Peter smiled. "I just stopped by to say that perhaps you'd better say nothing. It would only humiliate him."
"I wasn't goin' to—but it served him right——"
"And if you think people will talk about your coming to the Cabin, I thought perhaps I ought to give you your lessons here."
"Here!" she said, and he didn't miss the note of disappointment in her tone.
"If your cousin Shad disapproves, perhaps there are others."
She was silent for a moment and then she looked up at him shyly.
"If it's just the same to you—I—I'd rather come to the Cabin," she said quietly. "It's like—like a different world—with your playin' an' all——" And then scornfully, "What do I care what they think!"
"Of course—I'm delighted. I thought I ought to consult you, that's all. And you'll come to-morrow?"
"Yes—of course."
He said nothing about the meeting that was to take place that night with the mysterious "Hawk" at the maple tree. He meant to find out, if possible, how Beth could be concerned (if she was concerned) in the fortunes of the mysterious gentleman of the placard, but until he learned something definite he thought it wiser not to take Beth further into his confidence.
Three months ago it would have been difficult for His Highness, Grand Duke Peter Nicholaevitch, to imagine himself in his present situation as sponsor for Beth Cameron. He had been no saint. Saintly attributes were not usually to be found in young men of his class, and Peter's training had been in the larger school of the world as represented in the Continental capitals. He had tasted life under the tutelage of a father who believed that women, bad as well as good, were a necessary part of a gentleman's education, and Peter had learned many things.... Had it not been for his music and his English love of fair play, he would have stood an excellent chance of going to the devil along the precipitous road that had led the Grand Duke Nicholas Petrovitch there.
But Peter had discovered that he had a mind, the needs of which were more urgent than those of his love of pleasure. Many women he had known, Parisian, Viennese, Russian—and one, Vera Davydov, a musician, had enchained him until he had discovered that it was her violin and not her soul that had sung to him ... Anastasie Galitzin ... a dancer in Moscow ... and then—the War.
In that terrible alembic the spiritual ingredients which made Peter's soul had been stirred until only the essential remained. But that essence was the real Peter—a wholesome young man steeped in idealism slightly tingedwith humor. It was idealism that had made him attempt the impossible, humor that had permitted him to survive his failure, for no tragedy except death itself can defy a sense of humor if it's whimsical enough. There was something about the irony of his position in Black Rock which interested him even more than the drama that lay hidden with McGuire's Nemesis in the pine woods. And he couldn't deny the fact that this rustic, this primitive Beth Cameron was as fine a little lady as one might meet anywhere in the wide world. She had amused him at first with originality, charmed him with simplicity, amazed him later with talent and now had disarmed him with trust in his integrity. If at any moment the idea had entered Peter's head that here was a wild-flower waiting to be gathered and worn in his hat, she had quickly disabused his mind of that chimera. Curious. He found it as difficult to conceive of making free with Beth as with the person of the Metropolitan of Moscow, or with that of the President of the Pennsylvania Railroad. She had her dignity. It was undeniable. He imagined the surprise in her large blue eyes and the torrent of ridicule of which her tongue could be capable. He had felt the sting of its humor at their first meeting. He had no wish to test it again.
And now, after a few days of acquaintanceship, he found himself Beth's champion, the victor over the "Hellion" triplet, and the guardian of her good repute. He found, strangely enough, the responsibility strengthening his good resolves toward Beth and adding another tie to those of sympathy and admiration. The situation, while not altogether of his making, was not without its attractions. He had given Beth her chance to withdraw from the arrangement and she had persisted in the plan to come to the Cabin. Very well. It was his cabin. Sheshould come and he would teach her to sing. But he knew that Peter Nichols was throwing temptation in the way of Peter Nicholaevitch.
McGuire was quiet that night and while they smoked Peter talked at length on the needs of the estate as he saw them. Peter went down to the Cabin and brought up his maps and his plans for the fire towers. McGuire nodded or assented in monosyllables, but Peter was sure that he heard little and saw less, for at intervals he glanced at the clock, or at his watch, and Peter knew that his obsession had returned. Outside, somewhere in the woods, "Hawk" was approaching to keep his tryst and McGuire could think of nothing else. This preoccupation was marked by a frowning thatch of brow and a sullen glare at vacancy which gave no evidence of the fears that had inspired him, but indicated a mind made up in desperation to carry out his plans, through Peter, whatever happened later. Only the present concerned him. But underneath his outward appearance of calm, Peter was aware of an intense alertness, for from time to time his eyes glowed suddenly and the muscles worked in his cheeks as he clamped his jaws shut and held them so.
As the clock struck ten McGuire got to his feet and walked to the safe, which he opened carefully and took out the money that Peter had brought. Then he went to a closet and took out an electric torch which he tested and then put upon the table.
"You're armed, Nichols?" he asked.
Peter nodded. "But of course there's no reason why your mysterious visitor should take a pot at me," he said. And then, curiously, "Do you think so, Mr. McGuire?"
"Oh, no," said the other quickly. "You have no interest in this affair. You're my messenger, that's all. ButI want you to follow my instructions carefully. I've trusted you this far and I've got to go the whole way. This man will say something. You will try to remember word for word what he says to you, and you're to repeat that message to me."
"That shouldn't be difficult."
McGuire was holding the money in his hand and went on in an abstraction as though weighing words.
"I want you to go at once to the maple tree. I want you to go now so that you will be there when this man arrives. You will stand waiting for him and when he comes you will throw the light into his face, so that you can see him when you talk to him, and so that he can count this money and see that the amount is correct. I do not want you to go too close to him nor to permit him to go too close to you—you are merely to hand him this package and throw the light while he counts the money. Then you are to say to him these words, 'Don't forget the blood on the knife, Hawk Kennedy.'"
