Slipitsky—I did not want to lock the door against her. But—the Cossacks
have come—I heard them talking outside.”
“Come in here, sir,” said Peter. “And we will leave this door open, so
that we may watch if anybody enters and see who they are before they
discover that you have come to me.”
The old man obeyed, and Peter stood in the doorway looking into the
Kirsakoffs’ rooms. The curtain between them was caught aside by a cord,
so that both rooms were visible to Peter, the farther one by the width
of the passage between them which was enough to reveal to Peter any one
who might enter and pass it.
There were a few minutes of silence except for the quick breathing of
Michael crouched beside Peter and standing to one side of him so that he
was hidden from the other rooms. And during this time Peter began to
suspect that it was all a ruse of Michael. The old general was probably
trying to catch Peter off his guard, and attack him. It was quite
likely, so Peter thought, that Michael in some way had come to knowledge
of the fact that Lutoff had apprised Peter of the identity of the
Kirsakoffs.
But Peter abandoned his suspicion when he heard a rattling of the door
in the far room. Some one was rattling the knob in place of knocking, a
practice customary when one wanted to enter without attracting the
attention of those in other rooms opening into the hall. The rattling
ceased. The next instant Peter saw in the gloom of the far room a high
white cap of wool, and a gray sheepskin coat, and a Cossack stood
looking in the direction of Peter, head bent forward against the sharper
light from Peter’s windows.
The Cossack hesitated but a moment, then he advanced toward Peter, one
hand behind him as if he held a weapon in concealment.
“What do you want?” asked Peter.
The Cossack did not reply, but came on till he was close to Peter.
“Who are you?” asked the Cossack. He moved slightly to the right and
looked past Peter, his eyes upon Michael.
“I am an American officer,” said Peter coldly. “These are my rooms.”
“An American officer! You speak Russian well, for an American.”
“You are intruding,” said Peter. “Or have you come on a mission?”
“I am Captain Shimilin of the Ataman’s staff,” said the Cossack, and put
his hand on the hilt of his saber as he clicked his heels and bowed,
formally polite.
“And I am Lieutenant Gordon of the American army,” said Peter. “This is
my room. Please! Come in!” There was no other thing for Peter to do,
unless he wished to bring on hostilities with Shimilin. It was very
likely that the Cossack captain had soldiers within call. And now it
looked very much as if an escape to Harbin would be out of the question.
Shimilin entered as Peter stepped aside. The Cossack looked at Michael,
who had retreated to the low writing table under the window, clutching
the blanket about him.
“Have you business of the Ataman with me?” asked Peter.
“No, not with you,” said Shimilin. “I did not call upon you, but I thank
you for your politeness.”
Peter considered what he should do next. He had no wish to see Michael
wrested from his control in this fashion, and he had no doubt but that
Shimilin had come for Michael. It was quite likely that Katerin had been
seized when she went down to arrange matters with Slipitsky. Peter
frowned at the thought that Michael would escape him, even though the
old general met death at the hands of the Ataman’s soldiers. It came to
him that the limit of his vengeance now would be but to surrender
Michael and taunt him with the fact that the Cossacks—his own
Cossacks—could now deal with a Kirsakoff as they had dealt in the old
days with a Gorekin. But Peter hoped to delay with Shimilin. It might be
possible to get the Cossack away for a time, when Peter would have
things in his own hands again, if only for a brief space. He began to
see that his hand was being forced—if he was to kill Michael he would
have to do it in Chita—probably on the spot, and that in the next few
minutes.
“Could you tell me why you have come to my room?” asked Peter.
“Oh, yes,” said Shimilin easily, as he faced Michael. “I have come to
arrest this old man.”
“Arrest him? For what?” asked Peter, feigning a mild surprise. Shimilin
seemed so casual, so light-hearted, so jaunty that he appeared to regard
the whole matter as in the nature of a joke. He smiled good-naturedly at
Michael.
Shimilin lifted his shoulders inside the sheepskin coat, put out both
hands with the palms upward, and jerked his head. “It is a business of
the Ataman. You speak Russian well. Are you a Russian?”
“Yes,” said Peter.
“Of course,” said Shimilin. “Only a Russian could speak so. Have you
called upon the Ataman Zorogoff? What do you think of—our Ataman?” He
regarded Peter with questioning eyes.
“I have not yet called,” replied Peter. “I know little about the
Ataman.”
