WHERE WAS JACK TYRREL?
Over a bed of gold.
The three gold-seekers were indeed in the valley of treasure. A few
hours of earnest work in the "pocket" revealed riches beyond account,
and so infatuated did all become with the results of their labor that
scarcely could the one detailed to the daily service of hunting for
food take the time necessary to procure proper supplies.
Nothing had occurred to disturb their intense labors, although more
than once the hunter for the day had come across strange tracks in
the vicinity of their golden bed, and the soul-sickening dread that
assailed Robinson Crusoe, on his desert isle, now found a resting
place in their hearts. They fancied this was the track of some
malicious-minded enemy who was watching them with the intention of
robbing the golden store that had grown daily more and more dear to
them.
A sad change had come over the trio. Their friends and loved ones would
scarcely have recognized them, even after these few days of success.
Pale, haggard, and hollow-eyed, they toiled on almost unceasingly,
scarce speaking a word through the livelong day, even seeming
suspicious of each other, sleeping fitfully, often awaking with a
start as if from some haunting dream to glare at the spot where their
treasure was hoarded away. A sad, sad change, and one that was daily
growing more and more apparent.
Day by day, hour by hour, the insidious _gold-fever_ was gaining in
power over them, crushing out all generous thoughts, tightening its
grasp upon their heart-strings, until scarce one trace of their former
selves was left.
Nearly a week had elapsed since their arrival at the valley of gold. It
was night, and though the past day had been one of almost breathless
toil, the three adventurers sat awake and sleepless, smoking their
pipes in silence beneath the rude, frail shelter of vine-clad brush.
All without was dark and dismal. The air was charged with electricity,
and the comrades found it impossible to sleep. All nature seemed
feverish and ill at ease.
The moon was obscured; dense sulphurous masses of clouds swirled
athwart the horizon in wild confusion. Low, sullen mutterings filled
the air. A tempest was brewing.
Silently smoking, the gold-hunters watched the play of the clouds. They
seemed to care little for the result. What mattered it though they did
get wet? The rain could not injure their golden treasure, and what else
had they to care for? Nothing.
Suddenly Paley Duplin sprung half erect, outstretching one hand as the
pipe dropped unheeded at his feet. His voice sounded strangely excited,
trembling violently.
"My God! look yonder--that light!"
Far up the bed of the one-time water-course, a light seemed slowly
moving to and fro. This, of itself, in that lone and desolate spot, was
enough to excite wonder. But it was the _shape_ the light gradually
assumed as it drew nearer that caused Duplin agitation.
Speechless the three men glared at the vision as it slowly drew nearer
to where they sat. Neither spoke. They seemed petrified with horror.
And well might this be the case. The past week had sadly weakened their
nerves. This horrible reserve that had come over them since delving
amidst the masses of gold, had rendered them doubly susceptible to
superstitious influence.
They could no longer doubt. The shape, glowing with a ghastly light,
was now vividly outlined.
Before them, at only a few rods' distance, stood a skeleton of fire!
A skeleton, perfect in the most minute detail. It seemed of gigantic
size, as though the relic of some long since extinct race of giants.
The brainless skull, the eyeless sockets, the wide, ghastly-grinning
mouth and blazing teeth, the body, the arms and legs, all were glowing
with a strangely-weird luster, not unlike that produced by the use of
phosphorus. One fleshless arm was slowly lifted until the dangling
finger pointed directly at the spot where crouched the gold-hunters,
awe-stricken and speechless.
And still the flaming skeleton advanced, more and more, the arm
warningly outstretched, the skull wearing that horribly mocking grin.
Suddenly a low, taunting laugh echoed upon the still oppressive air--a
laugh that seemed to issue from the fleshless lips.
Duplin shuddered, and bowing his head, covered his face as if to shut
out the sickening object. Wythe and Tyrrel remained motionless, their
eyes riveted upon the skeleton.
A voice uttering words followed the laugh. Deep yet low, something
strangely impressive when coming from that ghastly spectacle, as it
appeared.
"Blind fools! ye are trespassing here on holy ground. Depart while yet
there is time. You hear--even the spirits of the air warn you. Obey
their voice--flee--flee from the wrath to come! Take heed. 'Tis the
last warning. Depart--or the morrow's sun shall shine down on your
lifeless remains."
A laugh slowly followed this speech, coming from the rude hut of
bushes. It was from Jack Tyrrel, sounding strained, yet scornful.
"This mummery has gone far enough," he said, in a tone that told of
rising anger. "It's my turn now. Whoever you are, _you_ take warning.
In just one minute, unless you drop that mask, I'll try if you are
bullet-proof. Mark _my_ words, now!"
"Don't, Jack--for God's sake don't!" gasped Duplin. "'Tis nothing
earthly--it's a warning from the other world!"
"Bah! I've seen a skeleton doctored with phosphorus before now."
