AND A KNOT TIGHTENED
A day of shattered hopes is a desolate thing, but the night of such a
day is desolate indeed. In all his life Poleon Doret had never sunk to
such depths of despondency, for his optimistic philosophy and his
buoyant faith in the goodness of life forbade it. Therefore, when
darkness came it blotted out what little brightness and light and hope
were left to him after Necia's stormy interview with the Lieutenant.
The arrival of the freight steamer afforded him some distraction, but
there was only a small consignment for the store, and that was quickly
disposed of; so, leaving the other citizens of Flambeau to wrangle over
their private merchandise, he went back to his solitary vigil, which
finally became so unbearable that he sought to escape his thoughts, or
at least to drown them for a while, amid the lights and life and
laughter of Stark's saloon. Being but a child by nature, his means of
distraction were primal and elementary, and he began to gamble, as
usual with hard luck, for the cards had ever been unkind to him. He did
not think of winnings or losings, however--he merely craved the
occupation; and it was this that induced him to sit at a game in which
Runnion played, although ordinarily he would not have tolerated even
tacitly such a truce to his dislikes. As it was, he crouched in a
corner, his hat pulled down over his brow, his swarthy face a darker
hue beneath the shadow, losing steadily, only now and then showing a
flash of white teeth as he saw his money go. What mattered loss to him?
He had no more need of money now than Necia had of his love. He would
spend the dollars he had eked and scraped and saved for her as she had
spent the treasures of his heart, and now that the one had brought him
no return he wished to be rid of the other, for he was shortly to go
again in search of his "New Country," where no man needs gold half so
much as a clean heart. It would be a long journey, far to the West and
North--a journey that none of his kind had ever fared back from, and he
wished to go light, as all good adventurers go.
Runnion annoyed him with his volubility, for the news of his
good-fortune had fired the man with a reckless disregard for money, and
he turned to gaming as the one natural recourse of his ilk. As the
irony of fate would have it, he won what the Canadian lost, together
with the stakes of various others who played for a time with him and
then gave up, wagging their heads or swearing softly at the cards.
It was shortly after midnight that Stark came into the place. Poleon
was not too absorbed in his own fortunes to fail to notice the
extraordinary ferocity and exhilaration of the saloon-keeper, nor that
his face was keener, his nostrils thinner, his walk more nervous, and
his voice more cutting than usual when he spoke to Runnion.
"Come here."
"I'll be with you when I finish this hand," said the player, over his
shoulder.
"Come here!" Stark snapped his command, and Runnion threw down his
cards.
"I'm right in the middle of a winning streak. You'll break my luck,
Ben."
But the other only frowned impatiently, and, drawing the reluctant
gambler aside, began to talk rapidly to him, almost within ear-shot of
Poleon, who watched them, idly wondering what Stark had to say that
could make Runnion start and act so queerly. Well, it was their affair.
They made a bad pair to draw to. He knew that Runnion was the
saloon-keeper's lieutenant and obeyed implicitly his senior's commands.
He could distinguish nothing they said, nor was he at all curious until
a knot of noisy men crowded up to the bar, and, forcing the two back
nearer to the table where he sat, his sharp ears caught these words
from Runnion's lips:
"Not with me! She'd never go with me!" and Stark's reply:
"She'll go where I send her, and with anybody I tell her to."
The Frenchman lost what followed, for a newly dealt hand required
study. He scanned his cards, and tossed them face up before the dealer;
then he overheard Runnion say:
"It's the only one in camp. He might sell it if you offered him
enough." At this Stark called one of the men at the bar aside, and the
three began to dicker.
"Not a cent less," the third man announced, loudly. "There ain't
another Peterborough in town."
It was Poleon's deal now, and when he had finished both Stark and
Runnion had disappeared, also the man they had accosted, which pleased
the Canadian, for now that Runnion was eliminated from the game he
might win a little. A steady, unvarying run of bad hands is
uninteresting, and does not occupy one's mind as well as an occasional
change of luck.
Outside Runnion was saying again to Stark:
"She won't go with me, Ben; she don't like me. You see, I made love to
her, and she got mad and wanted me killed."
