Kenneth went to bed that night firmly resolved to accompany the sheriff when he set out to arrest Martin Hawk. Zachariah had instructions to call him at daybreak and to have breakfast ready on the dot.
No doubt the posse would start about sunrise,—in any case, he would be up and prepared to take to his saddle the instant he saw his neighbour leaving her house.
The thunderstorm came rollicking down the valley, crashed and rolled and roared for half an hour or so, and then stole mumbling away in the night, leaving in its wake a sighing wind and the drip of forsaken raindrops.
He was astir at cockcrow. The first faint glow of red in the greying east found him at breakfast, with Zachariah sleepily serving him with hot corn-cakes, lean side-meat and coffee.
"Take plenty dis yere hot coffee, Marse Kenneth," urged Zachariah, at the end of a prodigious yawn. "Yo' all gwine need sumpin to keep yo' 'wake, suh, so's yo' won't fall out'n de saddle. Dis yere—"
"Speaking of saddles, have you fed Brandy Boy?"
"Yas, suh. Ah dunno as Ah evah see a hoss mo' took by 'stonishment dan he wuz when Ah step brisk-like into his stall an' sez 'Doggone yo', Brandy Boy, don't yo' know de sun's gwine to be up in less'n two hours? Wha' fo' is yo' keepin' me an' Marse Kenneth waitin' lak dis? Git ep dar, yo' lazy, good-fer-nuffin,—'"
"And what did Brandy Boy say in response to that?" broke in his master, airily.
"How dat, suh?"
"Did he reply in courteous terms or was he testy and out of sorts? Now, just what DID he say?"
Zachariah stared at the speaker in some uneasiness. "Ah reckon yo' all better go on back to bed, suh, an' lemme call yo' when yo' is wide awake. Ain' no sense in yo' startin' off on dis yere hossback ride when yo' is still enjoyin' setch a good night's sleep. No, SUH!"
"I will take another cup of your excellent coffee, Zachariah. That will make three, won't it?"
Zachariah shuffled over to the stove, muttering as he lifted the coffee pot: "Fust Ah is seein' things in de evenin' an' den Ah hears all dis yere talk 'bout a hoss SAYIN' things in de mornin',—Yas, suh,—yas, SUH! Comin' right along, suh. Little mo' side-meat, suh?"
"Take a peep out of the window and see if any one is stirring over at Mrs. Gwyn's."
"'Pears lak Ah c'n see a lady out in de front yard, suh," said Zachariah, at the window.
"You don't say so! Is it Mrs. Gwyn?" cried Kenneth, hastily gulping his coffee as he pushed his chair back from the table.
"Hit ain' light enough fo' to see—"
"Run out and saddle Brandy Boy at once, and be quick about it."
"No, suh, hit ain' Mrs. Gwyn. Hit's Miss Violy. 'Pears lak she comin' over here, suh. Leastwise she come out'n de gate kind o' fast-like,—gotten a shawl wrap aroun'—"
Kenneth waited for no more. He dashed from the house and down to the fence,—where stood Viola, pulling at the swollen, water-soaked gate peg. She was bareheaded, her brown hair hanging down her back in long, thick braids. It was apparent at a glance that she had dressed hastily and but partially at that. With one hand she pinched close about her throat the voluminous scarlet shawl of embroidered crepe in which the upper part of her body was wrapped.
Later he was to observe that her heavy shoes were unlaced and had been drawn on over her bare feet. Her eyes were filled with alarm.
"I don't know where mother is," she said, without other greeting. "She is not in the house, Kenny. I am worried almost sick."
He stared at her in dismay. "Oh, blast the luck! She must have—Say, are you sure she's gone?"
"I can't find her anywhere," cried she, in distress. "I've been out to the barn and—Why, what ails you, Kenneth?"
"She got away without my knowing it. But maybe it's not too late. I can catch up with them if I hurry. Hey, Zachariah!"
"Then, you know where she is?" cried the girl, grasping his arm as he turned to rush away. "For goodness' sake, tell me! Where has she gone?"
"Why, don't you—But of course you don't!" he exclaimed. "You poor girl! You must be almost beside yourself,—and here I go making matters worse by—"
"Where is she?" she broke in, all the colour going from her face as she shook his arm impatiently. "Come in the house," he said gently, consolingly. "I'll tell you all I know. There's nothing to be worried about. She will be home, safe and sound, almost before you know it. I will explain while Zachariah is saddling Brandy Boy." He laid his hand upon her shoulder. "Come along,—dear."
She held back. "If anything happens to her and you could have—" she began, a threat in her dark, harassed eyes.
"I had no idea she would start at such an unearthly hour. I had made up my mind to go with her, whether or not. Didn't she tell you she had made an affidavit against Martin Hawk?"
"No. The sheriff was up here last night, just after supper, but,—Oh, Kenny, what is it all about?"
His arm stole about her shoulders. She leaned heavily, wearily against him as they walked up the drenched path.
"Have you any idea at all what time she left the house?" he asked.
"I heard her go down the stairs. It was pitch dark, but the clock struck one quite a long time afterward. I did not think anything about it then, because she often gets up in the middle of the night and goes down to sit in the kitchen. Ever since father died. I must have gone to sleep again because I did not hear her come back upstairs. I awoke just at daybreak and got up to see if she needed me. She—she had not gone to bed at all, Kenny.—and I couldn't find her anywhere. Then I thought that Martin Hawk and the others had come and taken her away by mistake, thinking it was me in the darkness."
"Sit down, Viola. I'll light the fire. It's quite chilly and you are shaking like a—"
"I want to know where she has gone," she insisted.
Then he told her briefly as much as he thought she ought to know. She was vastly relieved. She even smiled.
"There's no use of your trying to catch up with her. Thank you for lighting the fire, Kenny. If you don't mind, I will sit here awhile, and I may go to sleep in this comfortable chair of yours. Goodness, I must look awful. My hair—"
"Don't touch it! It is beautiful as it is. I wish girls would always wear their hair in braids like that."