"'Don't forget the blood on the knife, Hawk Kennedy,'" murmured Peter in amazement. And then, "But suppose he wants to tell me a lot of things you don't want me to know——"
"I'll have to risk that," put in McGuire grimly. "I want you to watch him carefully, Nichols. Are you pretty quick on the draw?"
"What do you mean?"
"I mean, can you draw your gun and shoot quickly—surely? If you can't, you'd better have your gun in your pocket, keep him covered and at the first sign, shoot through your coat."
Peter took out his revolver and examined it quizzically. "I thought you said, Mr. McGuire," he put in coolly, "that I was not to be required to do anything a gentleman couldn't do."
"Exactly," said the old man jerkily.
"I shouldn't say that shooting a defenseless man answers that requirement."
McGuire threw up his hands wildly.
"There you go—up in the air again. I didn't say you were to shoot him, did I?" he whined. "I'm just warning you to be on the lookout in case he attacks you. That—that's all."
"Why should he attack me?"
"He shouldn't, but he might be angry because I didn't come myself."
"I see. Perhaps you'd better go, sir. Then you can do your killing yourself."
McGuire fell back against the table, to which he clung, his face gray with apprehension, for he saw that Peter had guessed what he hoped.
"You want this man killed," Peter went on. "It's been obvious to me from the first night I came here. Well, I'm not going to be the one to do it."
McGuire's glance fell to the rug as he stammered hoarsely, "I—I never asked you to do it. Y-you must be dreaming. I—I'm merely making plans to assure your safety. I don't want you hurt, Nichols. That's all. You're not going to back out now?" he pleaded.
"Murder is a little out of my line——"
"You're not going to fail me——?" McGuire's face was ghastly. "Youcan't," he whispered hoarsely. "You can't let me down now.Ican't see this man. I can't tell Stryker all you know. You're the only one. You promised, Nichols. You promised to go."
"Yes. And I'll keep my word—but I'll do it in my own way. I'm not afraid of any enemy of yours. Why should I be? But I'm not going to shoot him. If that's understood give me the money and I'll be off."
"Yes—yes. That's all right, Nichols. You're a goodfellow—and honest. I'll make it worth your while to stay with me here." He took up the money and handed it to Peter, who counted it carefully and then put it in an inside pocket. "I don't see why you think I wanted you to kill Hawk Kennedy," McGuire went on, whining. "A man's got a right to protect himself, hasn't he? And you've got a right to protectyourself, if he tries to start anything."
"Have you any reason to believe that he might?"
"No. I can't say I have."
"All right. I'll take a chance. But I want it understood that I'm not responsible if anything goes wrong."
"That's understood."
Peter made his way downstairs, and out of the front door to the portico. Stryker, curiously enough, was nowhere to be seen. Peter went out across the dim lawn into the starlight. Jesse Brown challenged him by the big tree and Peter stopped for a moment to talk with him, explaining that he would be returning to the house later.
"The old man seems to be comin' to life, Mister," said Jesse.
"What do you mean?"
"Not so skeered-like. He was out here when you went to the Cabin for them plans——"
"Out here?" said Peter in amazement.
Andy nodded. "He seemed more natural-like,—asked what the countersign was and said mebbe we'd all be goin' back to the mills after a night or so."
"Oh, did he? That's good. You're pretty tired of this night work?"
"Not so long as it pays good. But what did he mean by changin' the guards?"
"He didn't say anything to me about it," said Peter, concealing his surprise.
"Oh, didn't he? Well, he took Andy off the privethedge and sent him down to the clump of pines near the road."
"I see," said Peter. "Why?"
"You've got me, Mister. If there's trouble to-night, there ain't no one at the back of the house at all. We're one man short."
"Who?"
"Shad Wells. He ain't showed up."
"Ah, I see," muttered Peter. And then, as he lighted a cigarette, "Oh, well, we'll get along somehow. But look sharp, just the same."
Peter went down the lawn thoughtfully. From the first he hadn't been any too pleased with this mission. Though Peter was aware that in the realm of big business it masqueraded under other names, blackmail, at the best, was a dirty thing. At the worst—and McGuire's affair with the insistent Hawk seemed to fall into this classification,—it was both sinister and contemptible. To be concerned in these dark doings even as an emissary was hardly in accordance with Peter's notion of his job, and he had acceded to McGuire's request without thinking of possible consequences, more out of pity for his employer in his plight than for any other reason. But he remembered that it usually required a guilty conscience to make blackmail possible and that the man who paid always paid because of something discreditable which he wished to conceal.
McGuire's explanations had been thin and Peter knew that the real reason for the old man's trepidations was something other than the ones he had given. He had come to Black Rock from New York to avoid any possible publicity that might result from the visits of his persecutor and was now paying this sum of money for a respite, an immunity which at the best could only be temporary. It was all wrong and Peter was sorry to havea hand in it, but he couldn't deny that the interest with which he had first approached Black Rock House had now culminated in a curiosity which was almost an obsession. Here, close at hand, was the solution of the mystery, and whether or not he learned anything as to the facts which had brought McGuire's discomfiture, he would at least see and talk with the awe-inspiring Hawk who had been the cause of them. Besides, there was Mrs. Bergen's share in the adventure which indicated that Beth's happiness, too, was in some way involved. For Peter, having had time to weigh Beth's remarks with the housekeeper's, had come to the conclusion that there had been but one man near the house that night. The man who had talked with Mrs. Bergen at the kitchen door was not John Bray the camera-man, or the man with the dark mustache, but Hawk Kennedy himself.
Peter entered the path to the Cabin, and explored it carefully, searching the woods on either side and then, cutting into the scrub oak at the point where he and Beth had first seen the placard, made his way to the maple tree. There was no one there. A glance at his watch under the glare of the pocket torch showed that he was early for the tryst, so he walked around the maple, flashing his light into the undergrowth and at last sat down, leaning against the trunk of the tree, lighted another cigarette and waited.
