CHAPTER VDan McGrew had plotted with devilish cleverness. He had seized on the fact of Jim's attendance at the bank-meeting as timely to his purpose. He had, indeed, made it the pivot about which the details of his scheming were grouped. As a result of his carefulness in planning, during the hour of his interview with Lou, Fingie Whalen was stationed in the street outside Murphy's saloon. He sat on a bench that stood against the wall of the structure, and smoked incessant cigarettes, the while his ferret eyes scanned closely the length of the main street, down which Jim Maxwell must ride on his way to the bank. Just before him, a saddled horse stood patiently, with the bridle-rein trailing. Within the saloon, Jess, also, waited—with a drink, as well as a cigarette, to comfort her in the interval. Thus, it befell that, when Jim Maxwellcame riding briskly into the town, his approach was noted from afar by eyes hired for the purpose. Instantly, then, Fingie acted. He sprang up, and darted into the back room of the saloon, where he called Jess's name, and beckoned. The response of the woman was no less prompt. She stood up quickly, and hurried out of the place, while Fingie himself remained to peer anxiously from the window that gave on the street. There, for a minute, he observed events outside. Afterward, he lounged against the bar with a gratified smirk.Jim, as he rode slowly down the main street, idly noted the woman who hastened out of Murphy's, and mounted astride the horse. He wondered a little that she did not start away. But, as he drew closer, his keen eyes perceived that the form of the woman was swaying unsteadily in the saddle. Alarmed for her safety, though with a suspicion that only excess of drink ailed her, Jim quickened his horse's pace—too late. Before he could reach her, the woman lurched, and fell heavily to the ground, where she lay motionless, evidentlystunned, if not more seriously injured, while the startled horse backed away snuffing.Jim was on the ground almost as quickly as the woman herself, and was beside her before the few others in the street who came running. He did the natural thing under the circumstances, precisely as Dan McGrew had expected that he would. Since the woman lay with closed eyes, showing no signs of consciousness, unless in the faint moaning that issued from her rouged lips, Jim lifted her in his arms, and bore her through the side door, which Fingie had thoughtfully left ajar, into the back room of Murphy's saloon.... It was at this moment that the gambler left the window to lounge unconcernedly against the bar. Jim carried his burden to one of the round tables which was empty, and placed her gently upon it, continuing to support her with his arms about the waist and shoulders.p049tJIM CARRIED HIS BURDEN TO ONE OF THE ROUND TABLES."Bring brandy!" he called out sharply to the nearest of the occupants of the room, who now came crowding forward with ejaculations of dismay. The man addressed was FingieWhalen himself. He stared down at the woman with shocked surprise writ large on his sullen features."Why, it's Jess!" he mumbled, in a voice that he vainly strove to fill with distress. "Whatever has she been an' gone, an' done?""Get that brandy!" Jim reiterated the command curtly."Yes, sir," Fingie answered humbly, and hurried off to the bar. In a moment, he was back with the liquor, which he held to the woman's lips. To Jim's relief, Jess swallowed the draft easily enough—to tell the truth, rather greedily; but of that fact her rescuer was quite unaware, and from it he augured well.Jess managed her apparent recovery from the effects of the fall with such art as she possessed, which, in truth, was not of the highest, though ample for the beguiling of a man who was honest and kindly and wholly unsuspecting. Soon, her eyes unclosed a little, and she breathed more deeply, and the moaning, which had been interrupted by thebrandy, was resumed more vigorously. Through the paint on her cheeks showed the deeper red of a genuine flush, the natural result of the dram, but a sure evidence of vitality, none the less. Jim rejoiced over these signs of restoration, and even smiled on Fingie, as he bade him continue the chafing of the woman's hands."She's not seriously hurt," he remarked, with much satisfaction in his voice; "though the way she flopped off that horse was enough to jar her teeth loose." Being ignorant of the fact that Jess had been a member of a circus troupe before she yielded to the blandishments of the gambler, Jim wondered mightily that so severe a fall should have had no worse effect.Jess opened her eyes wide, and stared up blankly into the face of the man who held her in his arms."Where am I?" she asked, with the languid air of her favorite stage heroine when swooning."It's all right," Jim hastened to explain soothingly, having due regard to her dazedcondition. "You were dizzy for a second, I suspect, and fell from your horse. But there doesn't seem to be anything much the matter, and you'll be all right in a jiffy." He addressed Fingie."Bring her another nip of the brandy."The gambler would have remonstrated against this unnecessary extravagance, but could find no plausible reason for refusal, and Jess, who was enjoying herself hugely, offered him no assistance. When the drink had been brought, she swallowed it without too much display of eagerness, and coughed as a lady should who is unaccustomed to strong waters. At once thereafter, she straightened up to a sitting posture on the table, though she still accepted the support of Jim's arms to his discomfiture, and regarded him with coquettish glances of gratitude, which were offensive to him, and to Fingie Whalen as well. He tried to withdraw his arms, but she leaned upon him too heavily, and he was forced for a few minutes longer to retain her in a passive embrace. But, as he repeated the effort tentatively, Jessbethought herself that her recovery had now advanced so far as to make such support unnecessary. Therefore, to play her part, she withdrew herself, and sat up unassisted, but with a hand to her brow to indicate that her brain had not yet wholly cleared."Oh, you have been so good to me, Mister!" she gushed. "I shall be thankful to you to my dying day. Why," she added in a burst of imagination, "the horse might have stepped on me, if you hadn't been right there to save me.""Nothing like that, I'm sure," Jim declared, as amiably as he could contrive. "The horse seemed to be doing his best not to step on you without any help from me. You don't owe me any thanks, really."Jess put out an appealing hand. It was accepted reluctantly by Jim, and, with his assistance, and that of Fingie on the other side, she got down from the table totteringly, and sank into a chair, where she sat limply, with closed eyes, following her rôle devotedly to the end."You'll have a drink with us, Mr. Maxwell," Fingie urged, twisting his lowering features to an expression of affability. "What's past is past an' done. You sure did give me an almighty swat on the jaw t'other day, but I ain't one to nuss no grouch, an' Jess here, an' me, we're plumb grateful for yer kindness to her this mornin'. What'll you have, Mr. Maxwell? I'll bring it."Jim shook his head in refusal. He, too, had no wish to nourish a grudge; but he had no liking for the gambler—less for the woman, whose tawdry airs nauseated him. He was already a little disgusted, with the episode, and desirous to end it.Jess saw the refusal in his face, and was quick to intervene; for failure now would mean the utter collapse of all their plotting. She spoke gently, and, in the genuineness of her anxiety, her voice trembled with appeal:"Please, sir—please, Mr. Maxwell!" she besought him.Jim, in spite of his repulsion, was touched by the woman's earnestness. His sense ofchivalry impelled him to yield to a plea so natural and so ingenuous on her part. He smiled, a bit wryly, in answer to her imploring look, and nodded assent."I'll have a glass of beer," he said to Fingie, and, as the gambler hurried off to the bar, he seated himself at the table beside Jess.The woman prattled nervously, made garrulous by the brandy, and by fatuous ambition to impress this aloof companion with her charms. As a matter of fact, the conspiracy came perilously near to failure in consequence of her chatting, which almost drove Jim to flight. His instinct of politeness, however, conquered inclination, and he remained in his place, listening with a forced semblance of interest to hide how desperately he was bored. Yet, throughout, he rested without a faintest suspicion that this affair was aught beyond the innocent thing it seemed. To him, the happening was merely a nuisance—nothing more, nothing in any wise sinister. It did not occur to him to wonder why Fingie should have volunteered to serve as their waiter. He didnot trouble even to follow the gambler with his eyes, as the fellow went to the bar.For that matter, it would have availed Jim nothing, had he watched never so closely. The card-sharp possessed the dexterity of his trade. Those long, slender, mobile fingers of his had been fashioned by fate for a surgeon, a conjurer, a gambler, or a pick-pocket. Not even the keen-eyed bartender, who was close to him, noticed the tiny vial in Fingie's hand, as it hovered over the frothing glass of beer on the counter, or saw the trickle of the colorless drops into the brew. So, the gambler came back to the table presently, with a tray, on which were two glasses of brandy—one for himself, of generous size; the other for Jess, so tiny that she frowned indignantly at sight of it—and the glass of beer for Jim. The three drank together.... Then, the gambler and his woman watched avidly for what should befall.There was no delay. Jim, glad that the ordeal was at last done, would have risen to leave. But a strange lethargy held him fastbound.A black cloud descended on his brain; thought ceased. Suddenly, he slumped in his chair. His arms dropped heavily on the table. His head fell on them. Fingie and Jess chuckled aloud in gloating over the inert form of the man. They were not afraid lest he hear them, now.CHAPTER VIThere was not a word exchanged between Lou and Dan on their ride from the ranch-house to the town. For his part, the man was filled with rejoicing over the triumph that he anticipated. He had no fear of failure. The ingenuity of his plot insured success. Its strength lay in the seeming simplicity of the events that would lead to the desired climax. Dan's only doubt had been concerning his ability to hold the woman to his will, and to make her play her vital part in his machinations. He had realized that he would have need of all his wit to secure from her even a hearing of his accusations