“You have heard about him here in Chita. Surely, you must have formed
some opinion.”
“No,” said Peter dryly. “If I had, I doubt if I would discuss it.”
“Now, now,” said Shimilin, not in the least offended by Peter’s
reluctance to discuss the Ataman, “I know all that. But what do the
Americans—the American army in Vladivostok—think of Zorogoff?”
Shimilin’s curiosity on that score seemed without limit.
“I doubt if they have given him much thought,” said Peter. “But about
this gentleman here—I am sorry that you want to arrest him. And in my
room.”
“What does that matter?” asked the Cossack.
“But little,” agreed Peter, who felt that he could have his way with
Shimilin if the Cossack believed that Peter was not seriously opposed to
having Michael taken. For Peter knew that a Cossack can be cajoled when
open antagonism only strengthens his resistance.
“True,” said Shimilin, with a smile. “We need have no quarrel. And being
a soldier, you know what duty means—I must obey my orders at all cost. I
am glad that you have sensible ideas.”
Captain Shimilin evidently took it for granted that Peter had decided
not to interfere, but would allow Michael to go with the Cossack. Still,
Shimilin took no action. It appeared that he wished to prolong his
conversation with Peter, and his eyes when he looked at Peter were
frankly curious.
Michael leaned back against the table, his back to the window, watching
Peter closely. The old general’s head nodded gently with the palsy,
suggestive of being moved by the beating of his heart. He divined in
Peter some sudden change of manner, and suspected that Peter was not
going to protect him against the Cossack. But he said nothing.
“I would advise you to call later,” suggested Peter suddenly, affecting
a serious mien with Shimilin.
The Cossack was visibly surprised at this.
“What! Come later? What difference can it make?”
“It might make some difference to your Ataman,” said Peter, purposely
putting a dash of mystery into the sentence. “I do not demand, captain,
that you come later. I merely advise it—for your own benefit. I can’t
explain now—but if you will come back in an hour——”
“Oh, no,” said Shimilin, though not quite sure of himself. “I am not to
be prevented from carrying out my orders.”
“I also have my orders,” said Peter significantly.
“Oh,” said Shimilin. “It would be unfortunate if your orders conflicted
with mine.” He drew his lips tightly across his teeth, and his eyes
looked squarely into Peter’s.
“True!” retorted Peter. “It would be unfortunate. But I have been
talking with this old gentleman here—and we have not finished our
conversation.”
“What have you been talking about?”
“That is a private matter between ourselves.”
“Ah! Something about the Ataman, I presume,” said Shimilin, giving
Michael a suspicious look. Then to Peter, “You would hardly believe a
man who is sought by the Ataman to have anything good to say about
him—if you could trust such a report by such a man.”
“What this old gentleman has to say about the Ataman—good or bad—is
likely to be borne out by the actions of the Ataman. You can see,
Captain Shimilin, that if your Ataman did something which did not meet
my approval—such as an arrest without sufficient warrant—I might be able
to form my own opinion of the Ataman.”
“Hmm!” sniffed Shimilin, and walked round slowly in a small circle,
looking at the floor while he considered Peter’s words. He stopped
abruptly and faced Peter, one eye partly closed. “Perhaps you have an
idea that the Ataman Zorogoff has no rights to consider?”
“I have never questioned any rights that Zorogoff may claim,” said
Peter. He saw that he had Shimilin worried.
“But the Americans have not officially recognized Zorogoff as a ruler,”
went on Shimilin. “You have been here several days, yet you have not
called upon the Ataman.”
Peter saw in this an attempt to draw from him some hint as to the
American attitude toward Zorogoff, and had no intention of committing
himself on the subject.
“I do not feel accountable to any person for my actions here, other than
my superiors,” said Peter. “If Zorogoff seeks information as to the
attitude of the Americans, let him send some one to Vladivostok.”
“Would you defy an officer of the Ataman?” asked Shimilin. “Would you
tell me that I cannot arrest a Russian subject here in your rooms?”
“This man is under my protection while he is in my room. I have not
defied you—but I suggest delay. I shall not attempt to control your
actions.”
“You don’t want him arrested? Is that what you are saying?”
“I don’t want him arrested now.”
“My Ataman will not like that. It is interference,” snapped Shimilin.
“I cannot help what the Ataman thinks.”
Shimilin smiled and bowed. “Suppose I report your attitude to the Ataman
himself?”
