“I can’t do anything more. The end has come and it has brought the hatred and bloodshed that I have been trying to prevent. I played the game according to your rules, but they forced me back to first principles in spite of myself, and now I don’t know what the finish will be. To-morrow will tell. Take care of your uncle, and if you should wish to communicate with me, go to Cherry Malotte. She is a friend to both of us.“Always your servant,Roy Glenister.”
“I can’t do anything more. The end has come and it has brought the hatred and bloodshed that I have been trying to prevent. I played the game according to your rules, but they forced me back to first principles in spite of myself, and now I don’t know what the finish will be. To-morrow will tell. Take care of your uncle, and if you should wish to communicate with me, go to Cherry Malotte. She is a friend to both of us.
“Always your servant,Roy Glenister.”
As he sealed this he paused, while he felt the hair on his neck rise and bristle and a chill race up his spine. His heart fluttered, then pounded onward till the blood thumped audibly at his ear-drums and he found himself swaying in rhythm to its beat. The muscles of his back cringed and rippled at the proximity of some hovering peril, and yet an irresistible feeling forbade him to turn. A sound came from close behind his chair—the drip, drip, drip of water. It was not from the caves, nor yet from a faulty shingle. His back was to the kitchen door, through which he had come, and, although there were no mirrors before him, he felt a menacing presence as surely as though it had touched him. His ears were tuned to the finest pin-pricks of sound, so that he heard the faint, sighing “squish” of a sodden shoe upon which a weight had shifted. Still something chained him to his seat. It was as though his soul laid a restraining hand upon his body, waiting for the instant.
He let his hand seek his hip carelessly, but remembered where his gun was. Mechanically, he addressed the note in shaking characters, while behind him sounded the constant drip, drip, drip that he knew came from saturated garments. For a long moment he sat, till he heard the stealthy click of a gun-lock muffled by finger pressure. Then he set his face and slowly turned to find the Bronco Kid standing behind him as though risen from the sea, his light clothes wet and clinging, his feet centred in a spreading puddle. The dim light showed the convulsive fury of his features above the levelled weapon, whose hammer was curled back like the head of a striking adder, his eyes gleaming with frenzy. Glenister’s mouth was powder dry, but his mind was leaping riotously like dust before a gale, for he divinedhimself to be in the deadliest peril of his life. When he spoke the calmness of his voice surprised himself.
“What’s the matter, Bronco?” The Kid made no reply, and Roy repeated, “What do you want?”
“That’s a hell of a question,” the gambler said, hoarsely. “I want you, of course, and I’ve got you.”
“Hold up! I am unarmed. This is your third try, and I want to know what’s back of it.”
“Damnthe talk!” cried the faro-dealer, moving closer till the light shone on his features, which commenced to twitch. He raised the revolver he had half lowered. “There’s reason enough, and you know it.”
Glenister looked him fairly between the eyes, gripping himself with firm hands to stop the tremor he felt in his bones. “You can’t kill me,” he said. “I am too good a man to murder. You might shoot a crook, but you can’t kill a brave man when he’s unarmed. You’re no assassin.” He remained rigid in his chair, however, moving nothing but his lips, meeting the other’s look unflinchingly. The Kid hesitated an instant, while his eyes, which had been fixed with the glare of hatred, wavered a moment, betraying the faintest sign of indecision. Glenister cried out, exultantly:
“Ha! I knew it. Your neck cords quiver.”
The gambler grimaced. “I can’t do it. If I could, I’d have shot you before you turned. But you’ll have to fight, you dog. Get up and draw.”
Roy refused. “I gave Cherry my gun.”
“Yes, and more too,” the man gritted. “I saw it all.”
Even yet Glenister had made no slightest move, realizing that a feather’s weight might snap the gambler’s nervous tension and bring the involuntary twitch that would put him out swifter than a whip is cracked.
“I have tried it before, but murder isn’t my game.” The Kid’s eye caught the glint of Cherry’s revolver where she had discarded it. “There’s a gun—get it.”
“It’s no good. You’d carry the six bullets and never feel them. I don’t know what this is all about, but I’ll fight you whenever I’m heeled right.”
“Oh, you black-hearted hound,” snarled the Kid. “I want to shoot, but I’m afraid. I used to be a gentleman and I haven’t lost it all, I guess. But I won’t wait the next time. I’ll down you on sight, so you’d better get ironed in a hurry.” He backed out of the room into the semi-darkness of the kitchen, watching with lynxlike closeness the man who sat so quietly under the shaded light. He felt behind him for the outer door-knob and turned it to let in a white sheet of rain, then vanished like a storm wraith, leaving a parched-lipped man and a zigzag trail of water, which gleamed in the lamplight like a pool of blood.
GLENISTERdid not wait long after his visitor’s departure, but extinguished the light, locked the door, and began the further adventures of this night. The storm welcomed him with suffocating violence, sucking the very breath from his lips, while the rain beat through till his flesh was cold and aching. He thought with a pang of the girl facing this tempest, going out to meet the thousand perils of the night. And it remained for him to bear his part as she bore hers, smilingly.
The last hour had added another and mysterious danger to his full measure. Could the Kid be jealous of Cherry? Surely not. Then what else?
The tornado had driven his trailers to cover, evidently, for the streets were given over to its violence, and Roy encountered no hostile sign as he was buffeted from house to house. He adventured cautiously and yet with haste, finding certain homes where the marshals had been before him peopled now only by frightened wives and children. A scattered few of the Vigilantes had been taken thus, while the warring elements had prevented their families from spreading the alarm or venturing out for succor. Those whom he was able to warn dressed hurriedly, took their rifles, and wentout into the drifting night, leaving empty cabins and weeping women. The great fight was on.
Towards daylight the remnants of the Vigilantes straggled into the big blank warehouse on the sand-spit, and there beneath the smoking glare of lanterns cursed the name of McNamara. As dawn grayed the ragged eastern sky-line, Dextry and Slapjack blew in through the spindrift, bringing word from Cherry and lifting a load from Glenister’s mind.
“There’s a game girl,” said the old miner, as he wrung out his clothes. “She was half gone when she got to us, and now she’s waiting for the storm to break so that she can come back.”
“It’s clearing up to the east,” Slapjack chattered. “D’you know, I’m gettin’ so rheumatic that ice-water don’t feel comfortable to me no more.”
“Uriatic acid in the blood,” said Dextry. “What’s our next move?” he asked of his partner. “When do we hang this politician? Seems like we’ve got enough able-bodied piano-movers here to tie a can onto the whole outfit, push the town site of Nome off the map, and start afresh.”
“I think we had better lie low and watch developments,” the other cautioned. “There’s no telling what may turn up during the day.”
“That’s right. Stranglers is like spirits—they work best in the dark.”
As the day grew, the storm died, leaving ramparts of clouds hanging sullenly above the ocean’s rim, while those skilled in weather prophecy foretold the coming of the equinoctial. In McNamara’s office there was great stir and the coming of many men. The boss satin his chair smoking countless cigars, his big face set in grim lines, his hard eyes peering through the pall of blue at those he questioned. He worked the wires of his machine until his dolls doubled and danced and twisted at his touch. After a gusty interview he had dismissed Voorhees with a merciless tongue-lashing, raging bitterly at the man’s failure.