She yawned, stretched her legs out to the fire, and then suddenly realizing that her ankles were bare, drew them back again to the shelter of her petticoat with a quick, shy glance to see if he had observed.
"I wish I could cut it off,—like a boy's. It is miles too long. You might as well head Zachariah off. She has been gone since one o'clock. I am sure I heard the front door close before I dropped off to sleep. Don't fidget, Kenny. They've probably got old Martin in the calaboose by this time. Mother never fails when she sets out to do a thing. That good-for-nothing sleepy-head, Hattie, never heard a sound last night. What a conscience she must have!"
He frowned at his big silver watch. "It's after five. See here, Viola, suppose you just curl up on the sofa there and get some sleep. You look tired. I'll put a quilt over you and—"
She half-started up from the chair, flushing in embarrassment.
"Oh, I ought not to stay here, Kenny. Suppose somebody were to come along and catch me here in your—"
"Shucks! You're my sister, aren't you?"
"I suppose it's all right," she said dubiously, sinking back into the chair again. "But somehow, Kenny, I don't believe I will ever be able to think of you as a brother; not if I live a thousand years. I'm sorry to hurt your feelings, but—well, I just can't help being a little bit afraid of you. I suppose it's silly of me, but I'm so ashamed to have you see me with my hair down like this, and no stockings on, and only half-dressed. I—I feel hot all over. I didn't think of it at first, I was so worried, but now I—"
"It is very silly of you," he said, rather thickly. "You did right in coming over, and I'm going to make you comfortable now that you are here. Lie down here and get some sleep, like a good little girl, and when you wake up Zachariah will have a nice hot breakfast for you."
"I'd rather not lie down," she stammered. "Let me just sit here awhile,—and don't bother about breakfast for me. Hattie will—"
"But he has to get breakfast anyhow," he argued.
She looked at him suspiciously. "Haven't you had your breakfast?"
"No," he lied. Then he hurried off to give guilty instructions to Zachariah.
"Fo' de lan's sake," the latter blurted out as he listened to his master's orders; "is yo' all gwine to eat another breakfast?"
"Yes, I am," snapped Kenneth. "I'll take care of Brandy Boy. You go in and clear the table,—and see to it that you don't make any noise. If you do, I'll skin you alive."
An hour later, Kenneth arose from his seat on the front doorstep and stole over to the sitting-room window.
She was asleep in the big rocking-chair, her head twisted limply toward her left shoulder, presenting a three-quarters view of her face to him as he gazed long and ardently upon her. He could see the deep rise and fall of her bosom. The shawl, unclasped at the throat, had fallen away, revealing the white flannel nightgown over which she had hastily drawn a petticoat before sallying forth.
He went to the kitchen door and found Zachariah sitting grumpily on the step.
"She's still sound asleep," he announced.
"So's dat lazy Hattie over yander," lamented Zachariah, with a jerk of his head. "Ain' no smoke comin' out'n her chimbley, lemme tell yo'."
"Fill that wash-pan and get me a clean towel," ordered his master. He looked at his watch. "I'm going to awaken her,—in half an hour."
It was nearly seven o'clock when he stamped noisily into the sitting-room with towel and basin. He had thrice repeated his visit to the window, and with each succeeding visit had remained a little longer than before, notwithstanding the no uncertain sense of guilt that accused him of spying upon the lovely sleeper.
She awoke with a start, looked blankly about as if bewildered by her strange surroundings, and then fixed her wide, questioning eyes upon him, watching him in silence as he placed the basin of spring-water on a chair and draped the coarse towel over the back.
"Breakfast will be ready in ten minutes, Miss," he announced, bowing deeply. "If you desire to freshen yourself a bit after your profound slumbers, you will find here some of the finest water in the universe and a towel warranted to produce a blush upon the cheek of a graven image."
"Has mother come home?" she inquired anxiously, as she drew the shawl close about her throat again. "No sign of her. Hurry along, and as soon as we've had a bite to eat I'll ride down to the Court House and see if she's there."
He left her, and presently she came out into the kitchen, her skin glowing warmly, her braids loosely coiled on the crown of her head, her eyes like violet stars.
Zachariah marvelled at his master's appetite. Recollection of an already devoured meal of no small proportions caused him to doubt his senses. From time to time he shook his head in wonder and finally took to chuckling. The next time Marse Kenneth complained about having no appetite he would know what to say to him.
"I must run home now," said Viola at the close of the meal. "It's been awfully nice,—and so exciting, Kenny. I feel as if I had been doing something I ought not to do. Isn't it queer? Having breakfast with a man I never saw until six weeks ago!"
"It does my heart good to see you blush so prettily," said he warmly. Then his face darkened. "And it turns my blood cold to think that if you had succeeded in doing something you ought not to have done six weeks ago, you might now be having breakfast with somebody else instead of with me."
"I wish you would not speak of that, Kenneth," she said severely. "You will make me hate you if you bring it up again." Then she added with a plaintive little smile: "The Bible says, 'Love thy neighbour as thyself.' I am doing my best to live up to that, but sometimes you make it awfully hard for me."
He went to the door with her. She paused for a moment on the step to look searchingly up the road and through the trees. There was no sign of her mother. The anxious, worried expression deepened in her eyes.
"Don't come any farther with me," she said. "Go down to the Court House as fast as you can."
He watched her till she passed through the gate. As he was on the point of re-entering the house he saw her come to an abrupt stop and stare straight ahead. He shot a swift, apprehensive glance over his shoulder.
Barry Lapelle had just emerged from Rachel's yard, his gaze fixed on the girl who stood motionless in front of Gwynne's gate, a hundred feet away. Without taking his eyes from her, he slowly closed the gate and leaned against it, folding his arms as he did so.