“I would consider that wisdom on your part,” said Peter. “There are some
aspects to this case which I cannot discuss now. That is why I suggested
delay.”
Shimilin clicked his heels and walked straight to the hall door. He
opened it, and turned. “I will submit your proposal to the Ataman—if you
are willing to take the consequence.”
“Thank you,” said Peter, bowing in dismissal. “You are very kind.”
“And,” continued Shimilin, “I shall hold you responsible that Michael
Kirsakoff is here when I return.”
Shimilin shut the door with a quick jerk, suggestive of the closing of
the jaws of a great trap.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
XXIII
A LIFE FOR A LIFE
WHEN he heard his own name uttered by Shimilin as the Cossack captain
departed, Michael locked his grip upon the ends of the blanket as if
against a blow. A startled moan broke from his lips, an expression of
horror that at last Peter would know him.
Peter turned upon the old man swiftly, alert at once and his own hand
dropping to the butt of his pistol.
“I—I am revealed to you!” whispered Michael, thrusting his head forward
toward Peter.
“And before you were ready, eh?” said Peter. “But you thought you could
fool me, Michael Alexandrovitch, before——”
Kirsakoff made a quick flick of his right hand, and there dropped down
from the sleeve of his shirt a small derringer. The weapon fell into his
hand, and he made a movement to adjust it for use. But Peter was too
quick for him, and before Michael could get proper hold of it, much less
aim it, Peter had leaped upon the old man and pinioned his arms against
his sides.
“So the old wolf has a snap left in him yet,” taunted Peter, as he bore
the frail Michael back against the table and wrested the derringer from
his fingers. Michael made no struggle, but relaxed in Peter’s hands, and
when released, sank weakly to his knees.
Peter pocketed the derringer, and then leaned down to Michael.
“You would kill me, would you? You have not forgotten your tricks,
Michael! Perhaps you came prepared to kill me! So the escape to Harbin
was all pretty talk, to throw me off my guard that you might——”
“Mercy!” gasped Michael. “Mercy for my daughter’s sake—I ask none for
myself!”
“You have discovered mercy. Who called for mercy for Peter Petrovitch
twenty years ago when you ordered him and his father sent to prison—and
then his father was cut down by your Cossacks? Answer me that?”
“If my daughter were safe from the Ataman, you could take your
vengeance,” said Michael simply. “I have lived beyond——”
“Oh, hush!” cried Peter angrily, clapping his hand over Michael’s mouth.
He slipped his fingers under the folds of the bandage about Michael’s
face, and slipped it back over his head, pulling it upward from the
chin.
“Let me see your face, Michael! It has been a long time since we looked
at one another—and each knew the other. On that day you were the bold,
brave Governor, surrounded by your soldiers. Life was cheap then—to you.
Come! Stand upon your feet like a man!” And Peter lifted him up against
the table.
“I have no fear of death,” said Michael proudly.
“No,” said Peter, laughing. “You are so ready to meet death that you tie
your face up in rags. But you look like yourself, Michael! Yes, I would
have known you but for the rags. Life is not so strong in you, now, it
is true, but you are the same, yes.”
Peter stood before him, with folded arms, and scanned Michael’s face
with reflective memory. He spoke quietly, almost soothingly, and his
face was lighted by his joyful exultation. He thought of nothing but
that his triumph had come, and he cared for nothing but that he should
drink his fill of the wine of revenge.
“I am helpless now—an old man,” said Michael. “But I can die—Gorekin.”
“I suppose you can,” said Peter, “much as you would throw away a lemon
that had been sucked dry. But I am thinking now of my father, twenty
years ago. You were brave with his life, too—and mine! I was a helpless
boy and you left me in your filthy prison. I might be there now for all
you cared.”
“Do your will with me,” said Michael wearily.
Peter put a hand upon his shoulder, and bent his body back, so that he
might peer into the old man’s eyes in better light.
“You have not lost your cunning, Michael. I can see it still in your
eyes, faded as they are. You thought that I, Peter Petrovitch, would
save your life—I, who have come half way round the world to take it, I,
who have waited twenty years to see the breath leave your body!”
“To save my daughter, yes,” said Michael.