“You’re not fit to herd sheep. Thirty men out all night and what do you get? A dozen mullet-headed miners. You bag the mud-hens and the big game runs to cover. I wanted Glenister, but you let him slip through your fingers—now it’s war. What a mess you’ve made! If I had evenonehelper with a brain the size of a flaxseed, this game would be a gift, but you’ve bungled every move from the start. Bah! Put a spy in the bull-pen with those prisoners and make them talk. Offer them anything for information. Now get out!”
He called for a certain deputy and questioned him regarding the night’s quest, remarking, finally:
“There’s treachery somewhere. Those men were warned.”
“Nobody came near Glenister’s house except Miss Chester,” the man replied.
“What?”
“The Judge’s niece. We caught her by mistake in the dark.”
Later, one of the men who had been with Voorhees at the Northern asked to see the receiver and told him:
“The chief won’t believe that I saw Miss Chester in the dance-hall last night, but she was there with Glenister. She must have put him wise to our game or he wouldn’t have known we were after him.”
His hearer made no comment, but, when alone, rose and paced the floor with heavy tread while his face grew savage and brutal.
“So that’s the game, eh? It’s man to man from now on. Very well, Glenister, I’ll have your life for that, and then—you’ll pay, Miss Helen.” He considered carefully. A plot for a plot. If he could not swap intrigue with these miners and beat them badly, he deserved to lose. Now that the girl gave herself to their cause he would use her again and see how well she answered. Public opinion would not stand too great a strain, and, although he had acted within his rights last night, he dared not go much further. Diplomacy, therefore, must serve. He must force his enemies beyond the law and into his trap. She had passed the word once; she would do so again.
He hurried to Stillman’s house and stormed into the presence of the Judge. He told the story so artfully that the Judge’s astonished unbelief yielded to rage and cowardice, and he sent for his niece. She came down, white and silent, having heard the loud voices. The old man berated her with shrewish fury, while McNamara stood silent. The girl listened with entire self-control until her uncle made a reference to Glenister that she found intolerable.
“Hush! I will not listen!” she cried, passionately. “I warned him because you would have sacrificed him after he had saved our lives. That is all. He is an honest man, and I am grateful to him. That is the only foundation for your insult.”
McNamara, with apparent candor, broke in:
“You thought you were doing right, of course, but your action will have terrible consequences. Now we’llhave riot, bloodshed, and Heaven knows what. It was to save all this that I wanted to break up their organization. A week’s imprisonment would have done it, but now they’re armed and belligerent and we’ll have a battle to-night.”
“No, no!” she cried. “There mustn’t be any violence.”
“There is no use trying to check them. They are rushing to their own destruction. I have learned that they plan to attack the Midas to-night, and I’ll have fifty soldiers waiting for them there. It is a shame, for they are decent fellows, blinded by ignorance and misled by that young miner. This will be the blackest night the North has ever seen.”
With this McNamara left the house and went in search of Voorhees, remarking to himself: “Now, Miss Helen—send your warning—the sooner the better. If I know those Vigilantes, it will set them crazy, and yet not crazy enough to attack the Midas. They will strike for me, and when they hit my poor, unguarded office, they’ll think hell has moved North.”
“Mr. Marshal,” said he to his tool, “I want you to gather forty men quietly and to arm them with Winchesters. They must be fellows who won’t faint at blood—you know the kind. Assemble them at my office after dark, one at a time, by the back way. It must be done with absolute secrecy. Now, see if you can do this one thing and not get balled up. If you fail, I’ll make you answer to me.”
“Why don’t you get the troops?” ventured Voorhees.
“If there’s one thing I want to avoid, it’s soldiers, either here or at the mines. When they step in, westep out, and I’m not ready for that just yet.” The receiver smiled sinisterly.
Helen meanwhile had fled to her room, and there received Glenister’s note through Cherry Malotte’s messenger. It rekindled her worst fears and bore out McNamara’s prophecy. The more she read of it the more certain she grew that the crisis was only a question of hours, and that with darkness, Tragedy would walk the streets of Nome. The thought of the wrong already done was lost in the lonely girl’s terror of the crime about to happen, for it seemed to her she had been the instrument to set these forces in motion, that she had loosed this swift-speeding avalanche of greed, hatred, and brutality. And when the crash should come—the girl shuddered. It must not be. She would shriek a warning from the house-tops even at cost of her uncle, of McNamara, and of herself. And yet she had no proof that a crime existed. Although it all lay clear in her own mind, the certainty of it arose only from her intuition. If only she were able to take a hand—if only she were not a woman. Then Cherry Malotte’s words anent Struve recurred to her, “A bottle of wine and a woman’s face.” They brought back the lawyer’s assurance that those documents she had safeguarded all through the long spring-time journey really contained the proof. If they did, then they held the power to check this impending conflict. Her uncle and the boss would not dare continue if threatened with exposure and prosecution. The more she thought of it, the more urgent seemed the necessity to prevent the battle of to-night. There was a chance here, at least, and the only one.
Adding to her mental torment was the constantvision of that face in the curtains at the Northern. It was her brother, yet what mystery shrouded this affair, also? What kept him from her? What caused him to slink away like a thief discovered? She grew dizzy and hysterical.
Struve turned in his chair as the door to his private office opened, then leaped to his feet at sight of the gray-eyed girl standing there.
“I came for the papers,” she said.
“I knew you would.” The blood went out of his cheeks, then surged back up to his eyes. “It’s a bargain, then?”
She nodded. “Give them to me first.”
He laughed unpleasantly. “What do you take me for? I’ll keep my part of the bargain if you’ll keep yours. But this is no place, nor time. There’s riot in the air, and I’m busy preparing for to-night. Come back to-morrow when it’s all over.”
But it was the terror of to-night’s doings that led her into his power.
“I’ll never come back,” she said. “It is my whim to know to-day—yes, at once.”
He meditated for a time. “Then to-day it shall be. I’ll shirk the fight, I’ll sacrifice what shreds of duty have clung to me, because the fever for you is in my bones, and it seems to me I’d do murder for it. That’s the kind of a man I am, and I have no pride in myself because of it. But I’ve always been that way. We’ll ride to the Sign of the Sled. It’s a romantic little road-house ten miles from here, perched high above the Snake River trail. We’ll take dinner there together.”
“But the papers?”
“I’ll have them with me. We’ll start in an hour.”
“In an hour,” she echoed, lifelessly, and left him.
He chuckled grimly and seized the telephone. “Central—call the Sled road-house—seven rings on the Snake River branch. Hello! That you, Shortz? This is Struve. Anybody at the house? Good. Turn them away if they come and say that you’re closed. None of your business. I’ll be out about dark, so have dinner for two. Spread yourself and keep the place clear. Good-bye.”
Strengthened by Glenister’s note, Helen went straight to the other woman and this time was not kept waiting nor greeted with sneers, but found Cherry cloaked in a shy dignity, which she clasped tightly about herself. Under her visitor’s incoherence she lost her diffidence, however, and, when Helen had finished, remarked, with decision: “Don’t go with him. He’s a bad man.”
“But Imust. The blood of those men will be on me if I don’t stop this tragedy. If those papers tell the tale I think they do, I can call off my uncle and make McNamara give back the mines. You said Struve told you the whole scheme. Did you see theproof?”