"She'll never know who you are until it's too late to turn back," said
the other, "and you are the only man I can trust to take her through. I
can trust you--you owe me too much to be crooked."
"Oh, I'll act square with you! But look here, what's all this about,
anyhow? Why do you want that girl? You said you didn't care for her
that way; you told me so yourself. Been having a change of heart, or is
it your second childhood?" He laughed disagreeably.
"It's none of your business," said the gambler. "I want her, and that's
enough. All you have to do is to take her to St. Michael's and keep her
there till you hear from me. She thinks she is going to the Mission,
and you needn't tell her otherwise until you get her aboard a steamer;
then take her, no matter what kind of a fight she puts up. You've got a
light-rowing skiff, and you'd better keep going till you're overtaken
by a down-river boat. I want her as far away from here as possible.
There's going to be some hell in this camp. Now, hike, and get yourself
ready."
"All right! But I ain't the safest kind of a chaperon for a
good-looking girl."
Stark laid a cold hand on Runnion's shoulder, close up to his neck.
"Get that out of your mind. She belongs to me."
"You said just now--"
"Never mind what I said. She's mine, and you've got to promise to be
straight with her. I've trusted you before, and if you're not on the
level now, say so. It will save you a lot of trouble."
"Oh! All right!" exclaimed Runnion, testily. "Only it looks mighty
queer."
He melted into the darkness and Stark returned to his cabin, where he
paced back and forth impatiently, smiling evilly now and then,
consulting his watch at frequent intervals. A black look had begun to
settle on his face, but it vanished when Necia came, and he met her
with a smile.
"I was afraid you had weakened," he said. "Everything is ready and
waiting. I've got the only canoe in the place, a Peterborough, and
hired a good oarsman to put you through, instructing him to make as
fast time as he can, and to board the first steamer that overtakes you.
Too bad this freighter that just got in isn't going the other way.
However, there's liable to be another any hour, and if one doesn't come
along you'll find enough blankets and food in the skiff, so you needn't
go ashore. You'll be there before you know it."
"You are very kind," said the girl. "I can't thank you enough." She was
clothed in her simple everyday dress, and looked again the sun-colored
half-breed girl with the wide, dark eyes and the twin braids of
crow-black hair.
"You didn't run into anybody, eh?"
She shook her head. Then he led her out into the darkness, and they
stumbled down to the river's-bank, descending to the gravelly water's
edge, where rows of clumsy hand-sawed boats and poling-skiffs were
chafing at their painters. The up-river steamer was just clearing.
Stark's low whistle was answered a hundred yards below, and they
searched out a darker blot that proved to be a man's figure.
"Is everything ready?" he inquired, at which the shadow grunted
unintelligibly. So, holding Necia by the arm, Stark helped her back to
a seat in the stern.
"This man will take you through," he said. "You can trust him, all
right."
The oarsman clambered in and adjusted his sweeps, then Stark laid a
hand on the prow and shoved the light boat out into the current,
calling softly:
"Good-bye, and good-luck."
"Good-bye, Mr. Stark. Thank you ever so much," the girl replied, too
numb and worn out to say much, or to notice or care whither she was
bound or who was her boatman. She had been swept along too swiftly to
reason or fear for herself any more.
Half an hour later the scattered lights of the little camp winked and
twinkled for the last time. Turning, she set her face forward, and,
adjusting the cushions to her comfort, strained her tired eyes towards
the rising and falling shadow of her boatman. She seemed borne along on
a mystic river of gloom that hissed and gurgled about her, invisible
but all-pervading, irresistible, monstrous, only the ceaseless,
monotonous creak of the rowlocks breaking the silence.
Stark did not return to his cabin, but went back instead to his saloon,
where he saw Poleon Doret still sprawling with elbows on the table, his
hat pulled low above his sullen face. The owner of the place passed
behind the bar and poured himself a full glass of whiskey, which he
tossed off, then, without a look to right or left, went out and down
towards the barracks. A light behind the drawn curtains of the
officer's house told that his man was not abed, but he waited a long
moment after his summons before the door was opened, during which he
heard the occupant moving about and another door close in the rear.
