. They had reached the front steps by this time, and could see Harper ostentatiously standing guard with drawn revolver. “Say, Pink, have you seen Bert anywhere?”
“No. Thought he was inside with you.”
“Step around the house, quick. We 'll go this way.”
They found Wilson lying on the ground, not far from the front of the house. He had plunged forward on his face, with his arms spread out before him. Apparently he had been running around from the rear to join Beveridge when the ball brought him down. In an instant the two men were kneeling by him.
“How is it, Bill? Can you tell?”
“He isn't gone yet. Get a light, will you?” Dick ran back into the house and brought out Van Deelen with a lamp and some improvised bandages. Beveridge had some practical knowledge of first aid to the injured; and the farmer seemed really to have some little skill, as a man must who lives with his family twenty-five miles from a physician. And so between them they managed to stanch the flow of blood while Dick and Pink were carrying a small bed out of doors. With great care not to start the flow again, they carried him into the front room.
“Did you notice,” said Beveridge to Smiley, when they had made him as comfortable as they could, “where he was hit?”
“In the back, wasn't it?”
“Yes, and a little to the right. Now if he fell straight,—and I think he did, because the way he went shows that he was running, and that he simply pitched forward,—the shot must have come from near the bridge, maybe from those trees a little down-stream from the bridge. Now there's just one man could have done it, to my notion. He was an old hand, because it was a pretty shot at the distance and in thatlight.”
“Who do you think?”
“Well, now, there's Roche. He skipped out some time ago and left Estelle in the woods. He wouldn't have done that unless he was badly scared, would he? Isn't he a pretty poor lot, anyway—no nerve, just bluster?”
“That's Pete. If he is fairly started running, he won't stop to-night.”
“That's about what I thought about him. It's pretty plain he would never have come back here with McGlory after him—you see McGloryhadcome after him,—he was chasing Roche because he had run off with Estelle—and made such a cool shot as that was. So we 'll rule out Roche. And McGlory is ruled out too, and Estelle.”
“Oh—”
“So that leaves just 'the boss'—Spencer.”
“That sounds reasonable.”
“He has nerve enough for anything, hasn't he?”
“He looks as if he had.”
“Now I 'll tell you what we 'll do. We 'll get this Dutch woman to nurse Bert here, and then the four of us will step down to the bridge and see what we can make of it—or hold on; I 'll take Van Deelen and go to the bridge, and you and Harper can go down to the creek below the barn and work up to the bridge. What do you think of that?”
“First-rate.”
“You aren't too fagged?”
“Not me—not while the rest of you are on your pins.”
“That's the talk. I 'll see about the woman here.”
“Say, Bill, wait a minute. You aren't planning to walk right up to the bridge, are you?”
“Sure. Why not?”
“If I was you, I'd work around through the trees a little. He may be there yet, and we know how he can shoot.”
“What's the use? It's all a gamble anyhow. The thing to do is to go on the run. A man is a good deal like a dog, you know. If you run right at him and show all over you that you mean business, why, even if he thinks he is ready for you, it's likely to bother him. Upsets his nerve—starts him thinking he is on the losing side.”