"Lift your arm against the dead, and it will drop withered to your
side," solemnly added the voice.
"It will, eh? Here's to try it. Man or devil--here's greeting to you!"
recklessly cried Tyrrel, as he raised and sighted his revolver.
Again came the laugh, hollow and unearthly. The fleshless face seemed
to grin more horribly than before.
Once--twice the pistol spoke spitefully, the flash momentarily lighting
up the little brush shanty, then leaving it in still deeper darkness
from force of contrast. And yet the skeleton stood there, motionless,
save that the arm appeared to move derisively.
The laugh again echoed forth, as the reverberating reports died away.
Duplin sunk upon his face, groaning in terror. Wythe knelt as though
petrified. Tyrrel turned a shade paler.
"Silly fool! you provoke your fate. When the sun rises you will be
dead--_dead_."
The glowing figure swiftly moved forward, and seemed about to attack
the gold-hunters. Jack hastily lifted his pistol and fired, then sprung
to his feet as though in readiness for the struggle.
When the smoke-cloud lifted, he rubbed his eyes in amazement. All was
black before him. Nothing was to be seen. The apparition had vanished
as though swallowed up by the earth.
Only for a moment did he hesitate. Then, still clutching his pistol, he
darted from the shanty and glanced around him. All was vacancy.
He leaped upon the sand-bank, and swept his eyes around. The result was
the same. No light--nothing save a far-distant flash of lurid lightning.
A disinterested spectator would have laughed outright, could he have
seen Tyrrel's face at that moment, so full of blank amazement was it.
And yet there was nothing in it of superstitious fear.
Only for the first few moments had Jack yielded to this feeling, and
then simply because his comrades had done so. This quickly vanished
and anger took its place. He was startled at the new effect of his
shots, because he had great confidence in his own skill. Then, too,
he marveled greatly at the abrupt disappearance, but that he wisely
attributed to clever skill.
Thoughtfully scratching his curly pate, Jack retraced his steps and
entered the shanty. In silence he lighted his pipe at the still
smoldering embers, and then puffed away vigorously, covertly eying his
comrades the while.
"Well, boys," he at length uttered, between puffs, "what d' you think
of it, anyhow?"
"It is gone, then?" muttered Duplin, in a husky voice.
"Yes--cleverly, too. A smart chap, whoever it may be," quoth Tyrrel.
"You are wrong--it was nothing mortal. It was a warning," gloomily
added Duplin.
"Now don't be a fool, Paley," impatiently. "The days are passed for
such melo-dramatic visions as that. We will live to see a great many
to-morrows. It is nothing but a very stale trick got up to frighten us
from our work. Somebody has got wind of our discovery, and takes this
plan to drive us away. But I, for one, don't scare worth a cent! And as
first move--before it rains--I'm going to see what sort of track that
_ghost_ left behind him. The sand out yonder is soft, and will retain a
footprint. Come--you'll admit that a _spirit_--even though it assumes
the guise of a burning skeleton--can not leave a natural footprint?
Very well. If I do not find the tracks of a _man_ out yonder, I'll
agree to believe in your view, and at once make my will, provided
you promise the same. If the track _is_ there you'll give up those
superstitious ideas?"
"Yes," was the reply given by both Duplin and Wythe.
Jack said no more, but set about arranging a torch in order to settle
the question once for all. Meantime Wythe had directed Duplin's
attention to something not far from the shanty, apparently lying upon
the ground.
This was a small point of flame, flickering vividly, now larger, now
smaller. It was near where the skeleton had stood.
Tyrrel soon emerged, holding the torch before him, but as he advanced,
the point of flame grew dim, and then vanished entirely. Bending low
down, he began closely scanning the ground, while Duplin and Wythe
intently watched his motions.
"You're cornered now, boys," he said aloud, with a laugh, rising erect.
"Come out here and own up that you've been silly fools. Here are the
tracks as plain and clear as mud."
Beginning to feel ashamed of their exhibition, the two soon joined
Tyrrel, and kneeling, slowly scanned the ground. As Jack had said, the
sand was soft, and easily retained the imprint of a human foot.
And such an imprint lay before them, plain and unmistakable. Even
Duplin could no longer doubt that all this had been the work of a
cunning hand, though by no means a spirit.
"And see," laughed Jack, "here's a memento of our ghostly visitor. A
finger-joint that one of my bullets has broken."
"That was what we saw lying here. Hold it in the dark, Jack--yes, that
is it," muttered Wythe, as the bone again showed the flickering light.
"And there comes the rain--but first, I'm going to have the measure of
this foot. I think I owe the rascal that made it a sound thrashing, and
if we ever meet, he'll get it, or my name's not Jack Tyrrel!"
As the storm burst, the gold-hunters regained their shelter, and
composed themselves as comfortably as circumstances would admit.
Knowing that they were in for a drenching, they only cared to keep
their weapons and ammunition dry.