“Ha! Do you not see the divinity behind all this? You run squealing to
an American officer to save you from your Cossacks—and the American is
Peter Petrovitch! And now that your own skin is threatened, you plead
for life because of your daughter! Did you give my father a chance to
plead for his son? Michael, _I am the boy_ who saw his father die in the
snow before the post-house—and you come now seeking my protection from
the Ataman——”
“A half-blood Mongol,” put in Michael. “I would save my daughter from a
Mongol—for myself I ask nothing. And I would kill you if I had the
power——”
“Stop! I shall do the talking!” Peter’s body trembled with his rage. All
the hatred which he had built up in twenty years, all the concentrated
venom in his soul against Kirsakoff was now diffusing through his body
and poisoning his brain. He lunged at Michael, and took the frail old
body in his arms, swinging him upward from the floor as a child might be
lifted in play by its father.
“Come!” commanded Peter, looking down into the white face of Michael. “I
will show you your Valley of Despair! I will show you the spot before
the old post-house where I watched my father pour out his blood into the
snow! I will show you where Peter Petrovitch, who now holds you in his
arms, could but scream in terror against you and your Cossacks—and vow
to have your life!”
He turned with Michael, and thrust the old man’s face against the pane
of the window, holding him high enough so that he could see over the
stratum of frost on the lower part of the glass.
“Look, Michael Alexandrovitch! Up the Sofistkaya! The post-house where
the mail-sledges stopped when they came in from Irkutsk! That is the
spot! And I cannot even find the bones of my beloved father in the old
cemetery by the prison on the hill. And below—the little hut where
Gorekin the bootmaker lived! See it? The chimney and a part of the old
roof. It has taken twenty years for God to put you in my hands—twenty
years, before He has let you, a leaf which is ready to fall, come into
my power. Can you doubt that He let you live that I might show you where
you stood one cold morning, master of lives in the Valley of Despair and
death waiting the snap of your finger? Times have changed, Michael. The
light has come to Russia—a new day, and for such as you who gave us but
black despair, black night has come. And justice without mercy!”
Peter swung round from the window and threw Michael upon his feet. The
old general swayed dizzily and saved himself from falling by grasping at
the table. Peter stood glowering, arms hanging out from his sides with
fingers widespread as if he were about to seize Michael again.
“You shall have your vengeance!” cried Michael, and held up an arm to
restrain Peter for a time.
“Oh, shall I?” asked Peter sneeringly, a crooked smile playing at the
side of his mouth. “Perhaps you covered your face that I might have my
vengeance! Did you plan to take me to Harbin to find Kirsakoff? Did you
put Wassili behind my chair with a knife to——?”
“Give heed to my words!” pleaded Michael in a passionate outburst. “I
will bargain with you!”
Peter laughed at him.
“Bargain! Why should I buy what I already have?”
“Look!” Michael held forth his hand to Peter. Between the fingers was a
small white pellet.
“And what is that?” asked Peter.
“I could still defeat you, Gorekin. This is a poison tablet—quick as a
bullet or a blade.”
“For me, Michael? Is it for me?” sneered Peter.
“No, for myself. I can die by my own hand quicker than you can fire your
pistol—and you must shoot quickly, or even the Ataman will defeat your
purpose with me. But I would bargain with you, Gorekin.”
“To what end?” asked Peter, somewhat amused, and curious as to the old
man’s intent. “What have you to sell, Michael?”
“I will sell you my life,” said Kirsakoff.
“I can have your life for the taking.”
“No. Look! I hold the tablet six inches from my mouth. I could be dead
before your bullet would reach me.”
“I like to hear your voice, Michael—speaking of your own death. Well,
have your say out.”
“You are a Russian, and you must have your blood amend, Gorekin. You
shall have it—I shall not destroy myself—but I ask you to save Katerin
from the Ataman. That is my bargain.”
“My father and I could not bargain, twenty years ago out there in the
Sofistkaya.”
“True. But I offer you now a life for a life—and a clean slate between
the two of us. My blood for your father’s blood—and go your way in
peace.”
Michael leaned forward eagerly. Peter’s expression had changed so that
the old man had hope, but Peter was merely astounded by Michael’s
proposal. This was something he had not looked for in the old man—a calm
willingness to take death as part of a trade, an exchange of favors.
“The old wolf has not lost his craft,” said Peter.
“The lion returns to the lair where he was whelped,” said Michael. “What
I was, I was, and done is done. What I offer is nothing, true—but you
may fail in your vengeance. Rather I would make it sure for you—and go
to meet the dead with no debt to living man.”
