There was not a word exchanged between Lou and Dan on their ride from
the ranch-house to the town. For his part, the man was filled with
rejoicing over the triumph that he anticipated. He had no fear of
failure. The ingenuity of his plot insured success. Its strength lay in
the seeming simplicity of the events that would lead to the desired
climax. Dan's only doubt had been concerning his ability to hold the
woman to his will, and to make her play her vital part in his
machinations. He had realized that he would have need of all his wit to
secure from her even a hearing of his accusations against the man she
loved. By his arts, he had enticed her into listening, and by reason of
the very indignation thus aroused, he had warped her mood to his
purpose. So, he went forward full of confidence as to the outcome,
exultant, heedless of the misery of the woman who rode by his side.
That misery was poignant. At intervals, wrath flamed high in her, and
she longed for the moment when she should bring the two men face to
face, that the slanderer might receive the punishment he merited from
the one maligned. But, oftener, her emotion dropped into abysses of
despair. There had been something unspeakably revolting to her wifely
instincts in the tawdry phrases of the ill-written note, signed "Your
loving Jess." Her spirit writhed as she recalled the words, so damning
in their explicitness: "Shall expect you at the usual time. Don't let
your trusting Lou keep you away, as I can't do without you." The wife
found herself compelled to fight with all her energies against the demon
of doubt that so hideously beset her. That note had been addressed to
"Dearest Jim." And Jim was her husband's name, and the note had been
lying in his letter-case. And, if these things of themselves were not
enough to sap faith, there was the sneering use of her own name: "Don't
let your trusting Lou keep you away." The distracted wife told herself a
hundred times that her belief in the loyalty of her husband remained
unshaken, but it was not so. She lied to herself, from very horror of
the truth. Only by fierce and incessant denials of the doubt that welled
in her could she repel the assaults of despair. Of the man beside her,
she thought hardly at all, except in the fitful and constantly lessening
flashes of her anger. Her thought was for the husband, with a pitiful
wondering over the hateful mystery that had come to pass. Oh, surely,
there was some simple explanation of it all--there must be! It was a
hoax, a jest, some misunderstanding--anything! But, though she argued
against belief, there remained always in her consciousness the stubborn,
sickening facts, and a great dread lay crushingly upon her spirit. The
agony of suspense grew unbearable. Her quirt rose and fell in a vicious
lash on the flanks of the mare. The astonished thoroughbred leaped and
stretched into a run.... Dan McGrew pressed his own mount forward, to
keep pace.
While the two thus rode toward the town, there was a period of tedious
inaction for Dan's accomplices. In the back room of Murphy's saloon,
Jess remained impatiently in her seat at the table, with the empty
brandy glass before her. She would have liked another drink, but dared
not call for it, since it had been forbidden by her master, because her
part in the sordid drama was not yet finished. Beside her, Jim sat
motionless, his body sprawled clumsily over the table. He had not
stirred since his yielding to the influence of the drug. The only
evidence of life about him was the sound of stertorous breathing. The
habitues of the place had given no heed to him after a few sneering
comments concerning one who would get drunk so early in the day.
Fingie Whalen, after he had seen his drops take effect on the victim,
went out of the saloon, and reestablished himself on the bench against
the wall, where once again he gave himself over to an unremitting survey
of the main street, down which any one coming from the ranch must pass.
He smoked with nervous rapidity, which increased as minute after minute
passed, and there was still no sight of those for whom he watched. At
the end of an hour, the gambler's impatience had become anxiety. He
began to fear failure at the last, when success had seemed assured. It
might well be that, in spite of Jess's note, Dan McGrew had been unable
to persuade Lou Maxwell into accompanying him. Or--as would be equally
disastrous--they might come too late. Fingie had been as liberal as he
dared in the drugging of the beer, but there is a great difference in
the reactive powers of various men against such poison. He had not been
minded to run any risk of murder. Therefore, he could not tell with
precision when Jim Maxwell would recover consciousness. As the minutes
hurried on, Fingie's fear mounted by leaps and bounds. From time to
time, he left the bench, and peered in through the window, to reassure
himself as to the continued unconsciousness of the drugged man.
Then, at last, as he turned from one of these glimpses through the
window, Fingie Whalen saw in the distance the forms of two riders coming
at a furious gallop. For a second, he stood staring, to make sure that
there was no mistake, that these were in fact those for whom he had
waited with such anxiety. In another moment, he became certain that one
of the two who approached was Dan McGrew. The flapping of a divided
skirt proved that the other rider was a woman. He could no longer doubt
that McGrew had succeeded. There needed now only to set the stage for
the final scene. For the second time that day, Fingie whirled and darted
into the saloon. He caught up from the bar a glass of brandy, which he
had left under the barkeeper's charge, since he had not deemed it safe
on the table within Jess's reach. He moved now without undue haste, in
order to avoid attracting attention to himself and the others concerned.