“No, I have only his word, but he spoke of those documents repeatedly, saying they contained his instructions to tie up the mines in order to give a foot-hold for the lawsuits. He bragged that the rest of the gang were in his power and that he could land them in the penitentiary for conspiracy. That’s all.”
“It’s the only chance,” said Helen. “They are sending soldiers to the Midas to lie in ambush, and you mustwarn the Vigilantes.” Cherry paled at this and ejaculated:
“Good Lord! Roy said he’d lead an attack to-night.” The two stared at each other.
“If I succeed with Struve I can stop it all—all of this injustice and crime—everything.”
“Do you realize what you’re risking?” Cherry demanded. “That man is an animal. You’ll have to kill him to save yourself, and he’ll never give up those proofs.”
“Yes, he will,” said Helen, fiercely, “and I defy him to harm me. The Sign of the Sled is a public road-house with a landlord, a telephone, and other guests. Will you warn Mr. Glenister about the troops?”
“I will, and bless you for a brave girl. Wait a moment.” Cherry took from the dresser her tiny revolver. “Don’t hesitate to use this. I want you to know also that I’m sorry for what I said yesterday.”
As she hurried away, Helen realized with a shock the change that the past few months had wrought in her. In truth, it was as Glenister had said, his Northland worked strangely with its denizens. What of that shrinking girl who had stepped out of the sheltered life, strong only in her untried honesty, to become a hunted, harried thing, juggling with honor and reputation, in her heart a half-formed fear that she might kill a man this night to gain her end? The elements were moulding her with irresistible hands. Roy’s contact with the primitive had not roughened him more quickly than had hers.
She met her appointment with Struve, and they rode away together, he talkative and elated, she silent and icy.
Late in the afternoon the cloud banks to the eastward assumed alarming proportions. They brought with them an early nightfall, and when they broke let forth a tempest which rivalled that of the previous night. During the first of it armed men came sifting into McNamara’s office from the rear and were hidden throughout the building. Whenever he descried a peculiarly desperate ruffian the boss called him aside for private instruction and gave minute description of a wide-shouldered, erect youth in white hat and half-boots. Gradually he set his trap with the men Voorhees had raked from the slums, and when it was done smiled to himself. As he thought it over he ceased to regret the miscarriage of last night’s plan, for it had served to goad his enemies to the point he desired, to the point where they would rush to their own undoing. He thought with satisfaction of the rôle he would play in the United States press when the sensational news of this night’s adventure came out. A court official who dared to do his duty despite a lawless mob. A receiver who turned a midnight attack into a rout and shambles. That is what they would say. What if he did exceed his authority thereafter? What if there were a scandal? Who would question? As to soldiers—no, decidedly no. He wished no help of soldiers at this time.
The sight of a ship in the offing towards dark caused him some uneasiness, for, notwithstanding the assurance that the course of justice in the San Francisco courts had been clogged, he knew Bill Wheaton to be a resourceful lawyer and a determined man. Therefore, it relieved him to note the rising gale, which precluded the possibility of interference from that source. Letthem come to-morrow if they would. By that time some of the mines would be ownerless and his position strengthened a hundredfold.
He telephoned the mines to throw out guards, although he reasoned that none but madmen would think of striking there in the face of the warning which he knew must have been transmitted through Helen. Putting on his rain-coat he sought Stillman.
“Bring your niece over to my place to-night. There’s trouble in the air and I’m prepared for it.”
“She hasn’t returned from her ride yet. I’m afraid she’s caught in the storm.” The Judge gazed anxiously into the darkness.
During all the long day the Vigilantes lay in hiding, impatient at their idleness and wondering at the lack of effort made towards their discovery, not dreaming that McNamara had more cleverly hidden plans behind. When Cherry’s note of warning came they gathered in the back room and gave voice to their opinions.
“There’s only one way to clear the atmosphere,” said the chairman.
“You bet,” chorussed the others. “They’ve garrisoned the mines, so let’s go through the town and make a clean job of it. Let’s hang the whole outfit to one post.”
This met with general approval, Glenister alone demurring. Said he: “I have reasoned it out differently, and I want you to hear me through before deciding. Last night I got word from Wheaton that the California courts are against us. He attributes it to influence, but, whatever the reason, we are cut off from all legal help either in this court or on appeal. Now, suppose we lynchthese officials to-night—what do we gain? Martial law in two hours, our mines tied up for another year, and who knows what else? Maybe a corrupter court next season. Suppose, on the other hand, we fail—and somehow I feel that we will, for that boss is no fool. What then? Those of us who don’t find the morgue will end in jail. You say we can’t meet the soldiers. I say we can and must. We must carry this row to them. We must jump it past the courts of Alaska, past the courts of California, and up to the White House, where there’s one honest man, at least. We must do something to wake up the men in Washington. We must get out of politics, for McNamara can beat us there. Although he’s a strong man he can’t corrupt the President. We have one shot left, and it must reach the Potomac. When Uncle Sam takes a hand we’ll get a square deal, so I say let us strike at the Midas to-night and take her if we can. Some of us will go down, but what of it?”
Following this harangue, he outlined a plan which in its unique daring took away their breaths, and as he filled in detail after detail they brightened with excitement and that love of the long chance which makes gamblers of those who thread the silent valleys or tread the edge of things. His boldness stirred them and enthusiasm did the rest.
“All I want for myself,” he said, “is the chance to run the big risk. It’s mine by right.”
Dextry spoke, breathlessly, to Slapjack in the pause which ensued:
“Ain’t he a heller?”
“We’ll go you,” the miners chimed to a man. And the chairman added: “Let’s have Glenister lead this forlorn hope. I am willing to stand or fall on his judgment.”They acquiesced without a dissenting voice, and with the firm hands of a natural leader the young man took control.
“Let’s hurry up,” said one. “It’s a long ‘mush’ and the mud is knee-deep.”
“No walking for us,” said Roy. “We’ll go by train.”
“By train? How can we get a train?”
“Steal it,” he answered, at which Dextry grinned delightedly at his loose-jointed companion, and Slapjack showed his toothless gums in answer, saying:
“He sure is.”
A few more words and Glenister, accompanied by these two, slipped out into the whirling storm, and a half-hour later the rest followed. One by one the Vigilantes left, the blackness blotting them up an arm’s-length from the door, till at last the big, bleak warehouse echoed hollowly to the voice of the wind and water.
Over in the eastern end of town, behind dark windows upon which the sheeted rain beat furiously, other armed men lay patiently waiting—waiting some word from the bulky shadow which stood with folded arms close against a square of gray, while over their heads a wretched old man paced back and forth, wringing his hands, pausing at every turn to peer out into the night and to mumble the name of his sister’s child.
EARLYin the evening Cherry Malotte opened her door to find the Bronco Kid on her step. He entered and threw off his rubber coat. Knowing him well, she waited for his disclosure of his errand. His sallow skin was without trace of color, his eyes were strangely tired, deep lines had gathered about his lips, while his hands kept up constant little nervous explorations as though for days and nights he had not slept and now hovered on the verge of some hysteria. He gave her the impression of a smouldering mine with the fire eating close up to the powder. She judged that his body had been racked by every passion till now it hung jaded and weary, yielding only to the spur of his restless, revengeful spirit.