against the man she loved. By his arts, he had enticed her into listening, and by reason of the very indignation thus aroused, he had warped her mood to his purpose. So, he went forward full of confidence as to the outcome,exultant, heedless of the misery of the woman who rode by his side.That misery was poignant. At intervals, wrath flamed high in her, and she longed for the moment when she should bring the two men face to face, that the slanderer might receive the punishment he merited from the one maligned. But, oftener, her emotion dropped into abysses of despair. There had been something unspeakably revolting to her wifely instincts in the tawdry phrases of the ill-written note, signed "Your loving Jess." Her spirit writhed as she recalled the words, so damning in their explicitness: "Shall expect you at the usual time. Don't let your trusting Lou keep you away, as I can't do without you." The wife found herself compelled to fight with all her energies against the demon of doubt that so hideously beset her. That note had been addressed to "Dearest Jim." And Jim was her husband's name, and the note had been lying in his letter-case. And, if these things of themselves were not enough to sap faith, there was the sneeringuse of her own name: "Don't let your trusting Lou keep you away." The distracted wife told herself a hundred times that her belief in the loyalty of her husband remained unshaken, but it was not so. She lied to herself, from very horror of the truth. Only by fierce and incessant denials of the doubt that welled in her could she repel the assaults of despair. Of the man beside her, she thought hardly at all, except in the fitful and constantly lessening flashes of her anger. Her thought was for the husband, with a pitiful wondering over the hateful mystery that had come to pass. Oh, surely, there was some simple explanation of it all—there must be! It was a hoax, a jest, some misunderstanding—anything! But, though she argued against belief, there remained always in her consciousness the stubborn, sickening facts, and a great dread lay crushingly upon her spirit. The agony of suspense grew unbearable. Her quirt rose and fell in a vicious lash on the flanks of the mare. The astonished thoroughbred leaped and stretched into a run.... Dan McGrewpressed his own mount forward, to keep pace.While the two thus rode toward the town, there was a period of tedious inaction for Dan's accomplices. In the back room of Murphy's saloon, Jess remained impatiently in her seat at the table, with the empty brandy glass before her. She would have liked another drink, but dared not call for it, since it had been forbidden by her master, because her part in the sordid drama was not yet finished. Beside her, Jim sat motionless, his body sprawled clumsily over the table. He had not stirred since his yielding to the influence of the drug. The only evidence of life about him was the sound of stertorous breathing. The habitués of the place had given no heed to him after a few sneering comments concerning one who would get drunk so early in the day.Fingie Whalen, after he had seen his drops take effect on the victim, went out of the saloon, and reëstablished himself on the bench against the wall, where once again he gave himself over to an unremitting survey of themain street, down which any one coming from the ranch must pass. He smoked with nervous rapidity, which increased as minute after minute passed, and there was still no sight of those for whom he watched. At the end of an hour, the gambler's impatience had become anxiety. He began to fear failure at the last, when success had seemed assured. It might well be that, in spite of Jess's note, Dan McGrew had been unable to persuade Lou Maxwell into accompanying him. Or—as would be equally disastrous—they might come too late. Fingie had been as liberal as he dared in the drugging of the beer, but there is a great difference in the reactive powers of various men against such poison. He had not been minded to run any risk of murder. Therefore, he could not tell with precision when Jim Maxwell would recover consciousness. As the minutes hurried on, Fingie's fear mounted by leaps and bounds. From time to time, he left the bench, and peered in through the window, to reassure himself as to the continued unconsciousness of the drugged man.Then, at last, as he turned from one of these glimpses through the window, Fingie Whalen saw in the distance the forms of two riders coming at a furious gallop. For a second, he stood staring, to make sure that there was no mistake, that these were in fact those for whom he had waited with such anxiety. In another moment, he became certain that one of the two who approached was Dan McGrew. The flapping of a divided skirt proved that the other rider was a woman. He could no longer doubt that McGrew had succeeded. There needed now only to set the stage for the final scene. For the second time that day, Fingie whirled and darted into the saloon. He caught up from the bar a glass of brandy, which he had left under the barkeeper's charge, since he had not deemed it safe on the table within Jess's reach. He moved now without undue haste, in order to avoid attracting attention to himself and the others concerned. When he had reached the table at which Jess and their victim were seated, he put the glass down, with a nod to the womanto indicate that the end of the play was now at hand. Jess shoved her chair close to that in which Jim slouched. At the same time, Fingie seized the unconscious man by the shoulders, and lifted the heavy form upright in the chair. Jim yielded limply to the procedure—a dead weight in the other's grasp. He was still unconscious. His face was hot and flushed, the face of one under the influence of liquor. His breath still came noisily. Fingie, straining under the weight, tilted the flaccid body over a little way, until it rested against the shoulder of Jess, who braced herself to sustain it. Fingie raised Jim's left arm, as the unconscious man reposed thus against the woman at his right, and laid it about her neck. Thus the two remained in an embrace, which bore every evidence of fondness that knew no shame in this public and disreputable place. Jim's head sagged, until it rested upon the woman's bosom. Her right arm was wreathed about him, holding him tenaciously, with all her strength, lest he lurch away from her. With her left hand,she took up the glass of brandy, which Fingie had brought, and held it close to the lips of the unconscious man.p114tJIM'S HEAD SAGGED UNTIL IT RESTED UPON THE WOMAN'S BOSOM.Such was the business of the piece, as it had been arranged beforehand in each detail by the conspirators. Jess cast a look of inquiry toward the gambler, to learn whether or not the situation met all the requirements of the plot. He gave a brief nod, and grunted approval. He heard the clatter of hoofs in the street outside—a clatter of hoofs of horses ridden in haste. It ceased just without the door of the saloon. Fingie walked quietly to the bar. A quick glance about showed that the attention of none had been attracted to his movements. He grinned evilly in anticipation.... From the time when he had first sighted the riders, not more than a half-minute had elapsed. He leaned against the bar, and stared furtively toward the window that gave on the street.Dan McGrew drew close alongside Lou, as the pair pounded down the main street of the town."Stop at the corner, this side of the bank," he called to her. "At Murphy's saloon."The woman shivered as her ears caught the words. She knew the character of the notorious place, which catered to the most depraved tastes of the community. Was it to a resort so ignoble that she must go to refute the slander against her husband? To refute it! Or—she broke off her thought, appalled by the terrible alternative. Then, in the following instant, she found herself already abreast of the saloon. She heard her companion's brisk command:"Stop here!"She obeyed, though, almost, the dread that beat upon her forced her to flee on, and on—anywhere away from the horror that menaced. She pulled her mare to a standstill, and got down from the saddle, and let the bridle-reins trail. She moved as one in a dream—rather, as one in a nightmare. Yet, now the crisis was upon her, she did not suffer quite so cruelly. Her feeling was numbed, somehow. It was with a certain listlessness in her voicethat she addressed Dan McGrew, as he stepped to her side."Well?""There's no need to go inside," Dan explained. "We can see enough, I fancy, through the window.... Come!"Lou followed obediently whither he led. So the two came to the window, with the dirty glass and its tattered shade raised high, so that whosoever would might look freely on the squalor within. Dan stepped forward and peered into the room for a moment, then turned and beckoned to Lou.... And the wife advanced, as he bade her, and looked over his shoulder.Lou's eyes, accustomed to the full glare of the noon-day sun, could at first distinguish nothing more than a vague litter of weaving shadows within the murk of the dingy room. Very soon, however, her vision adjusted itself to the dim interior, so that she began to see distinctly. Even in this moment of emotional stress, Lou was conscious of her repugnance at the spectacle of coarsely flaunted vice. Shenoted the line of sodden men loafing along the bar, the few others grouped about the tables with the bedizened and painted women, whose wanton faces, and more wanton manners, proclaimed their unsavory sort. Yet, her attention was thus arrested for only a fleeting fraction of a second. Then her gaze fell on that other table and she saw her husband.There could be no doubt as to Jim's identity. As she recognized him, Lou's dark brown eyes dilated before the fearfulness of this thing. For she saw, as well, every detail of his visible plight. The scene was etched on her consciousness with the acid of horror, there to remain indelible throughout the years. She knew, in the first second of seeing, every feature of the creature within whose arms her husband was lying. She knew the cut and color of the soiled bodice, with its drapery of cheap lace over the bosom—on which his loved face reposed. She felt a nausea. There was nothing lovable now in his face. Instead, it was bestial, repulsive—theface of a man who had given himself over to gratification of the beast within him, and who was wallowing in the mire of his degradation.... So it seemed to Lou Maxwell, as she stood staring, bereft, upon that scene which to her meant the end of all things. The life had gone out of her face. A sickness as of death clutched at her heart. Suddenly her gauntleted hands caught Dan McGrew's shoulder. Only