Under the depending branches of the heavy foliage it was very dark, and he could get only the smallest glimpses of the starlit sky. At one point toward Black Rock House beyond the boles of the trees he could see short stretches of the distant lawn and, in the distance, a light which he thought must be that of McGuire's bedroom, for to-night, Peter had noticed, the shutters had been left open. It was very quiet too. Peter listened for the sounds of approaching footsteps among the dry leaves, but heard onlythe creak of branches overhead, the slight stir of the breeze in the leaves and the whistle of a locomotive many miles away, on the railroad between Philadelphia and Atlantic City.
The sound carried his mind beyond the pine-belt out into the great world from which he had come, and he thought of many things that might have been instead of this that was—the seething yeast that was Russia, the tearing down of the idols of centuries and the worship of new gods that were no gods at all—not even those of brass or gold—only visions—will-o'-the-wisps.... The madness had shown itself here too. Would the fabric of which the American Ideal was made be strong enough to hold together against the World's new madness? He believed in American institutions. Imperfect though they were, fallible as the human wills which controlled them, they were as near Liberty, Equality, Fraternity as one might yet hope to attain in a form of government this side of the millennium.
Peter started up suddenly, for he was sure that he had heard something moving in the underbrush. But after listening intently and hearing nothing more he thought that his ears had deceived him. He flashed his lantern here and there as a guide to Hawk Kennedy but there was no sound. Complete silence had fallen again over the woods. If McGuire's mysterious enemy was approaching he was doing it with the skill of an Indian scout. And it occurred to Peter at this moment that Hawk Kennedy too might have his reasons for wishing to be sure that he was to be fairly dealt with. The placard had indicated the possibility of chicanery on the part of McGuire. "No tricks," Hawk had written. He would make sure that Peter was alone before he showed himself. So Peter flashed his lamp around again, glanced at his watch, which showed that the hour of the appointment hadpassed, then lighted a third cigarette and sank down on the roots of the tree to wait.
There was no other sound. The breeze which had been fitful at best had died and complete silence had fallen. Peter wasn't in the least alarmed. Why should he be? He had come to do this stranger a favor and no one else except McGuire could know of the large sum of money in his possession. The trees were his friends. Peter's thoughts turned back again, as they always did when his mind was at the mercy of his imagination. What was the use of it all? Honor, righteousness, pride, straight living, the ambition to do, to achieve something real by his own efforts—to what end? He knew that he could have been living snugly in London now, married to the Princess Galitzin, drifting with the current in luxury and ease down the years, enjoying those things——
Heigho! Peter sat up and shrugged the vision off. He must not be thinking back. It wouldn't do. The new life was here.Novaya Jezn.Like the seedling from the twisted oak, he was going to grow straight and true—to be himself, the son of his mother, who had died with a prayer on her lips that Peter might not be what his father had been. Thus far, he had obeyed her. He had grown straight, true to the memory of that prayer.
Yes, life was good. He tossed away his cigarette, ground it into the ground with his heel, then lay back against the tree, drinking in great drafts of the clean night air. The forest was so quiet that he could hear the distant tinkle of Cedar Creek down beyond the Cabin. The time was now well after eleven. What if Hawk Kennedy failed to appear? And how long must——?
A tiny sound close at hand, clear, distinct. Peter took a chance and called out,
"Is that you, Hawk Kennedy?"
Silence and then a repetition of the sound a little loudernow and from directly overhead. Peter rose, peering upward in amazement.
"Yes, I'm here," said a low voice among the leaves above him.
And presently a foot appeared, followed by legs and a body, emerging from the gloom above. Peter threw the light of his torch up into the tree.
"Hey! Cut that," commanded a voice sharply.
And Peter obeyed. In a moment a shape swung down and stood beside him. After the glare of the torch Peter couldn't make out the face under the brim of the cap, but he could see that it wore a mustache and short growth of beard. In size, the stranger was quite as tall as Peter.
Hawk Kennedy stood for a moment listening intently and Peter was so astonished at the extraordinary mode of his entrance on the scene that he did not speak.
"You're from McGuire?" asked the man shortly.
"Yes."
"Why didn't he come himself?"
The voice was gruff, purposely so, Peter thought, but there was something about it vaguely reminiscent.
"Answer me. Why didn't he come?"
Peter laughed.
"He didn't tell me why. Any more than you'd tell me why you've been up this tree."
"I'm takin' no chances this trip. I've been watchin'—listenin'," said the other grimly. "Well, what's the answer? And who—who the devil are you?"
The bearded visage was thrust closer to Peter's as though in uncertainty, but accustomed as both men now were to the darkness, neither could make out the face of the other.
"I'm McGuire's superintendent. He sent me here to meet you—to bring you something——"
"Ah—he comes across. Good. Where is it?"
"In my pocket," said Peter coolly, "but he told me to tell you first not to forget the blood on the knife, Hawk Kennedy."
The man recoiled a step.
"The blood on the knife," he muttered. And then, "McGuire asked you to say that?"
"Yes."
"Anything else?"
"No. That's all."
Another silence and then he demand in a rough tone,
"Well, give me the money!"
Impolite beggar! What was there about this shadow that suggested to Peter the thought that this whole incident had happened before? That this man belonged to another life that Peter had lived? Peter shrugged off the illusion, fumbled in his pocket and produced the envelope containing the bills.
"You'd better count it," said Peter, as the envelope changed hands.
"It's not 'phoney'——?" asked Hawk's voice suspiciously.
"Phoney?"
"Fake money——?"
"No. I got it in New York myself yesterday."
"Oh——." There was a silence in which the shade stood uncertainly fingering the package, peering into the bushes around him and listening intently. And then, abruptly,
"I want to see the color of it. Switch on your light."
Peter obeyed. "You'd better," he said.