Viola, after a moment's indecision and without a glance at Kenneth, lifted her chin and went forward to the encounter. Kenneth looked in all directions for Lapelle's rascals. He was relieved to find that the discarded suitor apparently had ventured alone upon this early morning mission. What did it portend?
Filled with sharp misgivings, he left his doorstep and walked slowly down to the gate, where he halted. It occurred to him that Barry, after a sleepless night, had come to make peace with his tempestuous sweetheart. If such was the case, his own sense of fairness and dignity would permit no interference on his part unless it was solicited by the girl herself. He was ready, however, to take instant action if she made the slightest sign of distress or alarm. While he had no intention of spying or eavesdropping, their voices reached him distinctly and he could not help hearing what passed between them.
"Have you been up to the house, Barry?" were Viola's first words as she stopped in front of the man who barred the way.
Lapelle did not change his position. His chin was lowered and he was looking at her through narrowed, unsmiling eyes.
"Yes, I have."
"Where was the dog?" she inquired cuttingly.
"He came and licked my hand. He's the only friend I've got up here, I reckon."
"I will have him shot to-day. What do you want?"
"I came to see your mother. Where is she?"
"She's away."
"Over night?"
"It will do you no good to see her, Barry. You might as well realize it first as last."
Lapelle glanced past her at the man beyond and lowered his voice. Kenneth could not hear what he said. "Well, I'm going to see her, and she will be down on her knees before I'm through with her, let me tell you. Oh, I'm sober, Viola! I had my lesson yesterday. I'm through with whiskey forever. So she was away all night, eh? Out to the farm, eh? That nigger girl of yours says she must have gone out to the farm last night, because her bed wasn't slept in. And you weren't expecting visitors as early as this or you would have got home a little sooner yourself, huh?"
"What are you talking about?"
"Soon as she is out of the house you scoot over to big brother Kenny's, eh? Afraid to sleep alone, I suppose. Well, all I've got to say is you ought to have taken a little more time to dress."
"Oh! Oh,—you—you low-lived dog!" she gasped, going white to the roots of her hair. "How dare you say—"
"That's right! Call me all the pretty names you can think of. And say, I didn't come up here to beg anything from you or your mother. I'm not in a begging humour. I'm through licking your boots, Viola. What time will the old woman be back?"
"Stand away from that gate!" she said in a voice low and hoarse with fury. "Don't you dare speak to me again. And if you follow me to the house I'll—I'll—"
"What'll you do?" he jeered. "Call brother Kenny? Well, go ahead and call him. There he is. I'll kick him from here to the pond,—and that won't be half so pleasant as rocking little sister to sleep in her cradle while mamma is out for the night."
"And I used to think I was in love with you!" she cried in sheer disgust. "I could spit in your face, Barry Lapelle. Will you let me pass?"
"Certainly. But I'm going into the house with you, understand that. I'd just as soon wait there for your mother as anywhere else."
"When my mother hears about this she will have you horsewhipped within an inch of your life," cried the girl furiously.
These words, rising on a wave of anger, came distinctly to Kenneth's ears. He left his place at the gate and walked swiftly along inside his fence until he came to the corner of the yard, where the bushes grew thickly. Here he stopped to await further developments. He heard Barry say, with a harsh laugh:
"Oh, she will, will she?"
"Yes, she will. She knows more about you than you think she does,—and so do I. Let me by! Do you hear me, Bar—"
"That's funny," he interrupted, lowering his voice to a half-whisper. "That's just what I came up to see her about. I want to tell her that I know more about her than she thinks I do. And when I get through telling her what I know she'll change her mind about letting us get married. And you'll marry me, too, my girl, without so much as a whimper. Oh, you needn't look around for big brother,—God, I bet you'd be happy if he wasn't your brother, wouldn't you? Well, he has sneaked into the house, just as I knew he would if it looked like a squall. He's a white-livered coward. How do you like that?"
He was not only astonished but distinctly confounded by the swift, incomprehensible smile that played about her disdainful lips.
"What the hellfire are you laughing at?" he exploded.
"Nothing much. I was only thinking about last night."
"Christ!" he exclaimed, the blood rushing to his face. "Why,—why, you—" The words failed him. He could only stare at her as if stunned by the most shocking confession.
"Please remember that you are speaking to—"
He broke in with a snarling laugh. "By thunder, I'm beginning to believe you're no better than she was. She wasn't anything but a common———, and I'm blessed if I think it's sensible to marry into the family, after all."
"Oh!" she gasped, closing her eyes as she shrank away from him. The word he had used stood for the foulest thing on earth to her. It had never passed her clean, pure lips. For the moment she was petrified, speechless.
"It's about time you learned the truth about that damned old hypocrite,—if you don't know it already," he continued, raising his voice at the urge of the now reckless fury that consumed him. He stood over her shrinking figure, glaring mercilessly down into her horror-struck eyes. "You don't need to take my word for it. Ask Gwynne. He knows. He knows what happened back there in Kentucky. He knows she ran off with his father twenty years ago, taking him away from the woman he was married to. That's why he hates her. That's why he never had anything to do with his dog of a father. And, by God, he probably knows you were born out of wedlock,—that you're a love-child, a bas—"
He never finished the word. A whirlwind was upon him. Before he could raise a hand to defend himself, Kenneth Gwynne's brawny fist smote him squarely between the eyes. He went down as though struck by a sledge-hammer, crashing to the ground full six feet from where he stood. Behind that clumsy blow was the weight of a thirteen stone body, hurled as from a mighty catapult.
He never knew how long afterward it was that he heard a voice speaking to him. The words, jumbled and unintelligible, seemed to come from a great distance. He attempted to rise, gave it up, and fell back dizzily. His vision was slow in clearing. What he finally saw, through blurred, uncertain eyes, was the face of Kenneth Gwynne, far above him,—and it was a long time before it stopped whirling and became fixed in one place. Then he realized that it was the voice of Gwynne that was speaking to him, and he made out the words. Something warm and wet crept along the sides of his mouth, over his chin, down his neck. His throat was full of a hot nauseous fluid. He raised himself on one elbow and spat.