his quick support saved her from falling. She spoke dully, in a broken whisper:"Take me away."CHAPTER VIILou was able to climb to her saddle with Dan's assistance, though she moved very feebly, and her white, drawn face was that of one who had been stricken with a mortal hurt. But once safely mounted, with less strain on her muscles, a little strength flowed back into her, so that she sat steadily enough as the two started back at a walk over the way down which they had ridden so furiously. By the time the town was left well behind, the fresh air and the motion had restored her faculties in part, both physical and mental. But with the clearing of her brain came an agony of realization almost unendurable. She urged her horse to its full speed, fain to put all distance possible between her and the detestable scene on which she had just looked. Indeed, the instinct of flight in this crisis of her fate was dominant. Her one desire wasto flee to the ends of the earth, to escape forever from all that had been.Throughout the years of her life hitherto, Lou had experienced no real anguish. Her sorrows, great though some of them had seemed to her as child and woman, had been essentially trivial, over trivial things. She had never known the ills of poverty. The death of her father had occurred while yet she, the only child, was too young to grieve deeply or long. Her mother's death had occurred some years after her marriage, when she had been weaned from the old home-life. In truth, all her years had been pleasant ones. The sum of her happiness had been far beyond that of most. The love between her and her husband had been a beautiful one, in which she had found supreme content. It had been crowned by the birth of the child. It had held the promise of serenely joyous years to come.... And now, the catastrophe! Here was the end of all things. Doubt of her husband's loyalty had never tainted her devotion. She had believed utterly in hiscleanness, his wholesome manhood. And now, in an instant, the whole fabric of her life was in shreds, beyond any possibility of reweaving; befouled beyond any possibility of purifying. All her happiness had been an illusion, the gracious charm of it only a mask that covered the ugly truth.Lou had never a doubt concerning that truth. With her own eyes, she had witnessed it. She had seen Jim in drunken debauch with the painted woman, who had boasted that this lover came always at her call. The wife had seen her husband fondled openly by a wanton in a public place, had seen the creature holding the glass to that husband's lips. Dan McGrew had plotted well. By his intrigue, he had destroyed absolutely all her faith and happiness.The humiliation of the revelation sharpened the torture. It would not have been quite so terrible, Lou thought, if Jim had loved some woman of a decent sort. But the loathesomeness of being scorned for that infamous woman of the dance-hall—! Thewife writhed under the ignominy: that a being so sordid should have ousted her from her husband's heart. His infatuation for one so base proved his entire worthlessness. He was but the gross, soiled caricature of her ideal. The idol of gold which she had worshiped was shown to be of clay—clay filthy and corrupt.Dan McGrew realized, to some extent at least, the anguish of the woman at whose side he rode. Had it been consistent with his purposes, he would have spared her that suffering. In his way, he sympathized with her keenly. Yet the fact that her grief was wholly of his making, had no cause whatsoever except the visible lie which he had built for her eyes to see—the fact that he alone had thrust the iron into her soul troubled Dangerous Dan not at all. He had no remorse, though he pitied her. He was absolutely without compunction for the misery he had wrought. Dangerous Dan was a strong man, save for his vices. He was a hard man as well. What he desired, he meant to take, andhe was ruthless and unscrupulous as to the manner of his taking. More than anything else in the world, he desired to possess for his own Lou Maxwell. To that end, he had concocted his scheme of villainy. The woman's present agony was a necessary part in the success of his plotting. So, though he was sorry for her whom he had thus fearfully wronged, he felt no vestige of regret—only exultation. In his way, Dan McGrew loved Lou. His love for her was, indeed, the chief passion of his life. But his love, like that of many another man, was wholly selfish. She was necessary to his happiness. That he must destroy her happiness in order to secure his was of no importance. Moreover, with the egotism of a strong man, he was confident that he would be able in the days to come to make her happier than she had ever been before.Now, on the ride, Dan discreetly kept silence. He could follow well enough the workings of the woman's mood, and he believed that it would be unwise at this time to attempt the direction of her thoughts. Itseemed to him certain that under the circumstances she must inevitably reach the conclusion he desired. There might be danger that a suggestion from him would provoke suspicion, though this possibility was remote, after the effectiveness of the scene on which she had looked. Nevertheless, despite his confidence in a victorious issue of the affair, Dan was glad when Lou went forward at full speed. He, like Fingie Whalen, knew that the influence of the drug on Jim Maxwell would be only of a temporary sort, and that soon the ranch-owner would recover consciousness. Just how long an interval there might be before the husband's return to the ranch, Dan could not tell. But, because he was in a fever of impatience for a rapid development of events, he rejoiced over the haste in which they rode, and welcomed with a sigh of relief their arrival at the ranch.As Lou dismounted, Nell came running from the porch with a rapturous cry of greeting. The mother dropped to her knees, and gathered the girl into her arms, with passionatekisses. She realized, with bitter self-reproach, that in all this time of trial she had had not a single thought for the daughter whom she so loved. In her humiliation as a wife she had forgotten her obligation as a mother. Now, abruptly, the shameful significance to the daughter of what had befallen was borne in upon Lou's consciousness."He is unworthy ever to look on her face again." She was unaware that in the intensity of her feeling she had spoken aloud with deliberate emphasis.Nell, already somewhat perplexed by the ardor of these caresses, became even a little frightened by the unfamiliar expression on her mother's face, and by the sternly spoken words, which she did not understand. She was relieved when, the next moment, she was released, and she hurried off to her favorite nook in the rose-garden, where she might be alone to puzzle over the meaning of it all.Unlike the child, Dan McGrew understoodexactly the wife's ejaculation, and he knew that he had achieved his end. Without invitation, but quite as a matter of course, he walked at Lou's side as she ascended the steps and entered the living-room. She accepted his company without remonstrance, indifferently. It was only after she had sunk down into a low easy chair, where she lay back wearily with closed eyes, while she drew off her gauntlets, that Dan McGrew finally dared to address her explicitly:"You must leave him, of course," he said gently. His voice was very grave and kindly. It came with something of a shock to the woman's ears—she had forgotten him so completely in the self-absorption of her mood. But, too, there was something soothing to her in the manner of his utterance. She became aware that here was one to aid her in the accomplishment of things to be done. She no longer remembered how, within the hour, she had execrated this man who now stood before her. She had become oblivious of the insulthe had so recently put upon her. The revelation of her husband's treachery obsessed her mind to the exclusion of all else. So, she was fully disposed to accept the assistance of Dan McGrew in this emergency. She was ready to acquiesce in his suggestions for her guidance in escaping from this place which her husband had polluted. She sat up in a quick access of energy."Yes," she said harshly, "I must leave him—at once." Her animation grew. Her face, which had been pallid a moment before, was flushed with eagerness. Her expression became resolute. "I must take Nell away from him. I don't want him ever to set eyes on her again—he's not fit."Dan forbore comment. There needed from him no condemnation of the husband. The wife's conviction as to Jim's guilt was complete. So he avoided Lou's reference to her husband's culpability, and spoke to the point:"You want to get away without seeing himagain," he remarked, in a tone of positiveness, as if the matter admitted of no doubt."Yes," the wife answered. "It would be too horrible to see him again! And for Nell—"Dan McGrew nodded sympathetically."It would only mean a nasty row," he agreed. "You might as well spare yourself that—and spare the child, too," he concluded, craftily. For he realized that Lou would fly fast and far for the child's sake, if not for her own. He detested the necessity of the child's presence in their flight, but he recognized the fact that it was a necessity, and therefore to be endured—even, as far as possible, to be turned to advantage."Yes," Lou continued, "we must hurry as fast as we can, for I suppose there's no telling when Jim might return. And it would be dreadful to run into him in the town, on the way to the train."Dan McGrew nodded assent."It would, indeed!" he declared. "In thecondition he's in now there's no telling what he might do."Lou shuddered at the memory of her husband's sodden face, as she had seen it resting on the breast of the woman in Murphy's saloon."We must not meet him!" she declared desperately. "It would be too terrible to have him see Nell." She pressed her hands to her bosom as if to hold back the emotion that surged within her. "More dreadful for Nell to see him. I want her to have a clean memory of her father, whatever he is.""We can avoid any danger of meeting him," Dan McGrew asserted, with a brisk tone of confidence that reassured his listener. "We'll just ride across country to the main line. Do you know the road? I have only a general idea."Lou was all eagerness over the suggestion."Yes, yes," she exclaimed excitedly; "that is the way to do it. I know the road. We must get ready and start at once. But you don't need to go with us."Dan McGrew spoke decisively:"I've got you into this mess, Lou, and it's up to me to see the thing through. I want to help you in any way I can—and just now you need help." His tone was firm, yet tender, with a