When he had reached the table at which Jess and their victim were
seated, he put the glass down, with a nod to the woman to indicate that
the end of the play was now at hand. Jess shoved her chair close to that
in which Jim slouched. At the same time, Fingie seized the unconscious
man by the shoulders, and lifted the heavy form upright in the chair.
Jim yielded limply to the procedure--a dead weight in the other's grasp.
He was still unconscious. His face was hot and flushed, the face of one
under the influence of liquor. His breath still came noisily. Fingie,
straining under the weight, tilted the flaccid body over a little way,
until it rested against the shoulder of Jess, who braced herself to
sustain it. Fingie raised Jim's left arm, as the unconscious man reposed
thus against the woman at his right, and laid it about her neck. Thus
the two remained in an embrace, which bore every evidence of fondness
that knew no shame in this public and disreputable place. Jim's head
sagged, until it rested upon the woman's bosom. Her right arm was
wreathed about him, holding him tenaciously, with all her strength, lest
he lurch away from her. With her left hand, she took up the glass of
brandy, which Fingie had brought, and held it close to the lips of the
unconscious man.
[Illustration: JIM'S HEAD SAGGED UNTIL IT RESTED UPON THE WOMAN'S
BOSOM.]
Such was the business of the piece, as it had been arranged beforehand
in each detail by the conspirators. Jess cast a look of inquiry toward
the gambler, to learn whether or not the situation met all the
requirements of the plot. He gave a brief nod, and grunted approval. He
heard the clatter of hoofs in the street outside--a clatter of hoofs of
horses ridden in haste. It ceased just without the door of the saloon.
Fingie walked quietly to the bar. A quick glance about showed that the
attention of none had been attracted to his movements. He grinned evilly
in anticipation.... From the time when he had first sighted the riders,
not more than a half-minute had elapsed. He leaned against the bar, and
stared furtively toward the window that gave on the street.
Dan McGrew drew close alongside Lou, as the pair pounded down the main
street of the town.
"Stop at the corner, this side of the bank," he called to her. "At
Murphy's saloon."
The woman shivered as her ears caught the words. She knew the character
of the notorious place, which catered to the most depraved tastes of the
community. Was it to a resort so ignoble that she must go to refute the
slander against her husband? To refute it! Or--she broke off her
thought, appalled by the terrible alternative. Then, in the following
instant, she found herself already abreast of the saloon. She heard her
companion's brisk command:
"Stop here!"
She obeyed, though, almost, the dread that beat upon her forced her to
flee on, and on--anywhere away from the horror that menaced. She pulled
her mare to a standstill, and got down from the saddle, and let the
bridle-reins trail. She moved as one in a dream--rather, as one in a
nightmare. Yet, now the crisis was upon her, she did not suffer quite so
cruelly. Her feeling was numbed, somehow. It was with a certain
listlessness in her voice that she addressed Dan McGrew, as he stepped
to her side.
"Well?"
"There's no need to go inside," Dan explained. "We can see enough, I
fancy, through the window.... Come!"
Lou followed obediently whither he led. So the two came to the window,
with the dirty glass and its tattered shade raised high, so that
whosoever would might look freely on the squalor within. Dan stepped
forward and peered into the room for a moment, then turned and beckoned
to Lou.... And the wife advanced, as he bade her, and looked over his
shoulder.
Lou's eyes, accustomed to the full glare of the noon-day sun, could at
first distinguish nothing more than a vague litter of weaving shadows
within the murk of the dingy room. Very soon, however, her vision
adjusted itself to the dim interior, so that she began to see
distinctly. Even in this moment of emotional stress, Lou was conscious
of her repugnance at the spectacle of coarsely flaunted vice. She noted
the line of sodden men loafing along the bar, the few others grouped
about the tables with the bedizened and painted women, whose wanton
faces, and more wanton manners, proclaimed their unsavory sort. Yet, her
attention was thus arrested for only a fleeting fraction of a second.
Then her gaze fell on that other table and she saw her husband.
There could be no doubt as to Jim's identity. As she recognized him,
Lou's dark brown eyes dilated before the fearfulness of this thing. For
she saw, as well, every detail of his visible plight. The scene was
etched on her consciousness with the acid of horror, there to remain
indelible throughout the years. She knew, in the first second of seeing,
every feature of the creature within whose arms her husband was lying.
She knew the cut and color of the soiled bodice, with its drapery of
cheap lace over the bosom--on which his loved face reposed. She felt a
nausea. There was nothing lovable now in his face. Instead, it was
bestial, repulsive--the face of a man who had given himself over to
gratification of the beast within him, and who was wallowing in the mire
of his degradation.... So it seemed to Lou Maxwell, as she stood
staring, bereft, upon that scene which to her meant the end of all
things. The life had gone out of her face. A sickness as of death
clutched at her heart. Suddenly her gauntleted hands caught Dan McGrew's
shoulder. Only his quick support saved her from falling. She spoke
dully, in a broken whisper:
"Take me away."