After a few objectless remarks, he began, abruptly:
“Do you love Roy Glenister?” His voice, like his manner, was jealously eager, and he watched her carefully as she replied, without quibble or deceit:
“Yes, Kid; and I always shall. He is the only true man I have ever known, and I’m not ashamed of my feelings.”
For a long time he studied her, and then broke into rapid speech, allowing her no time for interruption.
“I’ve held back and held back because I’m notalker. I can’t be, in my business; but this is my last chance, and I want to put myself right with you. I’ve loved you ever since the Dawson days, not in the way you’d expect from a man of my sort, perhaps, but with the kind of love that a woman wants. I never showed my hand, for what was the use? That man outheld me. I’d have quit faro years back only I wouldn’t leave this country as long as you were a part of it, and up here I’m only a gambler, fit for nothing else. I’d made up my mind to let you have him till something happened a couple of months ago, but now it can’t go through. I’ll have to down him. It isn’t concerning you—I’m not a welcher. No, it’s a thing I can’t talk about, a thing that’s made me into a wolf, made me skulk and walk the alleys like a dago. It’s put murder into my heart. I’ve tried to assassinate him. I tried it here last night—but—I was a gentleman once—till the cards came. He knows the answer now, though, and he’s ready for me—so one of us will go out like a candle when we meet. I felt that I had to tell you before I cut him down or before he got me.”
“You’re talking like a madman, Kid,” she replied, “and you mustn’t turn against him now. He has troubles enough. I never knew you cared for me. What a tangle it is, to be sure. You love me, I love him, he loves that girl, and she loves a crook. Isn’t that tragedy enough without your adding to it? You come at a bad time, too, for I’m half insane. There’s something dreadful in the air to-night—”
“I’ll have to kill him,” the man muttered, doggedly, and, plead or reason as she would, she could get nothing from him except those words, till at last she turned upon him fiercely.
“You say you love me. Very well—let’s see if you do. I know the kind of a man you are and I know what this feud will mean to him, coming just at this time. Put it aside and I’ll marry you.”
The gambler rose slowly to his feet. “You do love him, don’t you?” She bowed her face, and he winced, but continued: “I wouldn’t make you my wife that way. I didn’t mean it that way.”
At this she laughed bitterly. “Oh, I see. Of course not. How foolish of me to expect it of a man like you. I understand what you mean now, and the bargain will stand just the same, if that is what you came for. I wanted to leave this life and be good, to go away and start over and play the game square, but I see it’s no use. I’ll pay. I know how relentless you are, and the price is low enough. You can have me—and that—marriage talk—I’ll not speak of again. I’ll stay what I am for his sake.”
“Stop!” cried the Kid. “You’re wrong. I’m not that kind of a sport.” His voice broke suddenly, its vehemence shaking his slim body. “Oh, Cherry, I love you the way a man ought to love a woman. It’s one of the two good things left in me, and I want to take you away from here where we can both hide from the past, where we can start new, as you say.”
“You would marry me?” she asked.
“In an hour, and give my heart’s blood for the privilege; but I can’t stop this thing, not even if your own dear life hung upon it. Imustkill that man.”
She approached him and laid her arms about his neck, every line of her body pleading, but he refused steadfastly, while the sweat stood out upon his brow.
She begged: “They’re all against him, Kid.] He’sfighting a hopeless fight. He laid all he had at that girl’s feet, and I’ll do the same for you.”
The man growled savagely. “He got his reward. He took all she had—”
“Don’t be a fool. I guess I know. You’re a faro-dealer, but you haven’t any right to talk like that about a good woman, even to a bad one like me.”
Into his dark eyes slowly crept a hungry look, and she felt him begin to tremble the least bit. He undertook to speak, paused, wet his lips, then carefully chose these words:
“Do you mean—that he did not—that she is—a good girl?”
“Absolutely.”
He sat down weakly and passed a shaking hand over his face, which had begun to twitch and jerk again as it had on that night when his vengeance was thwarted.
“I may as well tell you that I know she’s more than that. She’s honest and high-principled. I don’t know why I’m saying this, but it was on my mind and I was half distracted when you came. She’s in danger to-night, though—at this minute. I don’t dare to think of what may have happened, for she’s risked everything to make reparation to Roy and his friends.”
“What?”
“She’s gone to the Sign of the Sled alone with Struve.”
“Struve!” shouted the gambler, leaping to his feet. “Alone with Struve on a night like this?” He shook her fiercely, crying: “What for? Tell me quick!”
She recounted the reasons for Helen’s adventure, while the man’s face became terrible.
“Oh, Kid, I am to blame for letting her go. Why did I do it? I’m afraid—afraid.”
“The Sign of the Sled belongs to Struve, and the fellow who runs it is a rogue.” The Bronco looked at the clock, his eyes bloodshot and dull like those of a goaded, fly-maddened bull. “It’s eight o’clock now—ten miles—two hours. Too late!”
“What ails you?” she questioned, baffled by his strange demeanor. “You calledmethe one woman just now, and yet—”
He swung towards her heavily. “She’s my sister.”
“Your—sister? Oh, I—I’m glad. I’m glad—but don’t stand there like a wooden man, for you’ve work to do. Wake up. Can’t you hear? She’s in peril!” Her words whipped him out of his stupor so that he drew himself somewhat under control. “Get into your coat. Hurry! Hurry! My pony will take you there.” She snatched his garment from the chair and held it for him while the life ran back into his veins. Together they dashed out into the storm as she and Roy had done, and as he flung the saddle on the buckskin, she said:
“I understand it all now. You heard the talk about her and Glenister; but it’s wrong. I lied and schemed and intrigued against her, but it’s over now. I guess there’s a little streak of good in me somewhere, after all.”
He spoke to her from the saddle. “It’s more than a streak, Cherry, and you’re my kind of people.” She smiled wanly back at him under the lantern-light.
“That’s left-handed, Kid. I don’t want to be your kind. I want to be his kind—or your sister’s kind.”
Upon leaving the rendezvous, Glenister and his two friends slunk through the night, avoiding the life andlights of the town, while the wind surged out of the voids to seaward, driving its wet burden through their flapping slickers, pelting their faces as though enraged at its failure to wash away the purposes written there. Their course brought them to a cabin at the western outskirts of the city, where they paused long enough to adjust something beneath the brims of their hats.
Past them ran the iron rails of the narrow-gauged road which led out across the quaking tundra to the mountains and the mines. Upon this slender trail of steel there rolled one small, ungainly teapot of an engine which daily creaked and clanked back and forth at a snail’s pace, screaming and wailing its complaint of the two high-loaded flat-cars behind. The ties beneath it were spiked to planks laid lengthwise over the semi-liquid road-bed, in places sagging beneath the surface till the humpbacked, short-waisted locomotive yawed and reeled and squealed like a drunken fish-wife. At night it panted wearily into the board station and there sighed and coughed and hissed away its fatigue as the coals died and the breath relaxed in its lungs.
Early to bed and early to rise was perforce the motto of its grimy crew, who lived near by. To-night they were just retiring when stayed by a summons at their door. The engineer opened it to admit what appeared to his astonished eyes to be a Krupp cannon propelled by a man in yellow-oiled clothes and white cotton mask. This weapon assumed the proportions of a great, one-eyed monster, which stared with baleful fixity at his vitals, giving him a cold and empty feeling. Away back beyond this Cyclops of the Sightless Orb were two other strangers likewise equipped.