note of devotion in it that touched the distraught woman. She sprang to her feet and held out both her hands, which were seized in a warm clasp."Thank you, Dan," she said gently. "God knows I need help."Then, forthwith, she became all animation. She summoned her maid, and ordered that two small bags which could be carried on horseback should be packed with necessaries for herself and Nell. At Dan's suggestion, she sent an order to the stables for Nell's pony and two fresh mounts to serve for Dan and herself. These things done, it occurred to her that she must leave some explanation of her departure for her husband on his return. She seated herself at his desk, and wrote hurriedly and briefly, in distaste for even this indirect contact with the man who had wronged her.Dear Jim:I know all. I do not want to be in your path, so am going away. You love another, so will perhaps not miss me.Good-by, Jim.I forgive you.Lou.Lou, when she had set her name to the short form of words, thrust the sheet into an envelope, which she addressed with the single word, "Jim." For long seconds she sat staring at the lines she had last traced—that name which had been through so many years the symbol of her happiness, which was now become the symbol of vileness and misery. The horror of it smote her anew, essenced in that name which had been her blessing, which was now become her curse.The sound of the hoofs stamping on the gravel before the door aroused her. The maid came to announce that the horses were in readiness, with the bags strapped to the saddles. With the maid came Nell, who had needed no preparation, since she was alreadyin her riding clothes. Lou took the girl in her arms and kissed the exquisite dark face with a tenderness that was like a benediction.... She had no least hint that this was destined to be the last time her lips should touch the soft roundness of the girlish cheek."You are to ride with me this afternoon, Nell," she said. "Don't ask any questions now. I'll tell you all about it by-and-by. It's a surprise." She shivered over the words. A surprise—yes, a surprise that meant the end of all things. So, presently, the three went forth from the living-room, and across the porch, and down the steps, and got into the saddles of the waiting horses. Without any exchange of words among them, they rode away. None of the three looked back—Nell, because she had no guess as to the sinister meaning of this parting; Dan, because even his calloused soul felt a twinge of shame over the ruins that he left behind; Lou, because she could not.CHAPTER VIIIIt was not until late afternoon that Jim slowly struggled back to consciousness. He was first aware of a deadly nausea, which seemed billowing through every atom of his being. Then he felt the torture that stabbed through his brain. In an effort of revolt, he raised his head, though the movement tried his strength to the utmost. His eyes swept dimly over the scene, and a dull wonder filled him. Just at first, he did not recognize the place. Very quickly, however, the acrid odors of spilled liquors and the reek of cheap perfumes from the women quickened memory. Suddenly his eyes opened wide, and he saw clearly, with new consciousness of his surroundings—and of himself. He realized that in some mysterious fashion, altogether inexplicable to him, he had been overcome in theback room of Murphy's saloon. His mind went to the period immediately preceding the blank in memory. He remembered his presence there along with the woman, Jess, and the gambler, and his taking a drink with them. Of whatever had followed, he had no knowledge. Evidently, he had suffered a seizure of some sort. As his faculties were restored, it occurred to him that he might have been drugged by the gambler or the woman, for the purpose of robbery. But a hasty examination showed that his watch and money were untouched. Besides, it seemed to him, on second thought, preposterous that either of the two should have dared anything of the kind against him. No, it was certain that he had been attacked thus without warning by some unexpected physical ailment. He was rather alarmed by the experience, as strong men usually are when unaccustomed weakness assails them. He determined to submit himself to a careful examination at the hands of a competent physician, on his first visit to the county-seat.The nausea had subsided in some measure, and the pain in his head, too, had lessened. But he felt mouth and throat parched. He got up, moving with difficulty, and, after a few moments of unsteadiness while he held to the back of a chair for support, he was able to stand firmly enough and to walk forward to the bar."Give me a glass of water," he said to the bar-keeper.The fellow obeyed with alacrity, for he knew Jim Maxwell to be a man of importance in the community, and he had been puzzled by the events of the day—even a little frightened lest trouble come of them. Jim gulped the water and demanded more. He drank a number of glasses before his thirst was even partially quenched. The effect was speedy. He felt strength returning to him. His brain was quite clear again.The bar-tender, watching narrowly, saw that the ranch-owner was himself once more. He ventured to speak ingratiatingly, in the hope of satisfying his curiosity."That was quite some snoozle, Mister," he remarked, with a smirk."It was nothing of the sort," Jim snapped. "I don't know what it was. But it was bad enough.""I thought mebbe as how you'd had a drop too much," the bar-keeper explained, "an' was jest nacherly sleepin' it off. If we'd knowed you was sick, we'd have got the Doc in to give you a look-over.""That's all right," Jim answered. "I'm not blaming you any—unless it was the drink you gave me that poisoned me."Presently Jim went out into the street. He found his horse tied to a ring at the corner of the saloon building. He unhitched it, mounted, and rode slowly homeward. He was still in distress physically, but his condition was improving from moment to moment, so that he no longer felt apprehension as to the outcome. Soon, indeed, he became sufficiently sure of himself to put his horse to a trot.... As the shadows of evening drew down, he rode up to the door of his home.There was a bank of lurid clouds in the west, massed heavily on the horizon. The air was motionless, weighted with portents of coming storm. Jim felt the oppressiveness, and in a subtle way it rested upon his mood as something sinister. A weight of melancholy pressed upon him as he entered the house. The stillness of the air seemed reënforced in the quiet of the living-room into which he stepped. There was no sound. He listened for his wife's greeting. It did not come. He listened for the pattering steps of Nell, running to welcome him. He did not hear them. The silence hurt him in some curious way. He had an overwhelming sense of the absence of those he loved—the absence of wife and child.He crossed the room to his desk. He slipped the loop of the quirt from his wrist and let it fall on the desk. The effect of the drug was not yet assuaged; he was very thirsty. He called to the maid passing through the hall:"Bring me a glass of water, Mary."The girl came quickly with the drink. She and the other servants were in a ferment of curiosity, full of suspicions and wonderings. There had been much gossip in the house over the fight between the two men the day before, which had not passed unobserved. To-day, the wife had suddenly left her home with the man who had been ordered out of the house. Over this fact, scandalous tongues were clacking loudly. Mary had made it her business to be passing in the hall, in order that she might note the attitude of the master at such a time. So she stood, in eager expectation, eying her master closely, as he took the glass of water.But he set the glass back on the tray suddenly, for he saw an envelope lying on the desk, addressed in the handwriting of the woman he loved:"Jim."A foreboding of disaster crashed upon him. He trembled, standing there with the envelope unopened in his hand. Then he strove to throw off this craven dread—for whichthere was no reason. He turned to the maid."Where is your mistress?" he asked, quietly.It was the question for which Mary, and the whole household, had been waiting."Why, sir," she answered falteringly, dismayed now that the matter was coming to a crisis, "she has gone out—with Miss Nell, sir—and with Mr. McGrew."McGrew! The name roared in Jim's brain. The man who had insulted his wife, whom he had beaten and driven from his home like a whipped cur.... And Lou and Nell had gone with Dan McGrew. He felt a sickness, inexpressibly more horrible than the physical nausea that had sickened him there in Murphy's saloon. That Lou should have gone with Dan McGrew—and Nell! The thing was incredible!His eyes searched the room, as if looking for wife or child, or for some clew to explain the mystery. They fell on the envelope, which he still held in his hand. He tore it open in a frenzy of eagerness.He read confusedly. But, somehow, theessential meaning beat upon his brain. He grasped the fact that the woman he loved had gone from him. It was all a monstrous lie, of course. Yet, there was the horrid truth—she had gone away. Lou and Nell—the two things in the world—had gone away. He could not understand. But they had gone."Good-by, Jim!"She had written that, and she had signed it "Lou." There was confusion in his thoughts. He could not guess the meaning that lay back of what his wife had written. He only knew that there was some monstrous lie.The maid's voice came softly. The girl was appalled at the expression on the man's face as he stood staring down at the sheet of paper in his hands. It was from a desire to bring things back to the ordinary that she spoke apologetically:"Your glass of water, sir."The words made a mechanical impression on Jim Maxwell's consciousness. He stretched out his left arm, and his hand, from which he had not yet pulled off the riding-gauntlet,closed over the glass on the tray. He raised it toward his lips. His eyes fell on the note once more."You love another, so will perhaps not miss me."The incredible words were there before him. And she had gone—she and Nell.... With Dan McGrew! The thing was impossible. There was no truth anywhere. He stared down at the letter, aghast at the horrible conundrum propounded to him by fate. Lou had gone—with Dan McGrew!... Why?His eyes held to the note."—so I am going away."The words beat a refrain of dreadfulness in his brain."—so I am going away."His hand, holding the glass of water, clenched fiercely in the reflex of emotion. The glass was shivered, and the fragments were multiplied as his passion still sought expression in the violence of that clutch.