"Get up! Get up, you filthy whelp! I'm not going to hit you again. Get up, I say!"
He struggled to his knees and then to his feet, sagging limply against the fence, to which he clung for support. He felt for his nose, filled with a horrid, sickening dread that it was no longer on his face.
"I ought to kill you," he heard Gwynne saying. "You black-hearted, lying scoundrel. Get out of my sight!"
He succeeded in straightening up and looked about him through a mist of tears. He tried to speak, but could only wheeze and sputter. He cleared his throat raucously and spat again.
"Where—where is she?" he managed to say at last.
"Shut up! You've dealt her the foulest—"
He broke off abruptly, struck by the other's expression: Lapelle was staring past him in the direction of the house and there was the look of a frightened, trapped animal in his glassy eyes.
"My God!" fell from his lips, and then suddenly he sprang forward, placing Kenneth's body between him and the object of his terror. "Stop her! For God's sake, Gwynne,—stop her!"
For the first time since Barry went crashing to earth and lay as one dead, Gwynne raised his eyes from the blood-smeared face. Vaguely he remembered the swift rush of Viola's feet as she sped past him,—but that was long ago and he had not looked to see whither she fled.
She was now coming down the steps of the porch, a half-raised rifle in her hands. He was never to forget her white, set face, nor the menacing look in her eyes as she advanced to the killing of Barry Lapelle,—for there was no mistaking her purpose.
"Drop down!" he shouted to Lapelle. As Barry sank cowering behind him, he cried out sharply to the girl: "Viola! Drop that gun! Do you hear me? Good God, have you lost your senses?"
She came on slowly, her head a little to one side the better to see the partially obscured figure of the crouching man.
"It won't do you any good to hide, Barry," she said, in a voice that neither of the men recognized.
"Don't be a fool, Viola!" cried Kenneth. "Leave him to me. Go back to the house. I will attend to him."
She stopped and lifted her eyes to stare at the speaker in sheer wonder and astonishment.
"Why,—you heard what he said. You heard what he called my mother. Stand away from him, Kenneth."
"I can't allow you to shoot him, Viola. You will have to shoot me first. My God, child,—do you want to have a man's life-blood on your hands?"
"He said she ran away with your father," she cried, a spasm of pain crossing her face. "He said I was born before they were married. I have a right to kill him. Do you hear? I have a right to—"
"Don't you know it would be murder? Cold-blooded murder? No! You will have to kill me first. Do you understand? I shall not move an inch. I am not going to let you do something you will regret to the end of your life. Put it down! Drop that gun, I say! If there is to be any killing, I will do it,—not you!"
She closed her eyes. Her tense body relaxed. The two men, watching her with bated breath and vastly different emotions, could almost visualize the struggle that was going on within her. At last the long rifle barrel was lowered; as the muzzle touched the ground she opened her eyes. Slowly they went from Kenneth to the man who crouched behind him. She gazed at the bloody face as if seeing it for the first time.
The woman in her revolted at the spectacle. After a moment of indecision, she turned with a shudder and walked toward the house, dragging the rifle by the stock. As she was about to mount the steps she paused to send a swift glance over her shoulder and then, obeying the appeal in Kenneth's eyes, reluctantly, even carefully, leaned the gun against a post and disappeared through the door.
"Stand up!" ordered Gwynne, turning to Lapelle. "I ought to kill you myself. It's in my heart to do so. Do you know what you've done to her?"
Barry drew himself up, his fast swelling, bloodshot eyes filled with a deadly hatred. His voice was thick and unsteady.
"You'd better kill me while you have the chance," he said. "Because, so help me God, I'm going to kill you for this."
"Go!" thundered the other, his hands twitching. "If you don't, I'll strangle the life out of you."
Lapelle drew back, quailing before the look in Kenneth's eyes. He saw murder in them.
"You didn't give me a chance, damn you," he snarled. "You hit me before I had a chance to—"
"I wish to God I had hit you sooner,—and that I had killed you," grated Kenneth.
"You will wish that with all your soul before I am through with you," snarled Barry. "Oh, I'm not afraid of you! I know the whole beastly story about your father and that—"
"Stop!" cried Kenneth, taking a step forward, his arm drawn back. "Not another word, Lapelle! You've said enough! I know where you got your information,—and I can tell you, here and now, that the man lied to you. I'm going to give you twenty-four hours to get out of this town for good. And if I hear that you have repeated a word of what you said to her I'll see to it that you are strung up by the neck and your miserable carcass filled with bullets. Oh, you needn't sputter! It will be your word against mine. I guess you know which of us the men of this town will believe. And you needn't expect to be supported by your friend Jasper Suggs or the gentle Mr. Hawk,—Aha, THAT got under your pelt, didn't it? If either of them is still alive at this minute, it's because he surrendered without a fight and not because God took care of him. Your beautiful game is spoiled, Lapelle,—and you'll be lucky to get off with a whole skin. I'm giving you a chance. Get out of this town,—and stay out!"
Barry, recovering quickly from the shock, made a fair show of bravado.
"What are you talking about? What the devil have I got to do with—"
"That's enough! You know what I'm talking about. Take my advice. Get out of town before you are a day older. You will save yourself a ride on a rail and a rawhiding that you'll not forget to your dying day."
"I will leave this town when I feel like it, Gwynne," said Lapelle, drawing himself up. "I don't take orders from you. You will hear from me later. You've got the upper hand now,—with that nigger of yours standing over there holding an axe in his hands, ready to kill me if I make a move. We'll settle this in the regular way, Gwynne,—with pistols. You may expect a friend of mine to call on you shortly."
"As you like," retorted the other, bowing stiffly. "You may name the time and place."