The fireman arose from his chair, dropping an empty shoe with a thump, but, being of the West, without cavil or waste of wind, he stretched his hands above his head, balancing on one foot to keep his unshod member from the damp floor. He had unbuckled his belt, and now, loosened by the movement, his overalls seemed bent on sinking floorward in an ecstasy of abashment at the intrusion, whereupon with convulsive grip he hugged them to their duty, one hand and foot still elevated as though in the grand hailing-sign of some secret order. The other man was new to the ways of the North, so backed to the limit of his quarters, laid both hands protectingly upon his middle, and doubled up, remarking, fervidly:
“Don’t point that damn thing at my stomach.”
“Ha, ha!” laughed the fireman, with unnatural loudness. “Have your joke, boys.”
“This ain’t no joke,” said the foremost figure, its breath bellying out the mask at its mouth.
“Sure it is,” insisted the shoeless one. “Must be—we ain’t got anything worth stealing.”
“Get into your clothes and come along. We won’t hurt you.” The two obeyed and were taken to the sleeping engine and there instructed to produce a full head of steam in thirty minutes or suffer a premature taking off and a prompt elision from the realms of applied mechanics. As stimulus to their efforts two of the men stood over them till the engine began to sob and sigh reluctantly. Through the gloom that curtained the cab they saw other dim forms materializing and climbing silently on to the cars behind; then, as the steam-gauge touched the mark, the word was given and the train rumbled out from its shelter, its shrill plaint atcurb and crossing whipped away and drowned in the storm.
Slapjack remained in the cab, gun in lap, while Dextry climbed back to Glenister. He found the young man in good spirits, despite the discomfort of his exposed position, and striving to light his pipe behind the shelter of his coat.
“Is the dynamite aboard?” the old man questioned.
“Sure. Enough to ballast a battle-ship.”
As the train crept out of the camp and across the river bridge, its only light or glimmer the sparks that were snatched and harried by the blast, the partners seated themselves on the powder cases and conversed guardedly, while about them sounded the low murmur of the men who risked their all upon this cry to duty, who staked their lives and futures upon this hazard of the hills, because they thought it right.
“We’ve made a good fight, whether we win or lose to-night,” said Dextry.
Roy replied, “Myfight is made and won.”
“What does that mean?”
“My hardest battle had nothing to do with the Midas or the mines of Anvil. I fought and conquered myself.”
“Awful wet night for philosophy,” the first remarked. “It’s apt to sour on you like milk in a thunder-storm. S’pose you put overalls an’ gum boots on some of them Boston ideas an’ lead ’em out where I can look ’em over an’ find out what they’re up to.”
“I mean that I was a savage till I met Helen Chester and she made a man of me. It took sixty days, but I think she did a good job. I love the wild things just as much as ever, but I’ve learned that there are duties afellow owes to himself, and to other people, if he’ll only stop and think them out. I’ve found out, too, that the right thing is usually the hardest to do. Oh, I’ve improved a lot.”
“Gee! but you’re popular with yourself. I don’t see as it helps your looks any. You’re as homely as ever—an’ what good does it do you after all? She’ll marry that big guy.”
“I know. That’s what rankles, for he’s no more worthy of her than I am. She’ll do what’s right, however, you may depend upon that, and perhaps she’ll change him the way she did me. Why, she worked a miracle in my attitude towards life—my manner—”
“Oh, your manners are good enough as they lay,” interrupted the other. “You never did eat with your knife.”
“I don’t believe in hara-kiri,” Glenister laughed.
“No, when it comes to intimacies with decorum, you’re right on the job along with any of them Easterners. I watched you close at them ’Frisco hotels last winter, and, say—you know as much as a horse. Why, you was wise to them tablewares and pickle-forks equal to a head-waiter, and it give me confidence just to be with you. I remember putting milk and sugar in my consommé the first time. It was pale and in a cup and looked like tea—but not you. No, sir! You savvied plenty and squeezed a lemon into yours—to clean your fingers, I reckon.”
Roy slapped his partner’s wet back, for he was buoyant and elated. The sense of nearing danger pulsed through him like wine.
“That wasn’t just what I meant, but it goes. Say, if we win back our mine, we’ll hit for New York next—eh?”
“No, I don’t aim to mingle with no higher civilization than I got in ’Frisco. I use that word ‘higher’ like it was applied to meat. Not that I wouldn’t seem apropos. I’m stylish enough for Fifth Avenue or anywheres, but I like the West. Speakin’ of modes an’ styles, when I get all lit up in that gray woosted suit of mine, I guess I make the jaded sight-seers set up an’ take notice—eh? Somethin’ doin’ every minute in the cranin’ of necks—what? Nothin’ gaudy, but the acme of neatness an’ form, as the feller said who sold it to me.”
Their common peril brought the friends together again, into that close bond which had been theirs without interruption until this recent change in the younger had led him to choose paths at variance with the old man’s ideas; and now they spoke, heart to heart, in the half-serious, half-jesting ways of old, while beneath each whimsical irony was that mutual love and understanding which had consecrated their partnership.
Arriving at the end of the road, the Vigilantes debouched and went into the darkness of the cañon behind their leader, to whom the trails were familiar. He bade them pause finally, and gave his last instructions.
“They are on the alert, so you want to be careful. Divide into two parties and close in from both sides, creeping as near to the pickets as possible without discovery. Remember to wait for the last blast. When it comes, cut loose and charge like Sioux. Don’t shoot to kill at first, for they’re only soldiers and under orders, but if they stand—well, every man must do his work.”
Dextry appealed to the dim figures forming the circle.
“I leave it to you, gents, if it ain’t better for me to go inside than for the boy. I’ve had more experience with giant powder, an’ I’m so blamed used up an’ near gone it wouldn’t hurt if they did get me, while he’s right in his prime—”
Glenister stopped him. “I won’t yield the privilege. Come now—to your places, men.”
They melted away to each side while the old prospector paused to wring his partner’s hand.
“I’d ruther it was me, lad, but if they get you—God help ’em!” He stumbled after the departing shadows, leaving Roy alone. With his naked fingers, Glenister ripped open the powder cases and secreted the contents upon his person. Each cartridge held dynamite enough to devastate a village, and he loaded them inside his pockets, inside his shirt, and everywhere that he had room, till he was burdened and cased in an armor one-hundredth part of which could have blown him from the face of the earth so utterly as to leave no trace except, perhaps, a pit ripped out of the mountain-side. He looked to his fuses and saw that they were wrapped in oiled paper, then placed them in his hat. Having finished, he set out, walking with difficulty under the weight he carried.