Dan McGrew had plotted with devilish cleverness. He had seized on the fact of Jim's attendance at the bank-meeting as timely to his purpose. He had, indeed, made it the pivot about which the details of his scheming were grouped. As a result of his carefulness in planning, during the hour of his interview with Lou, Fingie Whalen was stationed in the street outside Murphy's saloon. He sat on a bench that stood against the wall of the structure, and smoked incessant cigarettes, the while his ferret eyes scanned closely the length of the main street, down which Jim Maxwell must ride on his way to the bank. Just before him, a saddled horse stood patiently, with the bridle-rein trailing. Within the saloon, Jess, also, waited—with a drink, as well as a cigarette, to comfort her in the interval. Thus, it befell that, when Jim Maxwellcame riding briskly into the town, his approach was noted from afar by eyes hired for the purpose. Instantly, then, Fingie acted. He sprang up, and darted into the back room of the saloon, where he called Jess's name, and beckoned. The response of the woman was no less prompt. She stood up quickly, and hurried out of the place, while Fingie himself remained to peer anxiously from the window that gave on the street. There, for a minute, he observed events outside. Afterward, he lounged against the bar with a gratified smirk.
Jim, as he rode slowly down the main street, idly noted the woman who hastened out of Murphy's, and mounted astride the horse. He wondered a little that she did not start away. But, as he drew closer, his keen eyes perceived that the form of the woman was swaying unsteadily in the saddle. Alarmed for her safety, though with a suspicion that only excess of drink ailed her, Jim quickened his horse's pace—too late. Before he could reach her, the woman lurched, and fell heavily to the ground, where she lay motionless, evidentlystunned, if not more seriously injured, while the startled horse backed away snuffing.
Jim was on the ground almost as quickly as the woman herself, and was beside her before the few others in the street who came running. He did the natural thing under the circumstances, precisely as Dan McGrew had expected that he would. Since the woman lay with closed eyes, showing no signs of consciousness, unless in the faint moaning that issued from her rouged lips, Jim lifted her in his arms, and bore her through the side door, which Fingie had thoughtfully left ajar, into the back room of Murphy's saloon.... It was at this moment that the gambler left the window to lounge unconcernedly against the bar. Jim carried his burden to one of the round tables which was empty, and placed her gently upon it, continuing to support her with his arms about the waist and shoulders.
p049t
JIM CARRIED HIS BURDEN TO ONE OF THE ROUND TABLES.
"Bring brandy!" he called out sharply to the nearest of the occupants of the room, who now came crowding forward with ejaculations of dismay. The man addressed was FingieWhalen himself. He stared down at the woman with shocked surprise writ large on his sullen features.
"Why, it's Jess!" he mumbled, in a voice that he vainly strove to fill with distress. "Whatever has she been an' gone, an' done?"
"Get that brandy!" Jim reiterated the command curtly.
"Yes, sir," Fingie answered humbly, and hurried off to the bar. In a moment, he was back with the liquor, which he held to the woman's lips. To Jim's relief, Jess swallowed the draft easily enough—to tell the truth, rather greedily; but of that fact her rescuer was quite unaware, and from it he augured well.
Jess managed her apparent recovery from the effects of the fall with such art as she possessed, which, in truth, was not of the highest, though ample for the beguiling of a man who was honest and kindly and wholly unsuspecting. Soon, her eyes unclosed a little, and she breathed more deeply, and the moaning, which had been interrupted by thebrandy, was resumed more vigorously. Through the paint on her cheeks showed the deeper red of a genuine flush, the natural result of the dram, but a sure evidence of vitality, none the less. Jim rejoiced over these signs of restoration, and even smiled on Fingie, as he bade him continue the chafing of the woman's hands.
"She's not seriously hurt," he remarked, with much satisfaction in his voice; "though the way she flopped off that horse was enough to jar her teeth loose." Being ignorant of the fact that Jess had been a member of a circus troupe before she yielded to the blandishments of the gambler, Jim wondered mightily that so severe a fall should have had no worse effect.
Jess opened her eyes wide, and stared up blankly into the face of the man who held her in his arms.
"Where am I?" she asked, with the languid air of her favorite stage heroine when swooning.
"It's all right," Jim hastened to explain soothingly, having due regard to her dazedcondition. "You were dizzy for a second, I suspect, and fell from your horse. But there doesn't seem to be anything much the matter, and you'll be all right in a jiffy." He addressed Fingie.
"Bring her another nip of the brandy."
The gambler would have remonstrated against this unnecessary extravagance, but could find no plausible reason for refusal, and Jess, who was enjoying herself hugely, offered him no assistance. When the drink had been brought, she swallowed it without too much display of eagerness, and coughed as a lady should who is unaccustomed to strong waters. At once thereafter, she straightened up to a sitting posture on the table, though she still accepted the support of Jim's arms to his discomfiture, and regarded him with coquettish glances of gratitude, which were offensive to him, and to Fingie Whalen as well. He tried to withdraw his arms, but she leaned upon him too heavily, and he was forced for a few minutes longer to retain her in a passive embrace. But, as he repeated the effort tentatively, Jessbethought herself that her recovery had now advanced so far as to make such support unnecessary. Therefore, to play her part, she withdrew herself, and sat up unassisted, but with a hand to her brow to indicate that her brain had not yet wholly cleared.
"Oh, you have been so good to me, Mister!" she gushed. "I shall be thankful to you to my dying day. Why," she added in a burst of imagination, "the horse might have stepped on me, if you hadn't been right there to save me."
"Nothing like that, I'm sure," Jim declared, as amiably as he could contrive. "The horse seemed to be doing his best not to step on you without any help from me. You don't owe me any thanks, really."
Jess put out an appealing hand. It was accepted reluctantly by Jim, and, with his assistance, and that of Fingie on the other side, she got down from the table totteringly, and sank into a chair, where she sat limply, with closed eyes, following her rôle devotedly to the end.
"You'll have a drink with us, Mr. Maxwell," Fingie urged, twisting his lowering features to an expression of affability. "What's past is past an' done. You sure did give me an almighty swat on the jaw t'other day, but I ain't one to nuss no grouch, an' Jess here, an' me, we're plumb grateful for yer kindness to her this mornin'. What'll you have, Mr. Maxwell? I'll bring it."
Jim shook his head in refusal. He, too, had no wish to nourish a grudge; but he had no liking for the gambler—less for the woman, whose tawdry airs nauseated him. He was already a little disgusted, with the episode, and desirous to end it.
Jess saw the refusal in his face, and was quick to intervene; for failure now would mean the utter collapse of all their plotting. She spoke gently, and, in the genuineness of her anxiety, her voice trembled with appeal:
"Please, sir—please, Mr. Maxwell!" she besought him.
Jim, in spite of his repulsion, was touched by the woman's earnestness. His sense ofchivalry impelled him to yield to a plea so natural and so ingenuous on her part. He smiled, a bit wryly, in answer to her imploring look, and nodded assent.
"I'll have a glass of beer," he said to Fingie, and, as the gambler hurried off to the bar, he seated himself at the table beside Jess.
The woman prattled nervously, made garrulous by the brandy, and by fatuous ambition to impress this aloof companion with her charms. As a matter of fact, the conspiracy came perilously near to failure in consequence of her chatting, which almost drove Jim to flight. His instinct of politeness, however, conquered inclination, and he remained in his place, listening with a forced semblance of interest to hide how desperately he was bored. Yet, throughout, he rested without a faintest suspicion that this affair was aught beyond the innocent thing it seemed. To him, the happening was merely a nuisance—nothing more, nothing in any wise sinister. It did not occur to him to wonder why Fingie should have volunteered to serve as their waiter. He didnot trouble even to follow the gambler with his eyes, as the fellow went to the bar.
For that matter, it would have availed Jim nothing, had he watched never so closely. The card-sharp possessed the dexterity of his trade. Those long, slender, mobile fingers of his had been fashioned by fate for a surgeon, a conjurer, a gambler, or a pick-pocket. Not even the keen-eyed bartender, who was close to him, noticed the tiny vial in Fingie's hand, as it hovered over the frothing glass of beer on the counter, or saw the trickle of the colorless drops into the brew. So, the gambler came back to the table presently, with a tray, on which were two glasses of brandy—one for himself, of generous size; the other for Jess, so tiny that she frowned indignantly at sight of it—and the glass of beer for Jim. The three drank together.... Then, the gambler and his woman watched avidly for what should befall.
There was no delay. Jim, glad that the ordeal was at last done, would have risen to leave. But a strange lethargy held him fastbound.A black cloud descended on his brain; thought ceased. Suddenly, he slumped in his chair. His arms dropped heavily on the table. His head fell on them. Fingie and Jess chuckled aloud in gloating over the inert form of the man. They were not afraid lest he hear them, now.
There was not a word exchanged between Lou and Dan on their ride from the ranch-house to the town. For his part, the man was filled with rejoicing over the triumph that he anticipated. He had no fear of failure. The ingenuity of his plot insured success. Its strength lay in the seeming simplicity of the events that would lead to the desired climax. Dan's only doubt had been concerning his ability to hold the woman to his will, and to make her play her vital part in his machinations. He had realized that he would have need of all his wit to secure from her even a hearing of his accusations against the man she loved. By his arts, he had enticed her into listening, and by reason of the very indignation thus aroused, he had warped her mood to his purpose. So, he went forward full of confidence as to the outcome,exultant, heedless of the misery of the woman who rode by his side.