In the glow of lamp Hawk Kennedy bent forward, his face hidden by his cap brim, fingering the bills, and Peter saw for the first time that his left hand held an automatic which covered Peter now, as it had covered him from the first moment of the interview.
"Five hundreds—eh," growled Kennedy. "They're real enough, all right. One—two—three—four——"
A roar from the darkness and a bullet crashed into the tree behind them.... Another shot! Peter's startled finger relaxed on the button of the torch and they were in darkness. A flash from the trees to the right, the bullet missing Peter by inches.
"A trick! By ——!" said Hawk's voice in a fury, "but I'll getyoufor this."
Peter was too quick for him. In the darkness he jumped aside, striking Kennedy with his torch, and then closed with the man, whose shot went wild. They struggled for a moment, each fighting for the possession of the weapon, McGuire's money ground under their feet, but Peter was the younger and the stronger and when he twisted Hawk's wrist the man suddenly relaxed and fell, Peter on his chest.
The reason for this collapse was apparent when Peter's hand touched the moisture on Kennedy's shoulder.
"Damn you!" Hawk was muttering, as he struggled vainly.
Events had followed so rapidly that Peter hadn't had time to think of anything but his own danger. He had acted with the instinct of self-preservation, which was almost quicker than his thought, but as he knew now what had happened he realized that he, too, had been tricked by McGuire and that the murderous volley directed at Hawk Kennedy had come perilously near doing for himself. With the calm which followed the issue of his struggle with Kennedy, came a dull rage at McGuire for placing him in such danger, which only showed his employer's desperate resolve and his indifference to Peter's fate. For Hawk Kennedy had been within his rights in supposing Peter to be concerned in the trick and only the miracle of the expiring torch which had blinded the intruder hadsaved Peter from the fate intended for Hawk. Peter understood now the meaning of McGuire's explicit instructions and the meaning of the changing of the guards. The old man had hoped to kill his enemy with one shot and save himself the recurrence of his terror. What had become of him now? There was no sound among the bushes or any sign of him. He had slipped away like the poltroon that he was, leaving Peter to his fate.
"Damn you!" Hawk muttered again. "What didyouwant to come meddling for!"
The man couldn't be dangerously hurt if he possessed the power of invective and so, having possessed himself of Hawk's automatic, Peter got off his chest and fumbled around for the electric torch.
"It won't do you any good to lie there cursing me. Get up, if you're able to."
"Got me in the shoulder," muttered the man.
"And he might have gottenme," said Peter, "which would have been worse."
"You mean—you didn't—know," groaned Hawk, getting up into a sitting posture.
"No. I didn't," replied Peter.
He had found the torch now and was flashing it around on the ground while he picked up the scattered money.
"I'll fix him for this," groaned the stranger.
Peter glanced at him.
"His men will be down here in a moment. You'd better be getting up."
"I'm not afraid. They can't do anything tome. They'd better leave me alone. McGuire don't want me to talk. But I'll squeal if they bother me." Peter was aware that the man was watching him as he picked up the bills and heard him ask haltingly, "What are you—going to do—with that money?"
"My orders were to give it to you. Don't you want it?"
Peter turned and for the first time flashed the lamp full in the injured man's face. Even then Peter didn't recognize him, but he saw Hawk Kennedy's eyes open wide as he stared at Peter.
"Who——?" gasped the man. And then, "Youhere! 'Cré nom!It's Pete, the waiter!"
Peter started back in astonishment.
"Jim Coast!" he said.
Hawk Kennedy chuckled and scrambled to his feet, halfway between a laugh and a groan.
"Well, I'm damned!"
Peter was still staring at him, the recovered bills loose in his hand. Jim Coast thrust out an arm for them.
"The money," he demanded. "The money, Pete."
Without a word Peter handed it to him. It was none of his. Coast counted the bills, the blood dripping from his fingers and soiling them, but he wiped them off with a dirty handkerchief and put them away into his pocket. Blood money, Peter thought, and rightly named.
"And now,mon gars, if it's all the same to you, I'd like you to take me to some place where we can tie up this hole in my shoulder."
This was like Coast's impudence. He had regained his composure again and, in spite of the pain he was suffering, had become his proper self, the same Jim Coast who had bunked with Peter on theBermudian, full of smirking assertiveness and sinister suggestion. Peter was too full of astonishment to make any comment, for it was difficult to reconcile the thought of Jim Coast with Hawk Kennedy, and yet there he was, the terror of Black Rock House revealed.
"Well, Pete," he growled, "goin' to be starin' at me all night?"
"You'd better be off," said Peter briefly.
"Why?"
"They'll be here in a minute. You've got your money."
"Let 'em come. They'll have to take me to McGuire——"
"Or the lock-up at Egg Harbor——"
"All right. I'll go. But when I open my mouth to speak, McGuire will wish that Hell would open for him." And then, "See here, Pete, do you know anything of what's between me and McGuire?"
"No—except that he fears you."
"Very well. If you're workin' for him you'll steer these guys away from me. I mean it. Now think quick."
Peter did. Angry as he was at McGuire, he knew that Jim Coast meant what he said and that he would make trouble. Also Peter's curiosity knew no subsidence.
"You go to my cabin. It's hidden in the woods down this path at the right——"
"That's where you live, is it?"
"Yes. You'll find water there and a towel on the washstand. I'll be there to help you when I sheer these men off."
Coast walked a few steps and then turned quickly.
"No funny business, Pete."
"No. You can clear out if you like. I don't care. I only thought if you were badly hurt——"
"Oh, all right. Thanks."
Peter watched the dim silhouette merge into the shadows and disappear. Then flashed his light here and there that the men who must be approaching now might be guided to him. In a moment they were crashing through the undergrowth, Jesse and Andy in the lead.
"What's the shootin'?" queried Jesse Brown breathlessly.
"A man in the woods. I'm looking for him," said Peter. "He got away."