That his choice of location had been well made was evidenced by the fact that the ground beneath his feet sloped away to a basin out of which bubbled a spring. It furnished the drinking supply of the Midas, and he knew every inch of the crevice it had worn down the mountain, so felt his way cautiously along. At the bottom of the hill where it ran out upon the level it had worn a considerable ditch through the soil, and into this he crawled on hands and knees. His bulgingclothes handicapped him so that his gait was slow and awkward, while the rain had swelled the streamlet till it trickled over his calves and up to his wrists, chilling him so that his muscles cramped and his very bones cried out with it. The sharp schist cut into his palms till they were shredded and bleeding, while his knees found every jagged bit of bed-rock over which he dragged himself. He could not see an arm’s-length ahead without rising, and, having removed his slicker for greater freedom of movement, the rain beat upon his back till he was soaked and sodden and felt streamlets cleaving downward between his ribs. Now and again he squatted upon his haunches, straining his eyes to either side. The banks were barely high enough to shield him. At last he came to a bridge of planks spanning the ditch and was about to rear himself for another look when he suddenly flattened into the stream bed, half damming the waters with his body. It was for this he had so carefully wrapped his fuses. A man passed over him so close above that he might have touched him. The sentry paused a few paces beyond and accosted another, then retraced his steps over the bridge. Evidently this was the picket-line, so Roy wormed his way forward till he saw the blacker blackness of the mine buildings, then drew himself dripping out from the bank. He had run the gauntlet safely.
Since evicting the owners, the receiver had erected substantial houses in place of the tents he had found on the mine. They were of frame and corrugated-iron, sheathed within and suited to withstand a moderate exposure. The partners had witnessed the operation from a distance, but knew nothing about the buildings from close examination.
A thrill of affection for this place warmed the young man. He loved this old mine. It had realized the dream of his boyhood, and had answered the hope he had clung to during his long fight against the Northland. It had come to him when he was disheartened, bringing cheer and happiness, and had yielded itself like a bride. Now it seemed a crime to ravage it.
He crept towards the nearest wall and listened. Within was the sound of voices, though the windows were dark, showing that the inhabitants were on the alert. Beneath the foundations he made mysterious preparations, then sought out the office building and cook-house, doing likewise. He found that back of the seeming repose of the Midas there was a strained expectancy.
Although suspense had lengthened the time out of all calculation, he judged he had been gone from his companions at least an hour and that they must be in place by now. If they were not—if anything failed at this eleventh hour—well, those were the fortunes of war. In every enterprise, however carefully planned, there comes a time when chance must take its turn.
He made his way inside the blacksmith-shop and fumbled for a match. Just as he was about to strike it he heard the swish of oiled clothes passing, and waited for some time. Then, igniting his punk and hiding it under his coat, he opened the door to listen. The wind had died down now and the rain sang musically upon the metal roofs.
He ran swiftly from house to house, and, when he had done, at the apices of the triangle he had traced three glowing coals were sputtering.
The final bolt was launched at last. He steppeddown into the ditch and drew his .45, while to his tautened senses it seemed that the very hills leaned forth in breathless pause, that the rain had ceased, and the whole night hushed its thousand voices. He found his lower jaw set so stiffly that the muscles ached. Levelling his weapon at the eaves of the bunk-house, he pulled trigger rapidly—the bang, bang, bang, six times repeated, sounding dull and dead beneath the blanket of mist that overhung. A shout sounded behind him, and then the shriek of a Winchester ball close over his head. He turned in time to see another shot stream out of the darkness, where a sentry was firing at the flash of his gun, then bent himself double and plunged down the ditch.
With the first impact overhead the men poured forth from their quarters armed and bristling, to be greeted by a volley of gunshots, the thud of bullets, and the dwindling whine of spent lead. They leaped from shelter to find themselves girt with a fitful hoop of fire, for the “Stranglers” had spread in the arc of a circle and now emptied their rifles towards the centre. The defenders, however, maintained surprising order considering the suddenness of their attack, and ran to join the sentries, whose positions could be determined by the nearer flashes. The voice of a man in authority shouted loud commands. No demonstration came from the outer voids, nothing but the wicked streaks that stabbed the darkness. Then suddenly, behind McNamara’s men, the night glared luridly as though a great furnace-door had opened and then clanged shut, while with it came a hoarse thudding roar that silenced the rifle play. They saw the cook-house disrupt itself and disintegrate into a thousand flying timbers andtwisted sheets of tin which soared upward and outward over their heads and into the night. As the rocking hills ceased echoing, the sound of the Vigilantes’ rifles recurred like the cracking of dry sticks, then everywhere about the defenders the earth was lashed by falling débris while the iron roofs rang at the fusillade.
The blast had come at their very elbows, and they were too dazed and shaken by it to grasp its significance. Then, before they could realize what it boded, the depths lit up again till the raindrops were outlined distinct and glistening like a gossamer veil of silver, while the office building to their left was ripped and rended and the adjoining walls leaped out into sudden relief, their shattered windows looking like ghostly, sightless eyes. The curtain of darkness closed heavier than velvet, and the men cowered in their tracks, shielding themselves behind the nearest objects or behind one another’s bodies, waiting for the sky to vomit over them its rain of missiles. Their backs were to the Vigilantes now, their faces to the centre. Many had dropped their rifles. The thunder of hoofs and the scream of terrified horses came from the stables. The cry of a maddened beast is weird and calculated to curdle the blood at best, but with it arose a human voice, shrieking from pain and fear of death. A wrenched and doubled mass of zinc had hurtled out of the heavens and struck some one down. The choking hoarseness of the man’s appeal told the story, and those about him broke into flight to escape what might follow, to escape this danger they could not see but which swooped out of the blackness above and against which there was no defence. They fled only to witness another and greater light behind them by which they sawthemselves running, falling, grovelling. This time they were hurled from their balance by a concussion which dwarfed the two preceding ones. Some few stood still, staring at the rolling smoke-bank as it was revealed by the explosion, their eyes gleaming white, while others buried their faces in their hollowed arms as if to shut out the hellish glare, or to shield themselves from a blow.
Out in the heart of the chaos rang a voice loud and clear:
“Beware the next blast!”
At the same instant the girdle of sharp-shooters rose up smiting the air with their cries and charged in like madmen through the rain of detritus. They fired as they came, but it was unnecessary, for there was no longer a fight. It was a rout. The defenders, feeling they had escaped destruction only by a happy chance in leaving the bunk-house the instant they did, were not minded to tarry here where the heavens fell upon their heads. To augment their consternation, the horses had broken from their stalls and were plunging through the confusion. Fear swept over the men—blind, unreasoning, contagious—and they rushed out into the night, colliding with their enemies, overrunning them in the panic to quit this spot. Some dashed off the bluff and fell among the pits and sluices. Others ran up the mountain-side, and cowered in the brush like quail.
As the “Stranglers” assembled their prisoners near the ruins, they heard wounded men moaning in the darkness, so lit torches and searched out the stricken ones. Glenister came running through the smoke pall, revolver in hand, crying:
“Has any one seen McNamara?” No one had, and when they were later assembled to take stock of their injuries he was greeted by Dextry’s gleeful announcement:
“That’s the deuce of a fight. We ’ain’t got so much as a cold sore among us.”
“We have captured fourteen,” another announced, “and there may be more out yonder in the brush.”
Glenister noted with growing surprise that not one of the prisoners lined up beneath the glaring torches wore the army blue. They were miners all, or thugs and ruffians gathered from the camp. Where, he wondered, were the soldiers.
“Didn’t you have troops from the barracks to help you?” he asked.
“Not a troop. We haven’t seen a soldier since we went to work.”