Lapelle bowed and then cast an eye about in quest of his hat. It was lying in the road some distance away. He strode over and picked it up. Quite naturally, perhaps unconsciously, he resorted to the habit of years: he cocked it slightly at just the right angle over his eye. Then, without a glance behind, he crossed the road and plunged into the thicket.
Kenneth watched him till he disappeared from view. Suddenly aware of a pain in his hand, he held it out before him and was astonished to find that the knuckles were already beginning to puff. He winced when he tried to clench his fist. A rueful smile twitched at the corners of his mouth.
"Mighty slim chance I'll have," he said to himself. "Won't be able to pull a trigger to save my life."
He hurried up the path and, without knocking, opened the door and entered the house. Hattie was coming down the stairs, her eyes as round as saucers.
"Where is Miss Viola?"
"She done gone up stairs, suh. Lan' sakes, Mistah Gwynne, what fo' yo' do dat to Mistah Barry? He her beau. Didn't yo'all know dat? Ah close mah eyes when she tooken dat gun out dar. Sez Ah, she gwine to shoot Mistah Gwynne—"
"Tell her I'm here, Hattie. I must see her at once. It's all right. She isn't angry with me."
The girl hesitated. "She look mighty white an' sick, suh. She never say a word. Jes' go right up stairs, she did. Ah follers, 'ca'se Ah was skeert about de way she look. She shutten de do' an' drop de bolt,—yas, suh, dat's what she do. Lordy, Ah wonder why her ma don't come home an' look after—"
"See here," he broke in, "don't disturb her now. I will come back in a little while. If she wants me for anything you will find me out at the gate. Do you understand? Don't fail to call me. I am going out there to wait for her mother."
It suddenly had occurred to him that he ought to intercept Rachel Carter before she reached the house, not only to prepare her for the shock that awaited her but to devise between them some means of undoing the harm that already had been done. They would have to stand together in denouncing Barry, they would have to swear to Viola that the story was false. He realized what this would mean to him: an almost profane espousal of his enemy's cause, involving not only the betrayal of his own conscience, but the deliberate repudiation of the debt he owed his mother and her people. He would have to go before Viola and proclaim the innocence of the woman who had robbed and murdered his own mother. The unthinkable, the unbelievable confronted him.
A cold sweat broke out all over him as he stood down by the gate, torn between hatred for one woman and love for another: Rachel and Minda Carter. He could not spare one without sparing the other; lying to one of them meant lying for the other. But there was no alternative. The memory of the look in Viola's eyes as she shrank away from Lapelle, the thought of the cruel shock she must have suffered, the picture of her as she came down the path to kill—no, there could be no alternative!
And so, as he leaned rigidly against the gate, sick at heart but clear of head, waiting for Rachel Carter, he came to think that, after all, a duel with Barry Lapelle might prove to be the easiest and noblest way out of his difficulties.
It wanted half an hour of daybreak when a slow-riding, silent group of men came to a halt and dismounted in the narrow lane some distance from the ramshackle abode of Martin Hawk, squatting unseen among the trees that lined the steep bank of the Wabash. A three hours' ride through dark, muddy roads lay behind them. There were a dozen men in all,—and one woman, at whose side rode the hunter, Stain. They had stopped at the latter's cabin on the way down, and she had conversed apart with him through a window. Then they rode off, leaving him to follow.
There were no lights, and no man spoke above a whisper. The work of tethering the horses progressed swiftly but with infinite caution. Eyes made sharp by long hours of darkness served their owners well in this stealthy enterprise.
The half-hour passed and the night began to lift. Vague unusual objects slowly took shape, like gloomy spectres emerging from impenetrable fastnesses. Blackness gave way to a faint drab pall; then the cold, unearthly grey of the still remote dawn came stealing across the fields.
At last it was light enough to see, and the advance upon the cabin began. Silently through the dense, shadowy wood crept the sheriff and his men,—followed by the tall woman in black and a lank, bearded man whose rifle-stock bore seven tiny but significant notches,—sinister epitaphs for as many by-gone men.
A dog barked,—the first alarm. Then another, and still a third joined in a fierce outcry against the invaders. Suddenly the door of the hut was thrown open and a half-dressed man stooped in the low aperture, peering out across the dawn-shrouded clearing. The three coon-dogs, slinking out of the shadows, crowded up to the door, their snarling muzzles pointed toward the encircling trees.
Two men stepped out of the underbrush and advanced. Even in the dim, uncertain light, Martin Hawk could see that they carried rifles. His eyes were like those of the bird whose name he bore. They swept the clearing in a flash. As if by magic, men appeared to right of him, to left of him, in front of him. He counted them. Seven,—no, there was another,—eight. And he knew there were more of them, back of the house, cutting off retreat to the river.
"Don't move, Martin," called out a voice.
"What do you want?" demanded Hawk, in a sharp, querulous voice.
"I am the sheriff. Got a warrant for your arrest. No use makin' a fight for it, Hawk. You are completely surrounded. You can't get away."
"I ain't done nothin' to be arrested fer," cried the man in the doorway. "I'm an honest man,—I hain't ever done—"
"Well, that's not for me to decide," interrupted the sheriff, now not more than a dozen feet away. "I've got a warrant charging you with sheep-stealing and so on, and that's all there is to it. I'm not the judge and jury. You come along quiet now and no foolishness."
"Who says I stole sheep?"
"Step outside here and I'll read the affidavit to you. And say, if you don't want your dogs massacreed, you'd better call 'em off."
Martin Hawk looked over his shoulder into the dark interior of the hut, spoke to some one under his breath, and then began cursing his dogs.
"I might have knowed you'd git me into trouble, you lop-eared, sheep-killin' whelps!" he whined. "I'd ought to shot the hull pack of ye when you was pups. Git out'n my sight! There's yer sheep-stealers, sheriff,—them ornery, white-livered, blood-suckin'—"
"I don't know anything about that, Martin," snapped the sheriff. "All I know is, you got to come along with me,—peaceable or otherwise,—and I guess if you're half as smart as I think you are, you won't come otherwise. Here! Don't go back in that house, Hawk."