That misery was poignant. At intervals, wrath flamed high in her, and she longed for the moment when she should bring the two men face to face, that the slanderer might receive the punishment he merited from the one maligned. But, oftener, her emotion dropped into abysses of despair. There had been something unspeakably revolting to her wifely instincts in the tawdry phrases of the ill-written note, signed "Your loving Jess." Her spirit writhed as she recalled the words, so damning in their explicitness: "Shall expect you at the usual time. Don't let your trusting Lou keep you away, as I can't do without you." The wife found herself compelled to fight with all her energies against the demon of doubt that so hideously beset her. That note had been addressed to "Dearest Jim." And Jim was her husband's name, and the note had been lying in his letter-case. And, if these things of themselves were not enough to sap faith, there was the sneeringuse of her own name: "Don't let your trusting Lou keep you away." The distracted wife told herself a hundred times that her belief in the loyalty of her husband remained unshaken, but it was not so. She lied to herself, from very horror of the truth. Only by fierce and incessant denials of the doubt that welled in her could she repel the assaults of despair. Of the man beside her, she thought hardly at all, except in the fitful and constantly lessening flashes of her anger. Her thought was for the husband, with a pitiful wondering over the hateful mystery that had come to pass. Oh, surely, there was some simple explanation of it all—there must be! It was a hoax, a jest, some misunderstanding—anything! But, though she argued against belief, there remained always in her consciousness the stubborn, sickening facts, and a great dread lay crushingly upon her spirit. The agony of suspense grew unbearable. Her quirt rose and fell in a vicious lash on the flanks of the mare. The astonished thoroughbred leaped and stretched into a run.... Dan McGrewpressed his own mount forward, to keep pace.
While the two thus rode toward the town, there was a period of tedious inaction for Dan's accomplices. In the back room of Murphy's saloon, Jess remained impatiently in her seat at the table, with the empty brandy glass before her. She would have liked another drink, but dared not call for it, since it had been forbidden by her master, because her part in the sordid drama was not yet finished. Beside her, Jim sat motionless, his body sprawled clumsily over the table. He had not stirred since his yielding to the influence of the drug. The only evidence of life about him was the sound of stertorous breathing. The habitués of the place had given no heed to him after a few sneering comments concerning one who would get drunk so early in the day.
Fingie Whalen, after he had seen his drops take effect on the victim, went out of the saloon, and reëstablished himself on the bench against the wall, where once again he gave himself over to an unremitting survey of themain street, down which any one coming from the ranch must pass. He smoked with nervous rapidity, which increased as minute after minute passed, and there was still no sight of those for whom he watched. At the end of an hour, the gambler's impatience had become anxiety. He began to fear failure at the last, when success had seemed assured. It might well be that, in spite of Jess's note, Dan McGrew had been unable to persuade Lou Maxwell into accompanying him. Or—as would be equally disastrous—they might come too late. Fingie had been as liberal as he dared in the drugging of the beer, but there is a great difference in the reactive powers of various men against such poison. He had not been minded to run any risk of murder. Therefore, he could not tell with precision when Jim Maxwell would recover consciousness. As the minutes hurried on, Fingie's fear mounted by leaps and bounds. From time to time, he left the bench, and peered in through the window, to reassure himself as to the continued unconsciousness of the drugged man.
Then, at last, as he turned from one of these glimpses through the window, Fingie Whalen saw in the distance the forms of two riders coming at a furious gallop. For a second, he stood staring, to make sure that there was no mistake, that these were in fact those for whom he had waited with such anxiety. In another moment, he became certain that one of the two who approached was Dan McGrew. The flapping of a divided skirt proved that the other rider was a woman. He could no longer doubt that McGrew had succeeded. There needed now only to set the stage for the final scene. For the second time that day, Fingie whirled and darted into the saloon. He caught up from the bar a glass of brandy, which he had left under the barkeeper's charge, since he had not deemed it safe on the table within Jess's reach. He moved now without undue haste, in order to avoid attracting attention to himself and the others concerned. When he had reached the table at which Jess and their victim were seated, he put the glass down, with a nod to the womanto indicate that the end of the play was now at hand. Jess shoved her chair close to that in which Jim slouched. At the same time, Fingie seized the unconscious man by the shoulders, and lifted the heavy form upright in the chair. Jim yielded limply to the procedure—a dead weight in the other's grasp. He was still unconscious. His face was hot and flushed, the face of one under the influence of liquor. His breath still came noisily. Fingie, straining under the weight, tilted the flaccid body over a little way, until it rested against the shoulder of Jess, who braced herself to sustain it. Fingie raised Jim's left arm, as the unconscious man reposed thus against the woman at his right, and laid it about her neck. Thus the two remained in an embrace, which bore every evidence of fondness that knew no shame in this public and disreputable place. Jim's head sagged, until it rested upon the woman's bosom. Her right arm was wreathed about him, holding him tenaciously, with all her strength, lest he lurch away from her. With her left hand,she took up the glass of brandy, which Fingie had brought, and held it close to the lips of the unconscious man.
p114t
JIM'S HEAD SAGGED UNTIL IT RESTED UPON THE WOMAN'S BOSOM.
Such was the business of the piece, as it had been arranged beforehand in each detail by the conspirators. Jess cast a look of inquiry toward the gambler, to learn whether or not the situation met all the requirements of the plot. He gave a brief nod, and grunted approval. He heard the clatter of hoofs in the street outside—a clatter of hoofs of horses ridden in haste. It ceased just without the door of the saloon. Fingie walked quietly to the bar. A quick glance about showed that the attention of none had been attracted to his movements. He grinned evilly in anticipation.... From the time when he had first sighted the riders, not more than a half-minute had elapsed. He leaned against the bar, and stared furtively toward the window that gave on the street.
Dan McGrew drew close alongside Lou, as the pair pounded down the main street of the town.
"Stop at the corner, this side of the bank," he called to her. "At Murphy's saloon."
The woman shivered as her ears caught the words. She knew the character of the notorious place, which catered to the most depraved tastes of the community. Was it to a resort so ignoble that she must go to refute the slander against her husband? To refute it! Or—she broke off her thought, appalled by the terrible alternative. Then, in the following instant, she found herself already abreast of the saloon. She heard her companion's brisk command:
"Stop here!"
She obeyed, though, almost, the dread that beat upon her forced her to flee on, and on—anywhere away from the horror that menaced. She pulled her mare to a standstill, and got down from the saddle, and let the bridle-reins trail. She moved as one in a dream—rather, as one in a nightmare. Yet, now the crisis was upon her, she did not suffer quite so cruelly. Her feeling was numbed, somehow. It was with a certain listlessness in her voicethat she addressed Dan McGrew, as he stepped to her side.
"Well?"
"There's no need to go inside," Dan explained. "We can see enough, I fancy, through the window.... Come!"
Lou followed obediently whither he led. So the two came to the window, with the dirty glass and its tattered shade raised high, so that whosoever would might look freely on the squalor within. Dan stepped forward and peered into the room for a moment, then turned and beckoned to Lou.... And the wife advanced, as he bade her, and looked over his shoulder.
Lou's eyes, accustomed to the full glare of the noon-day sun, could at first distinguish nothing more than a vague litter of weaving shadows within the murk of the dingy room. Very soon, however, her vision adjusted itself to the dim interior, so that she began to see distinctly. Even in this moment of emotional stress, Lou was conscious of her repugnance at the spectacle of coarsely flaunted vice. Shenoted the line of sodden men loafing along the bar, the few others grouped about the tables with the bedizened and painted women, whose wanton faces, and more wanton manners, proclaimed their unsavory sort. Yet, her attention was thus arrested for only a fleeting fraction of a second. Then her gaze fell on that other table and she saw her husband.
There could be no doubt as to Jim's identity. As she recognized him, Lou's dark brown eyes dilated before the fearfulness of this thing. For she saw, as well, every detail of his visible plight. The scene was etched on her consciousness with the acid of horror, there to remain indelible throughout the years. She knew, in the first second of seeing, every feature of the creature within whose arms her husband was lying. She knew the cut and color of the soiled bodice, with its drapery of cheap lace over the bosom—on which his loved face reposed. She felt a nausea. There was nothing lovable now in his face. Instead, it was bestial, repulsive—theface of a man who had given himself over to gratification of the beast within him, and who was wallowing in the mire of his degradation.... So it seemed to Lou Maxwell, as she stood staring, bereft, upon that scene which to her meant the end of all things. The life had gone out of her face. A sickness as of death clutched at her heart. Suddenly her gauntleted hands caught Dan McGrew's shoulder. Only his quick support saved her from falling. She spoke dully, in a broken whisper:
"Take me away."