At this the young leader became alarmed. Had this whole attack miscarried? Had this been no clash with the United States forces, after all? If so, the news would never reach Washington, and instead of accomplishing his end, he and his friends had thrust themselves into the realms of outlawry, where the soldiers could be employed against them with impunity, where prices would rest upon their heads. Innocent blood had been shed, court property destroyed. McNamara had them where he wanted them at last. They were at bay.
The unwounded prisoners were taken to the boundaries of the Midas and released with such warnings as the imagination of Dextry could conjure up; then Glenister assembled his men, speaking to them plainly.
“Boys, this is no victory. In fact, we’re worse offthan we were before, and our biggest fight is coming. There’s a chance to get away now before daylight and before we’re recognized, but if we’re seen here at sunup we’ll have to stay and fight. Soldiers will be sent against us, but if we hold out, and the struggle is fierce enough, it may reach to Washington. This will be a different kind of fighting now, though. It will be warfare pure and simple. How many of you will stick?”
“All of us,” said they, in unison, and, accordingly, preparations for a siege were begun. Barricades were built, ruins removed, buildings transformed into block-houses, and all through the turbulent night the tired men labored till ready to drop, led always by the young giant, who seemed without fatigue.
It was perhaps four hours after midnight when a man sought him out.
“Somebody’s callin’ you on the Assay Office telephone—says it’s life or death.”
Glenister hurried to the building, which had escaped the shock of the explosions, and, taking down the receiver, was answered by Cherry Malotte.
“Thank God, you’re safe,” she began. “The men have just come in and the whole town is awake over the riot. They say you’ve killed ten people in the fight—is it true?”
He explained to her briefly that all was well, but she broke in:
“Wait, wait! McNamara has called for troops and you’ll all be shot. Oh, what a terrible night it has been! I haven’t been to bed. I’m going mad. Now, listen, carefully—yesterday Helen went with Struve to the Sign of the Sled and she hasn’t come back.”
The man at the end of the wire cried out at this,then choked back his words to hear what followed. His free hand began making strange, futile motions as though he traced patterns in the air.
“I can’t raise the road-house on the wire and—something dreadful has happened, I know.”
“What made her go?” he shouted.
“To save you,” came Cherry’s faint reply. “If you love her, ride fast to the Sign of the Sled or you’ll be too late. The Bronco Kid has gone there—”
At that name Roy crashed the instrument to its hook and burst out of the shanty, calling loudly to his men.
“What’s up?”
“Where are you going?”
“To the Sign of the Sled,” he panted.
“We’ve stood by you, Glenister, and you can’t quit us like this,” said one, angrily. “The trail to town is good, and we’ll take it if you do.” Roy saw they feared he was deserting, feared that he had heard some alarming rumor of which they did not know.
“We’ll let the mine go, boys, for I can’t ask you to do what I refuse to do myself, and yet it’s not fear that’s sending me. There’s a woman in danger and Imustgo. She courted ruin to save us all, risked her honor to try and right a wrong—and—I’m afraid of what has happened while we were fighting here. I don’t ask you to stay till I come back—it wouldn’t be square, and you’d better go while you have a chance. As for me—I gave up the old claim once—I can do it again.” He swung himself to the horse’s back, settled into the saddle, and rode out through the lane of belted men.
ASHelen and her companion ascended the mountain, scarred and swept by the tempest of the previous night, they heard, far below, the swollen torrent brawling in its bowlder-ridden bed, while behind them the angry ocean spread southward to a blood-red horizon. Ahead, the bleak mountains brooded over forbidding valleys; to the west a suffused sun glared sullenly, painting the high-piled clouds with the gorgeous hues of a stormy sunset. To Helen the wild scene seemed dyed with the colors of flame and blood and steel.
“That rain raised the deuce with the trails,” said Struve, as they picked their way past an unsightly “slip” whence a part of the overhanging mountain, loosened by the deluge, had slid into the gulch. “Another storm like that would wash out these roads completely.”
Even in the daylight it was no easy task to avoid these danger spots, for the horses floundered on the muddy soil. Vaguely the girl wondered how she would find her way back in the darkness, as she had planned. She said little as they approached the road-house, for the thoughts within her brain had begun to clamortoo wildly; but Struve, more arrogant than ever before, more terrifyingly sure of himself, was loudly garrulous. As they drew nearer and nearer, the dread that possessed the girl became of paralyzing intensity. If she should fail—but she vowed she would not, could not, fail.
They rounded a bend and saw the Sign of the Sled cradled below them where the trail dipped to a stream which tumbled from the comb above into the river twisting like a silver thread through the distant valley. A peeled flag-pole topped by a spruce bough stood in front of the tavern, while over the door hung a sled suspended from a beam. The house itself was a quaint structure, rambling and amorphous, from whose sod roof sprang blooming flowers, and whose high-banked walls were pierced here and there with sleepy windows. It had been built by a homesick foreigner of unknown nationality whom the army of “mushers” who paid for his clean and orderly hospitality had dubbed duly and as a matter of course a “Swede.” When travel had changed to the river trail, leaving the house lonesome and high as though left by a receding wave, Struve had taken it over on a debt, and now ran it for the convenience of a slender traffic, mainly stampeders, who chose the higher route towards the interior. His hireling spent the idle hours in prospecting a hungry quartz lead and in doing assessment work on near-by claims.
Shortz took the horses and answered his employer’s questions curtly, flashing a curious look at Helen. Under other conditions the girl would have been delighted with the place, for this was the quaintest spot she had found in the north country. The main roomheld bar and gold-scales, a rude table, and a huge iron heater, while its walls and ceiling were sheeted with white cloth so cunningly stitched and tacked that it seemed a cavern hollowed from chalk. It was filled with trophies of the hills, stuffed birds and animals, skins and antlers, from which depended, in careless confusion, dog harness, snow-shoes, guns, and articles of clothing. A door to the left led into the bunk-room where travellers had been wont to sleep in tiers three deep. To the rear was a kitchen and cache, to the right a compartment which Struve called the art gallery. Here, free reign had been allowed the original owner’s artistic fancies, and he had covered the place with pictures clipped from gazettes of questionable repute till it was a bewildering arrangement of pink ladies in tights, pugilists in scanty trunks, prize bull-dogs, and other less moral characters of the sporting world.
“This is probably the worst company you were ever in,” Struve observed to Helen, with a forced attempt at lightness.
“Are there no guests here?” she asked him, her anxiety very near the surface.
“Travel is light at this time of the year. They’ll come in later, perhaps.”
A fire was burning in this pink room where the landlord had begun spreading the table for two, and its warmth was grateful to the girl. Her companion, thoroughly at his ease, stretched himself on a fur-covered couch and smoked.
“Let me see the papers, now, Mr. Struve,” she began, but he put her off.
“No, not now. Business must wait on our dinner.Don’t spoil our little party, for there’s time enough and to spare.”
She arose and went to the window, unable to sit still. Looking down the narrow gulch she saw that the mountains beyond were indistinct for it was growing dark rapidly. Dense clouds had rolled up from the east. A rain-drop struck the glass before her eyes, then another and another, and the hills grew misty behind the coming shower. A traveller with a pack on his back hurried around the corner of the building and past her to the door. At his knock, Struve, who had been watching Helen through half-shut eyes, arose and went into the other room.