"Well, don't it beat Hell——"
"But it may be a plan to get you men away from the house," said Peter as the thought came to him. "Did you see McGuire?"
"McGuire! No. What——?"
"All right. You'd better hurry back. See if he's all right. I'll get along——"
"Not if you go flashin'thatthing. I could a got ye with my rifle as easy as——"
"Well, never mind. Get back to the house. I'll poke around here for a while. Hurry!"
In some bewilderment they obeyed him and Peter turned his footstep toward the Cabin.
Peter wasn't at all certain that he had done the right thing. One event had followed another with such startling rapidity that there hadn't been time to deliberate. Jim Coast was wounded, how badly Peter didn't know, but the obvious duty was to give him first aid and sanctuary until Peter could get a little clearer light on Coast's possibilities for evil. None of this was Peter's business. He had done what McGuire had asked him to do and had nearly gotten killed for his pains. Two fights already and he had come to Black Rock to find peace!
In his anger at McGuire's trick he was now indifferent as to what would happen to the old man. There was no doubt that Jim Coast held all the cards and, unless he died, would continue to hold them. It was evident that McGuire, having failed in accomplishing the murder, had placed himself in a worse position than before, for Coast was not one to relax or to forgive, and if he had gotten his five thousand dollars so easily as this, he would be disposed to make McGuire pay more heavily now. Peter knew nothing of the merits of the controversy, but it seemed obvious that the two principals in the affair were both tarred with the same stick.Arcades Ambo. He was beginning to believe that Coast was the more agreeable villain of the two. At least he had made no bones about the fact of his villainy.
Peter found Coast stripped to the waist, sitting in achair by the table, bathing his wounded shoulder. But the hemorrhage had stopped and Peter saw that the bullet had merely grazed the deltoid, leaving a clean wound, which could be successfully treated by first aid devices. So he found his guest a drink of whisky, which put a new heart into him, then tore up a clean linen shirt, strips from which he soaked in iodine and bandaged over the arm and shoulder.
Meanwhile Coast was talking.
"Well,mon vieux, it's a little world, ain't it? To think I'd findyou, my old bunkie, Pete, the waiter, out here in the wilds, passin' the buck for Mike McGuire! Looks like the hand o' Fate, doesn't it? Superintendent, eh? Some job! Twenty thousand acres—if he's got an inch. An' me thinkin' all the while you'd be slingin' dishes in a New York chop house!"
"I studied forestry in Germany once," said Peter with a smile, as he wound the bandage.
"Right y'are! Mebbe you told me. I don't know. Mebbe there's a lot o' things youdidn'ttell me. Mebbe there's a lot of things I didn't tellyou. But I ought to 'a' known a globe trotter like you never would 'a' stayed a waiter. A waiter!Nom de Dieu!Remember that (sanguine) steward on theBermudian? Oily, fat little beef-eater with the gold teeth? Tried to make us 'divy' on the tips? But we beat him to it, Pete, when we took French leave. H-m! I'm done with waitin' now, Pete. So are you, I reckon. Gentleman of leisure,Iam!"
"There you are," said Peter as he finished the bandage, "but you'll have to get this wound dressed somewhere to-morrow."
"Right you are. A hospital in Philly will do the trick. And McGuire pays the bill."
Jim Coast got up and moved his arm cautiously.
"Mighty nice of you, Pete. That's fine. I'll make himpay through the nose for this." And then turning his head and eyeing Peter narrowly, "You say McGuire told you nothin'!"
"Nothing. It's none of my affair."
The ex-waiter laughed. "He knows his business. Quiet as death, ain't he? He's got a right to be. And scared. He's got a right to be scared too. I'll scare him worse before I'm through with him."
He broke off with a laugh and then, "Funny to find you guardin'himagainstme. House all locked—men with guns all over the place. He wanted one of those guys to kill me, didn't he? But I'm too slick for him. No locked doors can keep out what's scarin' Mike McGuire——"
He broke off suddenly and held up his empty glass. "Another drink of the whisky,mon gars, and I'm yer friend for life."
Peter was still curious, so he obeyed and after cleaning up the mess they had made he sank into a chair, studying the worn features of his old companion. He had taken the precaution to pull in the heavy shutter of the window which had been opened and to lock the door. Peter did not relish the idea of a murder committed in this cabin.
"Not apt to come now, are they, Pete? Well, let 'em," he answered himself with a shrug. "But they won't if McGuire has his way. Murder is the only thing that will suit McGuire's book. He can't do that—not with witnesses around. Ain't he the slick one, though? I was watchin' for just what happened. That's why I stayed in the tree so long—listenin'. He must of slipped in like a snake. How he did it I don't know. I'm a worse snake than he is but I always rattle before I strike."
He laughed again dryly.
"I've gothimrattled all O. K. Mebbe he'd of shot straighter if he hadn't been. He used to could—dead shot. But I reckon his talents are runnin' differentnow.Millions he has they say,mon vieux, millions. And I'll get my share of 'em."
Jim Coast smoked for a moment in contented silence.
"See here, Pete. I like you. Always did. Straight as a string—you are. You've done me a good turn to-night. You might of put me out—killed me when you had me down——"
"I'm no murderer, Jim."
"Right. Nor I ain't either. I don't want to hurt a hair of McGuire's head. Every one of 'em is precious as refined gold. I want him to live—to keep on livin' and makin' more money because the more money he's got the more I'll get—see."
"Blackmail," said Peter shortly.
Coast glanced at him, shrugged and laughed.