It was impossible to sleep while the storm raged with such violence,
and Jack continued his good work by lecturing his comrades. He showed
them the point toward which they were drifting, and that ruin must
follow unless they rallied against the spell that seemed falling upon
them.
"Why, in less than a month--if this sort o' thing keeps on--we'll be
ready to cut each other's throats. It is _horrible_! I'd rather turn
my back on the gold altogether and live poor all my life than to pass
another week as this one has been."
"I agree with you, Jack," warmly replied Duplin. "There is gold enough
for us all. Let's clasp hands, and forget the hard work. Hereafter
let's be _men_--not savage dogs."
"Amen!"
Through that livelong night the three, comrades once more, conversed
earnestly. And when day came, they were ready for work.
It was plain now that their secret was no longer _their_ secret--that
they had been watched by some one who knew of their rich discovery. And
it was likely that this watcher also knew of their "bank"--the spot
where their treasure was stowed away.
Before daylight they removed the gold to another spot, the driving rain
obliterating all traces as soon as made. This done, they looked to
their weapons.
The spy, whoever he might be, must be found, though a week was spent
in searching for him. Only for the beating rain, this would have been
a comparatively easy matter, since the ground, clear to the hills, was
very favorable for trailing.
Day broke clear and beautiful, and Duplin experienced a peculiar thrill
of joyous thankfulness as he beheld the brilliant sun roll above the
eastern swells. The sight gave him renewed life, and the last lingering
trace of superstition vanished.
For hours the three friends sought in vain for some trace of their
nocturnal visitor, but it was not until they crossed the first ridge
that such rewarded their search. Then, deeply imprinted in the moist
sandy loam, they came upon a double trail, though both sets of tracks
were evidently made by the same person, probably in going and coming,
as they trod different ways.
"It's our man," cried Jack, as he arose from comparing his tally with
the tracker. "We must run him to ground, now. He can't be far--these
tracks are fresh."
"But which are the latest?"
"That puzzles me. I'm not much on the trail-hunt. Chicot could tell,
no doubt, but I can't. We must follow both. You and Wythe take that
direction, and I'll look to this."
"But there may be danger to you going alone. We don't know who or what
this fellow is. Best keep together."
"And so lose the game, like as not? No. I think I can hold my own,
since there's only one man. Go on--and if _you_ find the game, build a
fire of grass that will send up a black smoke. I'll do the same. Look
out for it."
It was rank folly attempting to reason with Tyrrel, and his comrades,
well knew that. So parting--none of the trio dreamed of the time that
would elapse before their meeting!--they each bent to their work.
The trail ran lengthwise along the valley, only divided from that where
lay the golden bed by a high ridge. Duplin and Wythe were heading
south-east; the trail followed by Tyrrel was in an opposite direction.
"I think I can tell just how this will end," muttered Burr, after
progressing a mile or more. "I think we will find the stopping-place
on yonder point, where we can look down upon our camp. If so, we must
hasten back, and join Jack. The hot-headed fellow may get into trouble."
A few minutes more proved their surmise to be correct. The trail
doubled at the hill, and then ran back for a ways, side by side.
The friends had no difficulty in retracing their steps, and advanced at
a half run. The damp earth had retained deep tracks.
In ten minutes they had regained the point where Tyrrel had left them,
and still hastened after him. Then they paused, simultaneously uttering
a low cry.
"Too late!" gasped Duplin.
Faint and indistinct came to their ears, borne by the favoring breeze,
two quickly succeeding pistol-shots, closely followed by a cry, as of
pain or mortal terror. These sounds came from up the valley.
Clutching their weapons, the friends bounded forward at top speed,
their faces pale, their teeth tightly clenched. They feared the worst.
"My God! look there!" gasped Wythe, extending one trembling hand.
Before them, close to where the rocks that thickly covered the hillside
began, the ground was torn and trampled, as though the scene of a
desperate struggle for life. And upon one side of a whitely bleached
bowlder was a large crimson stain.
A stain that could only be produced by _blood_!
Sick and faint the comrades stood there, wildly glancing around,
listening anxiously for some sound to guide them. But it came not. All
was stilled save their deep, husky breathing.
"Come," cried Duplin, with an effort rousing himself, "this is folly.
We must work. Dead or alive, we must find Jack, and either rescue or
_avenge_ him."
Dreading lest at every step they should come upon the dead and mangled
body of their friend hidden among the rocks, the gold-hunters advanced.
Here and there a blood-splash guided their eyes. Drop by drop it
led them up the hillside. This alone guided them. The flinty ground
retained no trace of footsteps.
A gore-stained rock attracted them. Rushing forward, Duplin uttered a
low cry. Then he sunk upon his knees and bent forward.
Burr Wythe turned sick at heart, and staggering, would have fallen but
for the friendly support of a jagged bowlder. A cry broke from his lips
as he started back and removed his hand. It had entered a tiny pool of
fresh blood!