When he was allowed entrance at last he found the young man alone in a
smoke-filled room with a bottle and two empty glasses on the table.
For at the sound of his voice Gale had whispered to Burrell, "Keep him
out!" and the Lieutenant had decided to refuse his late visitor
admittance when he lighted on the expedient of concealing the trader in
the bedroom at the rear. It was only natural, he reasoned, that Gale
should dislike to face a man like Stark before he had regained his
composure.
"Go in there and wait till I see what he wants," he had said, and,
shutting the old man in, he had gone forth to admit Stark, resenting
his ill-timed intrusion and inquiring brusquely the cause of it.
Before answering, Stark entered and closed the door behind him.
"I've got some work for you, Lieutenant."
"I guess it can wait till morning," said Meade.
"No, it can't; it's got to be done to-night, right now! You represent
the law, or at least you've taken every occasion to so declare
yourself, and to mix in with little things that don't cut much figure;
so now I've come to you with something big. It's a serious affair, and
being as I'm a peaceful man I want to go by the law." His eyes mocked
the words he uttered. "You're mighty prompt and determined when it
comes to regulating such affairs. You seem to carry the weight of this
whole community on your shoulders, so I'm here to give you some
information."
Burrell ignored the taunt, and said, quietly: "It's a little late for
polite conversation. Come to the point."
"I've got a criminal for you."
"What kind?"
"Murderer."
"You've had a killing in your place, eh?"
"No, I've just made a discovery. I found it all out by accident,
too--pure accident. By Heaven! You can't tell me there isn't a
beneficent Providence overlooking our affairs. Why, this felon has
lived here among us all this time, and only for the merest chance I
never would have recognized him."
"Well, well! Go on!" snapped Burrell, impatiently.
"He's a friend of yours, and a highly respected party. He's a glorious
example to this whole river."
The officer started. Could it be? he wondered. Could knowledge of this
affair have reached this man? He was uncomfortably aware of that
presence in the back room, but he had to know the truth.
"Who is the man?"
"He's your friend. He's--" Stark paused, gloating over his enemy's
suspense.
"Go on." "He's everybody's friend. He's the shining mark of this whole
country. He's the benevolent renegade, Squaw-man Gale."
"John Gale?"
"Gaylord is his name, and I was a fool not to know it sooner."
"How did you discover this?" inquired Burrell, lamely. "What proof have
you?"
The disclosure had not affected the soldier as Stark expected, and his
anger began to lift itself.
"That's neither here nor there; the man's a murderer; he's wanted in
California, where I came from; he's been indicted, and there's a price
on his head. He's hidden for fifteen years, but he'll hang as sure as I
stand here."
Disclosures of a complex nature had so crowded on Burrell in the last
few hours that he saw himself the centre of a most unfortunate and
amazing tangle. Things were difficult enough as it was, but to have
this man appear and cry for justice--this man above all others!--it was
a complication quite unlocked for--a hideous mockery. He must gain time
for thought. One false step might ruin all. He could not face this on
the spur of the moment, so, shrugging his shoulders with an air of
polite scepticism, he assumed a tone of good-natured raillery.
"Fifteen years? Murder? John Gale a murderer? Why, that's
almost--pardon me if I smile--I'm getting sleepy. What proof have you?"
"Proof!" blazed the gambler. "Proof! Ask Gaylord! Proof! Why, the woman
he murdered was my wife!"
It was Burrell's turn now to fall incoherent, and not only did his
speech forsake him, but his thoughts went madly veering off into a
wilderness where there was no trail, no light, no hope. What kind of a
coil was this? What frightful bones were these he bared? This man was
Bennett! This was Necia's father! This man he hated, this man who was
bad, whose name was a curse throughout the length and breadth of the
West, was the father of the girl he loved! His head began to whirl,
then the story of the trader came back to him, and he remembered who
and what the bearer of these later tidings was. He raised a pair of
eyes that had become furious and bloodshot, and suddenly realized that
the man before him, who persisted in saddling upon Gale this heinous
crime, was the slayer of Necia's mother; for he did not doubt Gale's
story for an instant. He found his fingers writhing to feel the
creature's throat.