"Well, I got to tell my daughter—"
"We'll tell her. There's another man or two in there. Just tell 'em to step outside,—and leave their weapons behind 'em."
"There ain't a livin' soul in thar, 'cept my daughter,—so he'p me God, sheriff," cried Hawk, his teeth beginning to chatter. The sheriff was close enough to see the look of terror and desperation in his eyes.
"No use lyin', Hawk. You've got a man named Suggs stayin' with you. He ain't accused of anything, so he needn't be afraid to come out. Same applies to your daughter Moll. But I don't want anybody in there to take a shot at us the minute we turn our backs. Shake 'em out, Hawk."
"I tell ye there ain't nobody here but me an' Moll,—an' she's sick. She can't come out. An'—an' you can't go in,—not unless you got a warrant to search my house. That's what the law sez,—an' you know it. I'll go along with you peaceable,—an' stand my trial fer sheep-stealin' like a man. Lemme get my hat an' coat, an' I'll come—"
"I guess there's something queer about all this," interrupted the sheriff. The man beside him had just whispered something in his ear. "We'll take a look inside that cabin, law or no law, Hawk. Move up, boys!" he called out to the scattered men. "Keep your eyes skinned. If you ketch sight of a rifle ball comin' to'ards you,—dodge. And you, Martin, step outside here, where you won't be in the way. I'm going in there."
Martin Hawk looked wildly about him. On all sides were men with rifles. There was no escape. His craven heart failed him, his knees gave way beneath him and an instant later he was grovelling in the mud at the sheriff's feet.
"I didn't do it! I didn't do it! I swear to God I didn't. It was her. She done it,—Moll done it!" he squealed in abject terror.
He was grabbed by strong hands and jerked to his feet. While others held him, the sheriff and several of the men rushed into the cabin.
Off at the edge of the clearing stood Rachel Carter and Isaac Stain, watching the scene at the door.
"One look will be enough," the woman had said tersely. "Twenty years will not have changed Simon Braley much. I will know him at sight."
"You got to be sure, Mrs. Gwyn," muttered the hunter. "Ef you got the slightest doubt, say so."
"I will, Isaac."
"And ef you say it's him, fer sure an' no mistake, I'll foller him to the end of the world but what I git him."
"If it is Simon Braley he will make a break for cover. He is not like that whimpering coward over yonder. And the sheriff will make no attempt to bring him down. There is no complaint against him. No one knows that he is Simon Braley."
"Well, I'll be on his heels," was the grim promise of Isaac Stain, thinking of the sister who had been slain by Braley's Indians down on the River White.
One of the men rushed out of the cabin. He was vastly excited.
"Don't let go of him," he shouted to the men who were holding Martin. "There's hell to pay in there. Where is Mrs. Gwyn?"
"I never done it!" wailed Martin, livid with terror. "I swear to God—"
"Shut up!"
"She's over there, Sam,—with Ike Stain."
Ignoring the question that followed him, the man called Sam hurried up to the couple at the edge of the bush.
"Better clear out, Mrs. Gwyn," he said soberly. "I mean, don't stay around. Something in there you oughtn't to see."
"What is it?" she inquired sharply.
"Well, you see,—there's a dead man in there,—knifed. Blood all over everything and—"
"The man called Suggs?"
"I reckon so. Leastwise it must be him. 'Pears to be a stranger to all of us. Deader'n a door nail. He's—"
"I am not chicken-hearted, Mr. Corbin," she announced. "I have seen a good many dead men in my time. The sight of blood does not affect me. I will go in and see him. No! Please do not stay me."
Despite his protestations, she strode resolutely across the lot. As she passed Martin Hawk that cowering rascal stared at her, first without comprehension, then with a suddenly awakened, acute understanding.
It was she who had brought the authorities down upon him. She had made "affidavy" against him,—she had got him into this horrible mess by swearing that he stole her sheep and calves. True, he had stolen from her,—there was, no doubt about that,—but he had covered his tracks perfectly. Any one of a half-dozen men along the river might have stolen her stock,—they were stealing right and left. How then did she come to fix upon him as the one to accuse? In a flash he leaped to a startling conclusion. Barry Lapelle! The man who knew all about his thievish transactions and who for months had profited by them. Hides, wool, fresh meats from the secret lairs and slaughter pens back in the trackless wilds, all these had gone down the river on Barry's boats, products of a far-reaching system of outlawry, with Barry and his captains sharing in the proceeds.
Now he understood. Lapelle had gone back on him, had betrayed him to his future mother-in-law. The fine gentleman had no further use for him; Mrs. Gwyn had given her consent to the marriage and in return for that he had betrayed a loyal friend! And now look at the position he was in, all through Barry Lapelle. Sheep stealing was nothing to what he might have to face. Even though Moll had done the killing, he would have a devil of a time convincing a jury of the fact. More than likely, Moll would up and deny that she had anything to do with it,—and then what? It would be like the ornery slut to lie out of it and let 'em hang her own father, just to pay him back for the lickings he had given her.
All this raced through the fast-steadying brain of Martin Hawk as he watched his accuser pass him by without a look and stop irresolutely on his threshold to stare aghast at what lay beyond. It became a conviction, rather than a conjecture. Barry had set the dogs upon him! Snake! Well,—just let him get loose from these plagued hounds for half an hour or so and, by glory, they'd have something to hang him for or his name wasn't Martin Hawk.
Isaac Stain did not move from the spot where she had left him, over at the edge of the clearing. His rifle was ready, his keen eyes alert. Rachel Carter entered the hut. Many minutes passed. Then she came to the door and beckoned to him.
"It is Simon Braley," she said quietly. "He is dead. The girl killed him, Isaac. Will you ride over to my farm and have Allen come over here with a wagon? They're going to take the body up to town,—and the girl, too."