“Thank Heaven, some one has come,” she thought. The voices were deadened to a hum by the sod walls, till that of the stranger raised itself in such indignant protest that she distinguished his words.
“Oh, I’ve got money to pay my way. I’m no deadhead.”
Shortz mumbled something back.
“I don’t care if you are closed. I’m tired and there’s a storm coming.”
This time she heard the landlord’s refusal and the miner’s angry profanity. A moment later she saw the traveller plodding up the trail towards town.
“What does that mean?” she inquired, as the lawyer re-entered.
“Oh, that fellow is a tough, and Shortz wouldn’t let him in. He’s careful whom he entertains—there are so many bad men roaming the hills.”
The German came in shortly to light the lamp, and, although she asked no further questions, Helen’s uneasiness increased. She half listened to the stories withwhich Struve tried to entertain her and ate little of the excellent meal that was shortly served to them. Struve, meanwhile, ate and drank almost greedily, and the shadowy, sinister evening crept along. A strange cowardice had suddenly overtaken the girl; and if, at this late hour, she could have withdrawn, she would have done so gladly and gone forth to meet the violence of the tempest. But she had gone too far for retreat; and realizing that, for the present, apparent compliance was her wisest resource, she sat quiet, answering the man with cool words while his eyes grew brighter, his skin more flushed, his speech more rapid. He talked incessantly and with feverish gayety, smoking numberless cigarettes and apparently unconscious of the flight of time. At last he broke off suddenly and consulted his watch, while Helen remembered that she had not heard Shortz in the kitchen for a long time. Suddenly Struve smiled on her peculiarly, with confident cunning. As he leered at her over the disorder between them he took from his pocket a flat bundle which he tossed to her.
“Now for the bargain, eh?”
“Ask the man to remove these dishes,” she said, as she undid the parcel with clumsy fingers.
“I sent him away two hours ago,” said Struve, arising as if to come to her. She shrank back, but he only leaned across, gathered up the four corners of the tablecloth, and, twisting them together, carried the whole thing out, the dishes crashing and jangling as he threw his burden recklessly into the kitchen. Then he returned and stood with his back to the stove, staring at her while she perused the contents of the papers, which were more voluminous than she had supposed.
For a long time the girl pored over the documents. The purport of the papers was only too obvious; and, as she read, the proof of her uncle’s guilt stood out clear and damning. There was no possibility of mistake; the whole wretched plot stood out plain, its darkest infamies revealed.
In spite of the cruelty of her disillusionment, Helen was nevertheless exalted with the fierce ecstasy of power, with the knowledge that justice would at last be rendered. It would be her triumph and her expiation that she, who had been the unwitting tool of this miserable clique, would be the one through whom restitution was made. She arose with her eyes gleaming and her lips set.
“It is here.”
“Of course it is. Enough to convict us all. It means the penitentiary for your precious uncle and your lover.” He stretched his chin upward at the mention as though to free his throat from an invisible clutch. “Yes, your lover particularly, for he’s the real one. That’s why I brought you here. He’ll marry you, but I’ll be the best man.” The timbre of his voice was unpleasant.
“Come, let us go,” she said.
“Go,” he chuckled, mirthlessly. “That’s a fine example of unconscious humor.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, first, no human being could find his way down to the coast in this tempest; second—but, by-the-way, let me explain something in those papers while I think of it.” He spoke casually and stepped forward, reaching for the package, which she was about to give up, when something prompted her tosnatch it behind her back; and it was well she did, for his hand was but a few inches away. He was no match for her quickness, however, and she glided around the table, thrusting the papers into the front of her dress. The sudden contact with Cherry’s revolver gave her a certain comfort. She spoke now with determination.
“I intend to leave here at once. Will you bring my horse? Very well, I shall do it myself.”
She turned, but his indolence vanished like a flash, and springing in front of the door he barred her way.
“Hold on, my lady. You ought to understand without my saying any more. Why did I bring you here? Why did I plan this little party? Why did I send that man away? Just to give you the proof of my complicity in a crime, I suppose. Well, hardly. You won’t leave here to-night. And when you do, you won’t carry those papers—my own safety depends on that and I am selfish, so don’t get me started. Listen!” They caught the wail of the night crying as though hungry for sacrifice. “No, you’ll stay here and—”
He broke off abruptly, for Helen had stepped to the telephone and taken down the receiver. He leaped, snatched it from her, and then, tearing the instrument loose from the wall, raised it above his head, dashed it upon the floor, and sprang towards her, but she wrenched herself free and fled across the room. The man’s white hair was wildly tumbled, his face was purple, and his neck and throat showed swollen, throbbing veins. He stood still, however, and his lips cracked into his ever-present, cautious smile.
“Now, don’t let’s fight about this. It’s no use, forI’ve played to win. You have your proof—now I’ll have my price;—or else I’ll take it. Think over which it will be, while I lock up.”
Far down the mountain-side a man was urging a broken pony recklessly along the trail. The beast was blown and spent, its knees weak and bending, yet the rider forced it as though behind him yelled a thousand devils, spurring headlong through gully and ford, up steep slopes and down invisible ravines. Sometimes the animal stumbled and fell with its master, sometimes they arose together, but the man was heedless of all except his haste, insensible to the rain which smote him blindingly, and to the wind which seized him savagely upon the ridges, or gasped at him in the gullies with exhausted malice. At last he gained the plateau and saw the road-house light beneath, so drove his heels into the flanks of the wind-broken creature, which lunged forward gamely. He felt the pony rear and drop away beneath him, pawing and scrambling, and instinctively kicked his feet free from the stirrups, striving to throw himself out of the saddle and clear of the thrashing hoofs. It seemed that he turned over in the air before something smote him and he lay still, his gaunt, dark face upturned to the rain, while about him the storm screamed exultantly.
The moment Struve disappeared into the outer room Helen darted to the window. It was merely a single sash, nailed fast and immovable, but seizing one of the little stools beside the stove she thrust it through the glass, letting in a smother of wind and water. Before she could escape, Struve bounded into theroom, his face livid with anger, his voice hoarse and furious.
But as he began to denounce her he paused in amazement, for the girl had drawn Cherry’s weapon and levelled it at him. She was very pale and her breast heaved as from a swift run, while her wondrous gray eyes were lit with a light no man had ever seen there before, glowing like two jewels whose hearts contained the pent-up passion of centuries. She had altered as though under the deft hand of a master-sculptor, her nostrils growing thin and arched, her lips tight pressed and pitiless, her head poised proudly. The rain drove in through the shattered window, over and past her, while the cheap red curtain lashed and whipped her as though in gleeful applause. Her bitter abhorrence of the man made her voice sound strangely unnatural as she commanded:
“Don’t dare to stop me.” She moved towards the door, motioning him to retreat before her, and he obeyed, recognizing the danger of her coolness. She did not note the calculating treachery of his glance, however, nor fathom the purposes he had in mind.
Out on the rain-swept mountain the prostrate rider had regained his senses and now was crawling painfully towards the road-house. Seen through the dark he would have resembled some misshapen, creeping monster, for he dragged himself, reptile-like, close to the ground. But as he came closer the man heard a cry which the wind seemed guarding from his ear, and, hearing it, he rose and rushed blindly forward, staggering like a wounded beast.