Lou was able to climb to her saddle with Dan's assistance, though she moved very feebly, and her white, drawn face was that of one who had been stricken with a mortal hurt. But once safely mounted, with less strain on her muscles, a little strength flowed back into her, so that she sat steadily enough as the two started back at a walk over the way down which they had ridden so furiously. By the time the town was left well behind, the fresh air and the motion had restored her faculties in part, both physical and mental. But with the clearing of her brain came an agony of realization almost unendurable. She urged her horse to its full speed, fain to put all distance possible between her and the detestable scene on which she had just looked. Indeed, the instinct of flight in this crisis of her fate was dominant. Her one desire wasto flee to the ends of the earth, to escape forever from all that had been.
Throughout the years of her life hitherto, Lou had experienced no real anguish. Her sorrows, great though some of them had seemed to her as child and woman, had been essentially trivial, over trivial things. She had never known the ills of poverty. The death of her father had occurred while yet she, the only child, was too young to grieve deeply or long. Her mother's death had occurred some years after her marriage, when she had been weaned from the old home-life. In truth, all her years had been pleasant ones. The sum of her happiness had been far beyond that of most. The love between her and her husband had been a beautiful one, in which she had found supreme content. It had been crowned by the birth of the child. It had held the promise of serenely joyous years to come.... And now, the catastrophe! Here was the end of all things. Doubt of her husband's loyalty had never tainted her devotion. She had believed utterly in hiscleanness, his wholesome manhood. And now, in an instant, the whole fabric of her life was in shreds, beyond any possibility of reweaving; befouled beyond any possibility of purifying. All her happiness had been an illusion, the gracious charm of it only a mask that covered the ugly truth.
Lou had never a doubt concerning that truth. With her own eyes, she had witnessed it. She had seen Jim in drunken debauch with the painted woman, who had boasted that this lover came always at her call. The wife had seen her husband fondled openly by a wanton in a public place, had seen the creature holding the glass to that husband's lips. Dan McGrew had plotted well. By his intrigue, he had destroyed absolutely all her faith and happiness.
The humiliation of the revelation sharpened the torture. It would not have been quite so terrible, Lou thought, if Jim had loved some woman of a decent sort. But the loathesomeness of being scorned for that infamous woman of the dance-hall—! Thewife writhed under the ignominy: that a being so sordid should have ousted her from her husband's heart. His infatuation for one so base proved his entire worthlessness. He was but the gross, soiled caricature of her ideal. The idol of gold which she had worshiped was shown to be of clay—clay filthy and corrupt.
Dan McGrew realized, to some extent at least, the anguish of the woman at whose side he rode. Had it been consistent with his purposes, he would have spared her that suffering. In his way, he sympathized with her keenly. Yet the fact that her grief was wholly of his making, had no cause whatsoever except the visible lie which he had built for her eyes to see—the fact that he alone had thrust the iron into her soul troubled Dangerous Dan not at all. He had no remorse, though he pitied her. He was absolutely without compunction for the misery he had wrought. Dangerous Dan was a strong man, save for his vices. He was a hard man as well. What he desired, he meant to take, andhe was ruthless and unscrupulous as to the manner of his taking. More than anything else in the world, he desired to possess for his own Lou Maxwell. To that end, he had concocted his scheme of villainy. The woman's present agony was a necessary part in the success of his plotting. So, though he was sorry for her whom he had thus fearfully wronged, he felt no vestige of regret—only exultation. In his way, Dan McGrew loved Lou. His love for her was, indeed, the chief passion of his life. But his love, like that of many another man, was wholly selfish. She was necessary to his happiness. That he must destroy her happiness in order to secure his was of no importance. Moreover, with the egotism of a strong man, he was confident that he would be able in the days to come to make her happier than she had ever been before.
Now, on the ride, Dan discreetly kept silence. He could follow well enough the workings of the woman's mood, and he believed that it would be unwise at this time to attempt the direction of her thoughts. Itseemed to him certain that under the circumstances she must inevitably reach the conclusion he desired. There might be danger that a suggestion from him would provoke suspicion, though this possibility was remote, after the effectiveness of the scene on which she had looked. Nevertheless, despite his confidence in a victorious issue of the affair, Dan was glad when Lou went forward at full speed. He, like Fingie Whalen, knew that the influence of the drug on Jim Maxwell would be only of a temporary sort, and that soon the ranch-owner would recover consciousness. Just how long an interval there might be before the husband's return to the ranch, Dan could not tell. But, because he was in a fever of impatience for a rapid development of events, he rejoiced over the haste in which they rode, and welcomed with a sigh of relief their arrival at the ranch.
As Lou dismounted, Nell came running from the porch with a rapturous cry of greeting. The mother dropped to her knees, and gathered the girl into her arms, with passionatekisses. She realized, with bitter self-reproach, that in all this time of trial she had had not a single thought for the daughter whom she so loved. In her humiliation as a wife she had forgotten her obligation as a mother. Now, abruptly, the shameful significance to the daughter of what had befallen was borne in upon Lou's consciousness.
"He is unworthy ever to look on her face again." She was unaware that in the intensity of her feeling she had spoken aloud with deliberate emphasis.
Nell, already somewhat perplexed by the ardor of these caresses, became even a little frightened by the unfamiliar expression on her mother's face, and by the sternly spoken words, which she did not understand. She was relieved when, the next moment, she was released, and she hurried off to her favorite nook in the rose-garden, where she might be alone to puzzle over the meaning of it all.
Unlike the child, Dan McGrew understoodexactly the wife's ejaculation, and he knew that he had achieved his end. Without invitation, but quite as a matter of course, he walked at Lou's side as she ascended the steps and entered the living-room. She accepted his company without remonstrance, indifferently. It was only after she had sunk down into a low easy chair, where she lay back wearily with closed eyes, while she drew off her gauntlets, that Dan McGrew finally dared to address her explicitly:
"You must leave him, of course," he said gently. His voice was very grave and kindly. It came with something of a shock to the woman's ears—she had forgotten him so completely in the self-absorption of her mood. But, too, there was something soothing to her in the manner of his utterance. She became aware that here was one to aid her in the accomplishment of things to be done. She no longer remembered how, within the hour, she had execrated this man who now stood before her. She had become oblivious of the insulthe had so recently put upon her. The revelation of her husband's treachery obsessed her mind to the exclusion of all else. So, she was fully disposed to accept the assistance of Dan McGrew in this emergency. She was ready to acquiesce in his suggestions for her guidance in escaping from this place which her husband had polluted. She sat up in a quick access of energy.
"Yes," she said harshly, "I must leave him—at once." Her animation grew. Her face, which had been pallid a moment before, was flushed with eagerness. Her expression became resolute. "I must take Nell away from him. I don't want him ever to set eyes on her again—he's not fit."
Dan forbore comment. There needed from him no condemnation of the husband. The wife's conviction as to Jim's guilt was complete. So he avoided Lou's reference to her husband's culpability, and spoke to the point:
"You want to get away without seeing himagain," he remarked, in a tone of positiveness, as if the matter admitted of no doubt.
"Yes," the wife answered. "It would be too horrible to see him again! And for Nell—"
Dan McGrew nodded sympathetically.
"It would only mean a nasty row," he agreed. "You might as well spare yourself that—and spare the child, too," he concluded, craftily. For he realized that Lou would fly fast and far for the child's sake, if not for her own. He detested the necessity of the child's presence in their flight, but he recognized the fact that it was a necessity, and therefore to be endured—even, as far as possible, to be turned to advantage.
"Yes," Lou continued, "we must hurry as fast as we can, for I suppose there's no telling when Jim might return. And it would be dreadful to run into him in the town, on the way to the train."
Dan McGrew nodded assent.
"It would, indeed!" he declared. "In thecondition he's in now there's no telling what he might do."
Lou shuddered at the memory of her husband's sodden face, as she had seen it resting on the breast of the woman in Murphy's saloon.
"We must not meet him!" she declared desperately. "It would be too terrible to have him see Nell." She pressed her hands to her bosom as if to hold back the emotion that surged within her. "More dreadful for Nell to see him. I want her to have a clean memory of her father, whatever he is."
"We can avoid any danger of meeting him," Dan McGrew asserted, with a brisk tone of confidence that reassured his listener. "We'll just ride across country to the main line. Do you know the road? I have only a general idea."
Lou was all eagerness over the suggestion.
"Yes, yes," she exclaimed excitedly; "that is the way to do it. I know the road. We must get ready and start at once. But you don't need to go with us."
Dan McGrew spoke decisively:
"I've got you into this mess, Lou, and it's up to me to see the thing through. I want to help you in any way I can—and just now you need help." His tone was firm, yet tender, with a note of devotion in it that touched the distraught woman. She sprang to her feet and held out both her hands, which were seized in a warm clasp.
"Thank you, Dan," she said gently. "God knows I need help."