Stain stood his rifle against the wall of the hut. "I guess I won't need this," was all he said as he turned and strode away.
The man called Jasper Suggs lay in front of the tumble-down fireplace, his long body twisted grotesquely by the final spasm of pain that carried him off. The lower part of his body was covered by a filthy strip of rag carpet which some one had hastily thrown over him as Rachel Carter was on the point of entering the house. His coarse linsey shirt was soaked with blood, now dry and almost black. The harsh light from the open door struck full upon his bearded face and its staring eyes.
In a corner, at the foot of a straw pallet, ordinarily screened from the rest of the cabin by a couple of suspended quilts, stood Moll Hawk, leaning against the wall, her dark sullen eyes following the men as they moved about the room. The quilts, ruthlessly torn from their fastenings on the pole, lay scattered and trampled on the floor, sinister evidence of the struggle that had taken place between woman and beast. At the other end of the room were two similar pallets, unscreened, and beside one of these lay Jasper Suggs' rawhide boots.
From her place in the shadows Moll Hawk watched the other woman stoop over and gaze intently at the face of the slain man. She was a tall, well-developed girl of twenty or thereabouts. Her long, straight hair, the colour of the raven's wing, swung loose about her shoulders, an occasional strand trailing across her face, giving her a singularly witchlike appearance. Her body from the waist up was stripped almost bare; there were several long streaks of blood across her breast, where the fingers of a gory hand had slid in relaxing their grip on her shoulder. With one hand she clutched what was left of a tattered garment, vainly seeking to hide her naked breasts. The stout, coarse dress had been almost torn from her body.
Mrs. Gwyn left the hut but soon returned. After a few earnest words with the sheriff, she came slowly over to the girl. Moll shrank back against the wall, a strange glitter leaping into her sullen, lifeless eyes.
"I don't want nobody prayin' over me," she said huskily. "I jest want to be let alone."
"I am not going to pray over you, my girl. I want you to come out in the back yard with me, where I can wash the blood off of you and put something around you."
"What's the use'n that? They're goin' to take me to jail, ain't they?"
"Have you another frock to put on, Moll?"
The girl looked down at her torn, disordered dress, a sneering smile on her lips.
"This is all I got,—an' now look at it. I ain't had a new dress in God knows how long. Pap ain't much on dressin' me up. Mr. Lapelle he promised me a new dress but—say, who air you?"
"I am Mrs. Gwyn, Moll."
"I might ha' knowed it. You're her ma, huh? Well, I guess you'd better go on away an' let me alone. I ain't axin' no favours off'n—" "I am not trying to do you a favour. I am only trying to make you a little more presentable. You are going up to town, Moll."
"Yes,—I guess that's so. Can't they hang me here an' have it over?" A look of terror gleamed in her eyes, but there was no flinching of the body, no tremor in her voice.
The sheriff came over. "Better let Mrs. Gwyn fix you up a little, Moll. She's a good, kind lady and she'll—"
"I don't want to go to town," whimpered the girl, covering her face with her hands. "I don't want to be hung. I jest had to do it,—I jest had to. There wuz no other way,—'cept to—'cept to—an' I jest couldn't do that. Now I wish I had,—oh, Lordy, how I wish I had! That wuz bad enough, but hangin's wuss. He wuz goin' away in a day or two, anyhow, so—"
"You're not going to be hung, Moll," broke in the sheriff. "Don't you worry about that. We don't hang women for killing men like that feller over there. Like as not you'll be set free in no time at all. All you've got to do is to tell the truth about how it happened and that'll be all there is to it."
"You're lyin' to me, jest to git me to go along quiet," she quavered, but there was a new light in her eyes.
"I'm not lying. You will have to stand trial, of course,—you understand that, don't you?—but there isn't a jury on earth that would hang you. We don't do that kind of thing to women. Now you go along with Mrs. Gwyn and do what she says,—and you can tell me all about this after a while."
"I'll wash, but I hain't got no more clothes," muttered the girl.
"We will manage somehow," said Mrs. Gwyn. "One of the men will give you a coat,—or you may have my cape to wear, Moll."
Moll looked at her in surprise. Again she said the unexpected thing. "Why, ever'body says you air a mighty onfeelin' woman, Mis' Gwyn. I can't believe you'd let me take your cape."
"You will see, my girl. Come! Show me where to find water and a comb and—"
"Wait a minute," said Moll abruptly. "Somehow I ain't as skeert as I wuz. You're shore they won't hang me? 'Ca'se I'd hate to be hung,—I'd hate to die that-away, Mister."
"They won't hang you, Moll,—take my word for it."
"Well, then," said she, bringing forward the hand she had been holding behind her back all the time; "here's the knife I done it with. It's his'n. He was braggin' last night about how many gullets he had slit with it,—I mean men's gullets. I wuz jest sort o' hangin' onto it in case I—but I don't believe I ever could a' done it. 'Tain't 'ca'se I'm afeared to die but they say a person that takes his own life is shore to go to hell—'ca'se he don't git no chance fer to repent. Take it, Mister."
She handed the big sheath-knife to the sheriff. Then she followed Rachel Carter out of the hut, apparently unconscious of the curious eyes that followed her. She passed close by the corpse. She looked down at the ghastly face and twisted body without the slightest trace of emotion,—neither dread nor repugnance nor interest beyond a curious narrowing of the eyes as of one searching for some sign of trickery on the part of a wily adversary. On the way out she stopped to pick up a wretched, almost toothless comb and some dishrags.
"I guess we better go down to the river," she said as they stepped out into the open. "'Tain't very fer, Mrs. Gwyn,—an' the water's cleaner. Hain't no danger of me tryin' to git away," she went on, with a feeble grin as her eyes swept the little clearing, revealing armed men in all directions. Her gaze rested for a moment on Martin Hawk, who was staring at her from his seat on a stump hard by.