"Call it that if you like. It's a dirty word, but I'll stand for it, seein' it's you. Blackmail! What's a waiter's tip but blackmail for good service? What's a lawyer's fee from a corporation but money paid by men to keep them out of the jail? What's a breach of promise case? Blackmail—legal blackmail. I'm doin' nothin' less an' nothin' more than a million other men—but I'm not workin' with a lawyer. I'll turn the trick alone. What would you say if I told you that half of every dollar McGuire has got is mine—a full half—to say nothin' of payment for the years I was wanderin' an' grubbin' over the face of the earth, while he was livin' easy. Oh! You're surprised. You'd better be. For that's the God's truth,mon ami."
"You mean—he—he——" Peter's credulity was strained and he failed to finish his query.
"Oh, you don't believe? Well, you needn't. But there's no blackmail when you only take what belongs to you. The money—the money that made his millions was as much mine as his. I'm going to have my share withcompound interest for fifteen years—and perhaps a bit more."
"You surprise me. But it seems that if there's any justice in your claim, you could establish it legally."
Jim Coast laughed again.
"There's a quicker—a safer way than that. I'm takin' it." He filled his glass again and went on, leaning far over the table toward Peter. "Voyons, Pete. When we came ashore, I made you an offer to play my game. You turned me down. It's not too late to change your mind. The old man trusts you or he wouldn't of sent you out with that money. I may need some help with this business and you're fixed just right to lend me a hand. Throw in with me, do what I want, and I'll see that you're fixed for life."
Peter shook his head slowly from side to side.
"No, Jim. He pays me well. I'm no traitor."
"H-m. Traitor!" he sneered. "Hewasn't overparticular aboutyou. He might of killed you orImight of, if you hadn't been too damn quick for me. What do you think Mike McGuire cares aboutyou?" he laughed bitterly.
"Nothing. But that makes no difference. I——"
A loud jangle of a bell from the corner and Jim Coast sprang to his feet.
"The telephone," explained Peter, indicating the instrument. "That's McGuire now." He rose and moved toward it, but Coast caught him by the arm.
"Worried, eh?" he said with a grin. "Wants to know what's happened! All right. Tell him—tell the——." And then, as Peter released himself, "Wait a minute. Tell him you've got me here," laughed Coast, "a prisoner. Tell him I'm talking. Ask for instructions. He'll tell you what to do with me, damn quick," he sneered.
Peter waited a moment, thinking, while the bell tinkledagain, and then took down the receiver. He was in no mood to listen to McGuire.
"Hello—Yes, this is Nichols.... All right, yes. Shot at from the dark—while paying the money. You hit Hawk Kennedy in the shoulder.... Yes,you. I'm no fool, McGuire.... He's here—at the Cabin. I've just fixed his shoulder——. All right——. What shall I do with him——? Yes—Yes, he's talking.... Let him go——! Hello! Let him go, you say? Yes——"
"Let me get to him——," growled Coast, pushing close to the transmitter. "Hello—Mike McGuire—hello——"
"He's gone," said Peter.
"'Let him go,'" sneered Coast. "You'd bet he'd let me go." Then he looked at Peter and laughed. "He's scared all right—beat it like a cottontail. Seems a shame to take the money, Pete—a real shame."
He laughed uproariously, then sauntered easily over to the table, took another of Peter's cigarettes and sank into the easy chair again. Peter eyed him in silence. He was an unwelcome guest but he hadn't yet gratified Peter's curiosity.
"Well, what are you going to do?" asked Peter.
"Me?" Coast inhaled Peter's cigarette luxuriously, and smiled. "I'm goin' West,pronto—to get my facts straight—all at the expense of the party of the first part. I might stop off at the Grand Cañon first for the view. I need a rest, Pete. I ain't as young as I was—or I mightn't of let you put me out so easy to-night. I'm glad of that, though. Wouldn't like to of done you hurt——"
"And then——?" asked Peter steadily.
"Then? Oh, I'll beat it down to Bisbee and ask a few questions. I just want to hook up a few things Idon'tknow with the things Idoknow. I'll travel light but comfortable. Five thousand dollars makes a heap ofdifference in your point of view—and other people's. I'll be an eastern millionaire lookin' for investments. And what I won't know about Jonathan K. McGuire, alias Mike McGuire—won't be worth knowin'." He broke off and his glance caught the interested expression on the face of his host.
"H-m. Curious, ain't you, Pete?"
"Yes," said Peter frankly. "I am. Of course it's none of my business, but——"
"But you'd like to know, just the same. I get you." He flicked off the ash of his cigarette and picked up his whisky glass. "Well——," he went on, "I don't see why I shouldn't tell you—some of it—that is. It won't do any harm for you to know the kind of skunk you're workin' for. There's some of it that nobody on God's earth will ever know but me and Mike McGuire—unless he slips up on one of his payments, and then everybody's goin' to know.Everybody—but his daughter first of all."
Coast was silent a long moment while he drained the whisky and slowly set the glass down upon the table. The shadows upon his face were unpleasant, darkened perceptibly as they marked the years his thoughts followed, and the lines at his lips and nostrils became more deeply etched in bitterness and ugly resolve.
"It was down in the San Luis valley I first met up with Mike McGuire. He was born in Ireland, of poor but honest parents, as the books tell us. He changed his name to 'Jonathan K.' when he made his first 'stake.' That meant he was comin' up in the world—see? Me and Mike worked together up in Colorado, punchin' cattle, harvestin', ranchin' generally. We were 'buddies,'mon gars, like you an' me, eatin', sleepin' together as thick as thieves. He had a family somewhere, same as me—the wife had a little money but her old man madehim quit—some trouble. After awhile we got tired of workin' for wages, grub staked, and beat it for the mountains. That was back in nineteen one or two, I reckon. We found a vein up above Wagon Wheel Gap. It looked good and we staked out claims and worked it, hardly stoppin' to eat or sleep." Coast stopped with a gasp and a shrug. "Well, the long an' short of that,mon vieux, was a year of hard work with only a thousand or so apiece to show for it. It was only a pocket. Hell!" He broke off in disgust and spat into the fireplace. "Don't talk to me about your gold mines. There ain't any such animal. Well, Mike saved his. I spent mine. Faro. You know—an' women. Then I got hurt. I was as good as dead—but I pulled through. I ain't easy to kill. When I came around, I 'chored' for a while, doin' odd jobs where I could get 'em and got a little money together and went to Pueblo. When I struck town I got pretty drunk and busted a faro bank. I neverdidhave any luck when I was sober."