Then, forthwith, she became all animation. She summoned her maid, and ordered that two small bags which could be carried on horseback should be packed with necessaries for herself and Nell. At Dan's suggestion, she sent an order to the stables for Nell's pony and two fresh mounts to serve for Dan and herself. These things done, it occurred to her that she must leave some explanation of her departure for her husband on his return. She seated herself at his desk, and wrote hurriedly and briefly, in distaste for even this indirect contact with the man who had wronged her.
Dear Jim:I know all. I do not want to be in your path, so am going away. You love another, so will perhaps not miss me.Good-by, Jim.I forgive you.Lou.
Dear Jim:
I know all. I do not want to be in your path, so am going away. You love another, so will perhaps not miss me.
Good-by, Jim.
I forgive you.
Lou.
Lou, when she had set her name to the short form of words, thrust the sheet into an envelope, which she addressed with the single word, "Jim." For long seconds she sat staring at the lines she had last traced—that name which had been through so many years the symbol of her happiness, which was now become the symbol of vileness and misery. The horror of it smote her anew, essenced in that name which had been her blessing, which was now become her curse.
The sound of the hoofs stamping on the gravel before the door aroused her. The maid came to announce that the horses were in readiness, with the bags strapped to the saddles. With the maid came Nell, who had needed no preparation, since she was alreadyin her riding clothes. Lou took the girl in her arms and kissed the exquisite dark face with a tenderness that was like a benediction.... She had no least hint that this was destined to be the last time her lips should touch the soft roundness of the girlish cheek.
"You are to ride with me this afternoon, Nell," she said. "Don't ask any questions now. I'll tell you all about it by-and-by. It's a surprise." She shivered over the words. A surprise—yes, a surprise that meant the end of all things. So, presently, the three went forth from the living-room, and across the porch, and down the steps, and got into the saddles of the waiting horses. Without any exchange of words among them, they rode away. None of the three looked back—Nell, because she had no guess as to the sinister meaning of this parting; Dan, because even his calloused soul felt a twinge of shame over the ruins that he left behind; Lou, because she could not.
It was not until late afternoon that Jim slowly struggled back to consciousness. He was first aware of a deadly nausea, which seemed billowing through every atom of his being. Then he felt the torture that stabbed through his brain. In an effort of revolt, he raised his head, though the movement tried his strength to the utmost. His eyes swept dimly over the scene, and a dull wonder filled him. Just at first, he did not recognize the place. Very quickly, however, the acrid odors of spilled liquors and the reek of cheap perfumes from the women quickened memory. Suddenly his eyes opened wide, and he saw clearly, with new consciousness of his surroundings—and of himself. He realized that in some mysterious fashion, altogether inexplicable to him, he had been overcome in theback room of Murphy's saloon. His mind went to the period immediately preceding the blank in memory. He remembered his presence there along with the woman, Jess, and the gambler, and his taking a drink with them. Of whatever had followed, he had no knowledge. Evidently, he had suffered a seizure of some sort. As his faculties were restored, it occurred to him that he might have been drugged by the gambler or the woman, for the purpose of robbery. But a hasty examination showed that his watch and money were untouched. Besides, it seemed to him, on second thought, preposterous that either of the two should have dared anything of the kind against him. No, it was certain that he had been attacked thus without warning by some unexpected physical ailment. He was rather alarmed by the experience, as strong men usually are when unaccustomed weakness assails them. He determined to submit himself to a careful examination at the hands of a competent physician, on his first visit to the county-seat.
The nausea had subsided in some measure, and the pain in his head, too, had lessened. But he felt mouth and throat parched. He got up, moving with difficulty, and, after a few moments of unsteadiness while he held to the back of a chair for support, he was able to stand firmly enough and to walk forward to the bar.
"Give me a glass of water," he said to the bar-keeper.
The fellow obeyed with alacrity, for he knew Jim Maxwell to be a man of importance in the community, and he had been puzzled by the events of the day—even a little frightened lest trouble come of them. Jim gulped the water and demanded more. He drank a number of glasses before his thirst was even partially quenched. The effect was speedy. He felt strength returning to him. His brain was quite clear again.
The bar-tender, watching narrowly, saw that the ranch-owner was himself once more. He ventured to speak ingratiatingly, in the hope of satisfying his curiosity.
"That was quite some snoozle, Mister," he remarked, with a smirk.
"It was nothing of the sort," Jim snapped. "I don't know what it was. But it was bad enough."
"I thought mebbe as how you'd had a drop too much," the bar-keeper explained, "an' was jest nacherly sleepin' it off. If we'd knowed you was sick, we'd have got the Doc in to give you a look-over."
"That's all right," Jim answered. "I'm not blaming you any—unless it was the drink you gave me that poisoned me."
Presently Jim went out into the street. He found his horse tied to a ring at the corner of the saloon building. He unhitched it, mounted, and rode slowly homeward. He was still in distress physically, but his condition was improving from moment to moment, so that he no longer felt apprehension as to the outcome. Soon, indeed, he became sufficiently sure of himself to put his horse to a trot.... As the shadows of evening drew down, he rode up to the door of his home.
There was a bank of lurid clouds in the west, massed heavily on the horizon. The air was motionless, weighted with portents of coming storm. Jim felt the oppressiveness, and in a subtle way it rested upon his mood as something sinister. A weight of melancholy pressed upon him as he entered the house. The stillness of the air seemed reënforced in the quiet of the living-room into which he stepped. There was no sound. He listened for his wife's greeting. It did not come. He listened for the pattering steps of Nell, running to welcome him. He did not hear them. The silence hurt him in some curious way. He had an overwhelming sense of the absence of those he loved—the absence of wife and child.
He crossed the room to his desk. He slipped the loop of the quirt from his wrist and let it fall on the desk. The effect of the drug was not yet assuaged; he was very thirsty. He called to the maid passing through the hall:
"Bring me a glass of water, Mary."
The girl came quickly with the drink. She and the other servants were in a ferment of curiosity, full of suspicions and wonderings. There had been much gossip in the house over the fight between the two men the day before, which had not passed unobserved. To-day, the wife had suddenly left her home with the man who had been ordered out of the house. Over this fact, scandalous tongues were clacking loudly. Mary had made it her business to be passing in the hall, in order that she might note the attitude of the master at such a time. So she stood, in eager expectation, eying her master closely, as he took the glass of water.
But he set the glass back on the tray suddenly, for he saw an envelope lying on the desk, addressed in the handwriting of the woman he loved:
"Jim."
A foreboding of disaster crashed upon him. He trembled, standing there with the envelope unopened in his hand. Then he strove to throw off this craven dread—for whichthere was no reason. He turned to the maid.
"Where is your mistress?" he asked, quietly.
It was the question for which Mary, and the whole household, had been waiting.
"Why, sir," she answered falteringly, dismayed now that the matter was coming to a crisis, "she has gone out—with Miss Nell, sir—and with Mr. McGrew."
McGrew! The name roared in Jim's brain. The man who had insulted his wife, whom he had beaten and driven from his home like a whipped cur.... And Lou and Nell had gone with Dan McGrew. He felt a sickness, inexpressibly more horrible than the physical nausea that had sickened him there in Murphy's saloon. That Lou should have gone with Dan McGrew—and Nell! The thing was incredible!
His eyes searched the room, as if looking for wife or child, or for some clew to explain the mystery. They fell on the envelope, which he still held in his hand. He tore it open in a frenzy of eagerness.
He read confusedly. But, somehow, theessential meaning beat upon his brain. He grasped the fact that the woman he loved had gone from him. It was all a monstrous lie, of course. Yet, there was the horrid truth—she had gone away. Lou and Nell—the two things in the world—had gone away. He could not understand. But they had gone.
"Good-by, Jim!"
She had written that, and she had signed it "Lou." There was confusion in his thoughts. He could not guess the meaning that lay back of what his wife had written. He only knew that there was some monstrous lie.
The maid's voice came softly. The girl was appalled at the expression on the man's face as he stood staring down at the sheet of paper in his hands. It was from a desire to bring things back to the ordinary that she spoke apologetically:
"Your glass of water, sir."
The words made a mechanical impression on Jim Maxwell's consciousness. He stretched out his left arm, and his hand, from which he had not yet pulled off the riding-gauntlet,closed over the glass on the tray. He raised it toward his lips. His eyes fell on the note once more.
"You love another, so will perhaps not miss me."
The incredible words were there before him. And she had gone—she and Nell.... With Dan McGrew! The thing was impossible. There was no truth anywhere. He stared down at the letter, aghast at the horrible conundrum propounded to him by fate. Lou had gone—with Dan McGrew!... Why?
His eyes held to the note.
"—so I am going away."
The words beat a refrain of dreadfulness in his brain.
"—so I am going away."
His hand, holding the glass of water, clenched fiercely in the reflex of emotion. The glass was shivered, and the fragments were multiplied as his passion still sought expression in the violence of that clutch.