“And how is it to be done?” asked Peter. He still suspected that Michael
sought to escape him by a stratagem.
“With this!” exclaimed Michael, and with his left hand he drew from the
breast of his shirt a small slender object, one part red and one part
white, and held it forth to Peter. “Take this, Gorekin—I put vengeance
into your hand—if you will save Katerin from the Mongol.”
Peter drew near and looked at what Michael held. It was a cased dagger—a
leather case of red, surmounted by a hilt of yellowed old ivory and a
steel hand guard at the base of the hilt. It was the weapon of Chinese
assassins, an instrument made for but a single crime for it was cupped
under the hilt guard in such a way that it sealed the very wound it
made. Peter knew at once what it was and what it would do.
“Give me the promise—and take the knife!” entreated Michael. “One
Russian to another—to save Katerin from the Mongol!”
“And what should I do with it?” asked Peter, seeking to draw out the old
general.
“What should you do? What else, but thrust it into my heart—and take my
daughter away from the city? Come! Your word! Give it and strike
quickly, or the Ataman will defeat you!”
“You know well I could not escape, leaving you dead in my room,” jeered
Peter. “What would I gain? If I strike now—here—my vengeance will be a
short joy. It is so much simpler to turn you over to Shimilin.”
“By the Holy Saints!” cried Michael in disgust. “Has the blood of a
Russian turned to water so that he will not kill on his own honor’s
account? Please! Take this blade!”
Michael drew the hilt away from the leather case and exposed a polished
shaft of steel, white and glittering in the light from the windows—a
weapon of exquisite daintiness, with a round blade, slightly curved.
“Look at it!” urged Michael. “It is cupped at the hilt, and if you do
not draw it once you have struck, it will let away no blood. What more
could you desire?”
Peter regarded him with thoughtful eyes.
Michael threw aside the leathern case, and pulled his shirt open at the
neck, exposing his withered chest.
“Say the promise—and strike quickly while I pray,” he begged. “See! It
is a gentle weapon—so sharp and smooth that it will cause me little
discomfort. And then you may say I did it, which will leave you without
blame.”
For an instant Peter thought Michael to be mad. But it was plain enough
that the simplicity of the old man in his appeal for death was but his
surrender to the inevitable.
Peter knew the lucidity of mind which comes with the agony of spirit. He
knew how Michael’s mind was working. The old man was in the grip of that
clarity of mental vision which comes to the drowning man, or to the man
who walks to execution. Peter had experienced the same phenomenon as he
watched his father die twenty years before. The trivial things of every
day, things never noticed before, had stood out with amazing
distinctness and had registered in his brain a picture which had never
vanished.
Peter remembered now the tiny stone he had seen in the snow near his
dying father; the Cossack’s boot which had been deeply scratched; the
odor of raw fur from the sledges—even now the pungent scent was in his
nostrils. The scene recurred to him now with overpowering intensity, and
once more his old rage against Michael mounted. He reached forward and
snatched the dagger from Michael’s fingers.
“Good!” cried Michael. “You will promise—and strike!”
Then the old general began to whisper a prayer, and stretched out his
arms, like a great bat preparing for flight.
Peter held the dagger in his hand, palm upward, and slightly extended
before him, so that his elbow was a right angle with his upper arm, a
pose somewhat similar to a man who holds a rapier in low carte ready to
thrust forward the point. And he was close enough to Michael, so that if
the arm was extended, the dagger would reach the old man.
While the two of them were thus confronting each other, a low scream
broke upon the room—a full-throated cry of sudden and complete horror.
Peter turned to see Katerin in the door which led to the Kirsakoffs’
rooms. Her hands were thrown up and pressed against her cheeks, her
staring eyes fastened upon the dagger in Peter’s hands, her mouth still
open with the horror of her cry, and her body transfixed into rigidity
by the astounding situation in which she found her father and Peter. The
catastrophe which she had planned so carefully to avert, had come now,
she knew. The delicate structure she had devised had crashed down during
her absence, and she saw that Peter and her father were at each other’s
throats, or so it appeared to her in the first glance she had of the
interior of the room.
She had returned from making the final arrangements for their escape, in
happy confidence that Peter would never discover their identity—and here
was Peter about to slay her father. She saw an end to everything—the man
she looked to for safety was now to destroy them.
She screamed again. It was a scream of utter hopelessness, a scream of
black despair.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
XXIV
A NEW TUNE ON AN OLD FIDDLE