"Yes, you've told me about that," said Peter.
"So I did—on theBermudian. Well, it was at Pueblo I met up with Mike McGuire, and we beat it down into Arizona where the copper was. Bisbee was only a row of wooden shacks, but we got some backin', bought an outfit and went out prospectin' along the Mexican border. And what with 'greasers' and thievin' redskins it was some job in those days. But we made friends all right enough and found out some of the things we wanted to know.
"Now, Pete, if I was to tell you all that went on in that long trail into the Gila Desert and what happened when we got what we went for, you'd know as much as I do. You'd know enough to hold up Mike McGuire yourself if you'd a mind to. This is where the real story stops. What happened in between is my secretand Mike McGuire's. We found the mine we were lookin' for.... That's sure——How we got it you'll never know. But we got it. And here's where the real story begins again. We were miles out in the Gila Desert and if ever there's a Hell on earth, it's there. Sand, rocks, rocks and sand and the sun. It was Hell with the cover off and no mistake! No water within a hundred miles.
"Now, this is where the fine Eyetalian hand of Mike McGuire shows itself. We were rich. Any fool with half an eye could see that. The place was lousy—fairly lousy! It was ours——," Coast's brow darkened and his eyes glittered strangely as a darting demon of the past got behind them. "Yes—ours.Sacré bleu!Any man who went through what we did deserved it, by G——! We were rich. There was plenty enough for two, but McGuire didn't think so. And here's what he does to me. In the middle of the night while I'm asleep he sneaks away as neat as you please, with the horses and the pack-mules and the water, leavin' me alone with all the money in the world, and a devourin' thirst, more than a hundred miles from nowhere."
"Murder," muttered Peter.
Coast nodded. "You bet you. Murder. Nothin' less. Oh, he knew whathewas about all right. And I saw it quick. Death! That's what it meant. Slow but sure. Hadn't I seen the bones bleaching all along the trail? He left me there to die. He thought I would die.Dios!That thirst!" Coast reached for the pitcher and splashed rather than poured a glass of water which he gulped down avidly. "There was nothin' for it but to try afoot for Tucson, which was due east. Every hour I waited would of made me an hour nearer to bein' a mummy. So I set out through the hot sand, the sun burnin' through me, slowly parchin' my blood. My tongue swelled. I must of gone in circles. Days passed—nights when Ilay gaspin' on my back, like a fish out of water, tryin' to suck moisture out of dry air.... Then the red sun again—up over the edge of that furnace, mockin' at me. I was as good as dead and I knew it. Only the mummy of me, parched black, stumbled on, fallin', strugglin' up again, fallin' at last, bitin' at the sand like a mad dog...."
"Horrible," muttered Peter.
"It was. I reckon I died—the soul of me, or what was left of it. I came to life under the starlight, with a couple of 'greasers' droppin' water on my tongue. They brought me around, but I was out of my head for a week. I couldn't talk the lingo anyhow. I just went with 'em like a child. There wasn't anything else to do. Lucky they didn't kill me. I guess I wasn't worth killin'. We went South. They were makin' for Hermosillo. Revolutionists. They took all my money—about three hundred dollars. But it was worth it. They'd saved my life. But I couldn't go back now, even if I wanted to. I had no money, nor any way of gettin' any."
Jim Coast leaned forward, glowering at the rag carpet.
"But I—I didn't want to go back just then. The fear of God was in me. I'd looked into Hell."
He laughed bitterly.
"Then I joined the 'greasers' against Diaz. I've told you about that. And the 'Rurales' cleaned us up all right. A girl saved my life. Instead of shootin' me against a mud wall, they put me to work on a railroad. I was there three years. I escaped at last and reached the coast, where I shipped for South America. It was the only way out, but all the while I was thinkin' of Mike McGuire and the copper mine. You know the rest, Pete—the Argentine deal that might of made me richan' how it fell through. Don't it beat Hell how the world bites the under dog!"
"But why didn't you go back to America and fight your claim with McGuire?" asked Peter, aware of the sinister, missing passage in the story.
Coast shot a sharp glance at his questioner.
"There were two reasons—one of which you won't know. The other was that I couldn't. I was on the beach an' not too popular. The only ships out of Buenos Aires were for London. That was the easiest way back to America anyhow. So I shipped as a cattle hand. And there you are. I lived easy in London. That's me. Easy come easy go. There it was I wrote a man I knew out in Bisbee—the feller that helped stake us—and he answered me that McGuire was dead, and that the mine was a flivver—too far away to work. You see he must of showed the letter to McGuire, and McGuire told him what to write. That threw me off the track. I forgot him and went to France...."
Coast paused while he filled his glass again.
"It wasn't until I reached New York that I found out McGuire was alive. It was just a chance while I was plannin' another deal. I took it. I hunted around the brokers' offices where they sell copper stocks. It didn't take me long to find that my mine was the 'Tarantula.' McGuire had developed it with capital from Denver, built a narrow gauge in. Then after a while had sold out his share for more than half a million clear."
Peter was studying Coast keenly, thinking hard. But the story held with what he already knew of the man's history.
"That's when Mike McGuire tacked the 'Jonathan K.' onto his name," Coast went on. "And that money's mine, the good half of it. Figure it out for yourself. Say five hundred thou, eight per cent, fifteen years—I reckonI could worry along on that even if he wouldn't do better—which he will.