"There's my pap over yonder," she said, with a scowl. "He's the one that ort to be strung up fer all this. He didn't do it,—but he's to blame, just the same. They ain't got him 'rested fer doin' it, have they? 'Ca'se he didn't. He'll tell you he's as innocent as a unborn child,—he allus does,—an' he is as fer as the killin' goes. But ef he'd done what wuz right hit never would 'a' happened. Thet's whut I got ag'inst him."
Rachel Carter was looking at the strange creature with an interest not far removed from pity. Despite the sullen, hang-dog expression she was a rather handsome girl; wild, untutored, almost untamed she was, and yet not without a certain diffidence that bespoke better qualities than appeared on the surface. She was tall and strongly built, with the long, swinging stride of the unhampered woods-woman. Her young shoulders and back were bent with the toil and drudgery of the life she led. Her eyes, in which lurked a never-absent gleam of pain, were dark, smouldering, deep set and so restless that one could not think of them as ever being closed in sleep.
The girl led the way down a narrow path to a little sand-bar.
"I go in swimmin' here every day, 'cept when it's froze over," she volunteered dully. "Hain't you skeert at the sight o' blood, ma'am? Some people air. We wuz figgerin' on whuther we'd dig a grave fer him or jest pull out yonder into the current an' drop him over. Pap said we had to git rid of him 'fore anybody come around. 'Nen the dogs begin to bark an' he thought mebby it wuz Mr. Lapelle, so he—say, you mustn't get Mr. Lapelle mixed up in this. He—"
"I know all about Mr. Lapelle, Moll," interrupted the older woman.
The girl gave her a sharp, almost hostile look. "Then you hain't goin' to let him have your girl, air you?"
Mrs. Gwyn shook her head. "No, Moll,—I am not," she said.
"You set here on this log," ordered the girl as they came down to the water's edge. "I'll do my own washin'. I'm kind o' 'shamed to have any one see me as naked as this. There ain't much left of my dress, is they? We fit fer I don't know how long, like a couple o' dogs. You c'n see the black an' blue places on my arms out here in the daylight,-an' I guess his finger marks must be on my neck, where he wuz chokin' me. I wuz tryin' to wrassle around till I could git nigh to the table, where his knife wuz stickin'. My eyes wuz poppin' right out'n my head when I—"
"For heaven's sake, girl!" cried Rachel Carter. "Don't! Don't tell me any more! I can't bear to hear you talk about it."
Moll stared at her for a moment as if bewildered, and then suddenly turned away, her chin quivering with mortification. She had been reprimanded!
For several minutes Rachel stood in silence, watching her as she washed the blood from her naked breast and shoulders. Presently the girl turned toward her, as if for inspection.
"I'm sorry, ma'am, if I talked too much," she mumbled awkwardly. "I'd ort to have knowed better. Is—is it all off?"
"I think so," said Rachel, pulling herself together with an effort. "Let me—"
"No, I'll finish it," said the girl stubbornly. She dried her brown, muscular arms, rubbed her body vigorously with one of the rags and then began to comb out her long, tangled hair,—not gently but with a sort of relentless energy. Swiftly, deftly she plaited it into two long braids, which she left hanging down in front of her shoulders, squaw fashion.
"How long had you known this man Suggs, Moll?" suddenly inquired the other woman.
"Off an' on ever sence I kin remember," replied the girl. "Pap knowed him down south. We hain't seed much of him fer quite a spell. Four—five year, I guess mebby. He come here last week one day."
The eyes of the two women met. Moll broke the short silence that ensued. She glanced over her shoulder. The nearest man was well out of earshot. Still she lowered her voice.
"He claims he use ter know you a long time ago," she said.
"Yes?"
"Mebby you'd recollect him ef I tole you his right name."
"His name was Simon Braley," said Rachel Carter calmly.
Moll's eyes narrowed. "Then what he sez wuz true?"
"I don't know what he said to you, Moll."
"He sez you run off with some other woman's husband," replied Moll bluntly.
"Did he tell this to any one except you and your father?"
"He didn't tell no one but me, fer as I know. He didn't tell Pap."
"When did he tell you?"
"Las' night," said Moll, suddenly dropping her eyes. "He wuz drinkin',—an' I thought mebby he wuz lyin'."
"You are sure he did not tell your father?"
"I'm purty shore he didn't."
"Why did he tell you?"
The girl raised her eyes. There was a deeper look of pain in them now. "I'd ruther not tell," she muttered.
"You need not be afraid."
"Well, he wuz arguin' with me. He said there wuzn't any good women in the world. 'Why,' sez he, 'I seen a woman this very day that everybody thinks is as good as the angels up in heaven, but when I tell you whut I know about her you'll—'"
"You need not go on," interrupted Rachel Carter, drawing her brows together. "Would you believe me if I told you the man lied, Moll Hawk?"
"Yes, ma'am,—I would," said the girl promptly. "Fer as that goes, I TOLE him he lied."
Rachel started to say something, then closed her lips tightly and fell to staring out over the river. The girl eyed her for a moment and then went on:
"You needn't be skeert of me ever tellin' anybody whut he said to me. Hit wouldn't be right to spread a lie like thet, Mis' Gwyn. You—"
"I think they are waiting for us, Moll," interrupted Rachel, suddenly holding out her hand to the girl. "Thank you. Come, give me your hand. We will go back to them, hand in hand, my girl."
Moll stared at her in sheer astonishment.
"You—you don't want to hold my hand in yours, do you?" she murmured slowly, incredulously.
"I do. You will find me a good friend,—and you will need good friends, Moll."
Dumbly the girl held out her hand. It was clasped firmly by Rachel Carter. They were half-way up the bank when Moll held back and tried to withdraw her hand.
"I—I can't let you,—why, ma'am, that's the hand I—I held the knife in," she cried, agitatedly.
Rachel gripped the hand more firmly. "I know it is, Moll," she said calmly.