"Well, Pete—to shorten up—I found McGuire was here—in New York—and I laid for him. I watched for a while and then one day I got my nerve up and tackled him on the street. You ought to of seen his face when I told him who I was and what I'd come for. We were in the crowd at Broadway and Wall, people all about us. He started the 'high and mighty' stuff for a minute until I crumpled him up with a few facts. I thought he was goin' to have a stroke for a minute, when I made my brace for the five thou—then he turned tail and ran into the crowd pale as death. I lost him then. But it didn't matter. I'd find him again. I knew where his office was—and his hotel. It was dead easy. But he beat it down here. It took me awhile to pick up the trail. But here I am, Pete—here I am—safe in harbor at last."
Coast took the bills out of his pocket and slowly counted them again.
"And when you come back from the West, what will you do?" asked Peter.
"Oh, now you're talkin', Pete. I'm goin' to settle down and live respectable. I like this country around here. I came from Jersey, you know, in the first place. I might build a nice place—keep a few horses and automobiles and enjoy my old age—run over to gay Paree once a year—down to Monte Carlo in the season. Oh, I'd know how tolivenow. You bet you. I've seen 'em do it—those swells. They won't have anything on me. I'll live like a prince——"
"On blackmail——," said Peter.
"See here, Pete——!"
"I meant it." Peter had risen and faced Coast coolly. "Blackmail! You can't tell me that if you had any legal claim on McGuire you couldn't prove it."
"I mightn't be able to——," he shrugged.
"What is McGuire frightened about? Not about what he owes you. He could pay that ten times over. It's something else—something that happened out there at the mine that you dare not tell——"
"That Iwon'ttell," laughed Coast disagreeably.
"That youdarenot tell—that McGuire dares not tell. Something that has to do with his strange message about the blood on the knife, and your placard about what you've got holding over him——"
"Right you are," sneered the other.
"It's dirty money, I tell you—bloody money. I know it. And I know who you are, Jim Coast."
Coast started up and thrust the roll deep into his trousers pocket.
"You don't know anything," he growled.
Peter got up too. His mind had followed Coast's extraordinary story, and so far as it had gone, believed it to be true. Peter wanted to know what had happened out there at the mine in the desert, but more than that he wanted to know how the destinies of this man affected Beth. And so the thought that had been growing in his mind now found quick utterance.
"I know this—that you've come back to frighten McGuire, but you've also come back to bring misery and shame to others who've lived long in peace and happiness without you——"
"What——?" said Coast incredulously.
"I know who you are. You're Ben Cameron," said Peter distinctly.
The effect of this statement upon Jim Coast was extraordinary. He started back abruptly, overturning a chair, and fell rather than leaned against the bedpost—his eyes staring from a ghastly face.
"What—what did—you say?" he gasped chokingly.
"You're Ben Cameron," said Peter again.
Coast put the fingers of one hand to his throat and straightened slowly, still staring at Peter. Then uneasily, haltingly, he made a sound in his throat that grew into a dry laugh——
"Me—B-Ben Cameron! That's damn good. Me—Ben Cameron! Say, Pete, whatever putthatinto your head?"
"The way you frightened the old woman at the kitchen door."
"Oh!" Coast straightened in relief. "I get you. You've been talkin' toher."
"Yes. What did you say to her?"
"I—I just gave her a message for McGuire. I reckon she gave it to him."
"A message?"
"Oh, you needn't say you don't know, Pete. It didn't fetch him. So I put up the placard."
Peter was now more bewildered than Coast. "Do you deny that you're Ben Cameron?" he asked.
Coast pulled himself together and took up his coat.
"Deny it? Sure! I'm not—not him—not Ben Cameron—not Ben Cameron. Don't I know who I am?" he shouted. Then he broke off with a violent gesture and took up his cap. "Enough of your damn questions, I say. I've told you what I've told you. You can believe it or not, as you choose. I'm Jim Coast to you or Hawk Kennedy, if you like, but don't you go throwin' any more of your dirty jokes my way. Understand?"
Peter couldn't understand but he had had enough of the man. So he pointed toward the door.
"Go," he ordered. "I've had enough of you—get out!"
Coast walked a few paces toward the door, then paused and turned and held out his hand.
"Oh, Hell, Pete. Don't let's you and me quarrel. You gave me a start back there. I'm sorry. Of course, you knew. You been good to me to-night. I'm obliged. I need you in my business. More'n ever."
"No," said Peter.
"Oh, very well. Suit yourself," said Coast with a shrug. "There's plenty of time. I'll be back in a month or six weeks. Think it over. I've made you a nice offer—real money—to help me a bit. Take it or leave it, as you please. I'll get along without you, but I'd rather have you with me than against me."
"I'm neither," said Peter. "I want nothing to do with it."
Coast shrugged. "I'm sorry. Well, so long. I've got a horse back in the dunes. I'll take the milk train from Hammonton to Philadelphia. You won't tell, Pete?"
"No."
"Good-night."
Peter didn't even reply. And when the man had gone he opened the door and windows to let in the night air. The room had been defiled by the man's very presence. Ben Cameron? Beth's father? The thing seemed impossible, but every fact in Peter's knowledge pointed toward it. And yet what the meaning of Jim Coast's strange actions at the mention of his name? And what were the facts that Jim Coastdidn'ttell? What had happened at the mine that was too terrible even to speak about? What was the bond between these two men, which held the successful one in terror, and the other in silence? Something unspeakably vile. A hideous pact——
The telephone bell jangled again. Peter rose and went to it. But he was in no humor to talk to McGuire.
"Hello," he growled. "Yes—he's gone. I let him go. You told me to.... Yes, he talked—a long while.... No. He won't be back for a month.... We'll talk thatover later.... No. Not to-night. I'm going to bed.... No. Not until to-morrow. I've had about enough of this.... All right. Good-night."
And Peter hung up the receiver, undressed and went to bed.
It had been rather a full day for Peter.