"Proof!" Stark was growling. "How much proof do you need? I've followed
him for fifteen years. I've tracked him with men and dogs through woods
and deserts and mining-camps. I've slept on his trail for five thousand
miles, and now do you think I'm mistaken? He killed my wife, I say, and
robbed me of my little girl! That's her in his house. That's her he
calls Necia. She's my girl--MY GIRL, do you understand?--and I'll have
his life."
It was hate that animated him, and nothing more. He had no joy in the
finding of his offspring, no uplifted thought of justice. The thirst
for revenge, personal, violent, utter, was all that prompted this man;
but Burrell had no inkling yet of the father's well-shaped plans, nor
how far-reaching they were, and could barely stammer:
"So! You--you know?"
"Yes! She wears the evidence around her neck, and if that isn't enough
I can furnish more--evidence enough to smother you. My name isn't Stark
at all; I changed it years ago for certain reasons. I've changed it
more than once, but that's my privilege and my own affair. Her name is
Merridy Bennett."
"I don't suppose you know I'm going to marry her," said the Kentuckian,
irrelevantly.
"No," replied the other, "I wasn't aware of the fact."
"Well, I am. I'll be your son-in-law." He said this as if it were the
statement of an astonishing truth, whereat Stark grinned, a mirthless,
disquieting sort of grimace, and said:
"There's a lot of things for you and me to settle up first. For one
thing, I want those mines of hers."
"Why?"
"Well, I'm her father, and she's not of age."
"I'll think it over."
"I'll take them, anyway, as her next of kin."
Burrell did not follow up this statement, for its truth was
incontrovertible, and showed that the father's ill-will was too
tangible a thing to be concealed; so he continued:
"We'll adjust that after Gale is attended to; but, meanwhile, what do
you want me to do?"
"I want you to arrest the man who killed my wife. If you don't take him
the miners will. I've got a following in this camp, and I'll raise a
crowd in fifteen minutes--enough to hang this squaw-man, or batter down
your barracks to get him. But I don't want to do that; I want to go by
the law you've talked so much about; I want you to do the trick."
At last Burrell saw the gambler's deviltry. He knew Stark's reputation
too well to think that he feared a meeting with Gale, for the man had
lived in hope of that these fifteen years, and had shaped his life
around such a meeting; but this indirect method--the Kentuckian felt a
flash of reluctant admiration for a man who could mould a vengeance
with such cruel hands, and, even though he came from a land of feuds,
where hate is a precious thing, the cunning strength of this man's
enmity dwarfed any he had ever known. Stark had planned his settlement
coldly and with deliberate malice; moreover he was strong enough to
stand aside and let another take his place, and thus deny to Gale the
final recourse of a hunted beast, the desperate satisfaction that the
trader craved. He tied his enemy's hands and delivered him up with his
thirst unsatisfied--to whom? He thrust a weapon into the hand of his
other enemy, and bade this other enemy use it; worse than that, forced
him to strike the man he honored--the man he loved. Burrell never
doubted that Stark had carefully weighed the effect of this upon Necia,
and had reasoned that a girl like her could not understand a soldier's
duty if it meant the blood of a parent. If he refused to act, the
gambler could break him, while every effort he made to protect Gale
would but increase the other's satisfaction. There was no chance of the
trader's escape. Stark held him in his hand. His followers would do his
bidding. It was a desperate affair. Was it impossible, the Lieutenant
wondered, to move this man from his purpose?
"Have you thought of Necia? She loves Gale. What effect will this have
on her?"
"Damn her! She's more his brat than mine. I want John Gaylord!"
At this a vicious frenzy overtook Burrell, and he thought of the man
behind yonder door, whom he had forgotten until these words woke
something savage in him. Well! Why not? These two men had stalked each
other clear into the farthest places, driven by forces that were older
than the hills. Who was he to stand between such passions? This was
ordained, it was the course of nature, the clash of elements, and this
was a fair battle-ground, so why should he undertake to stop a thing
decreed?
The gambler's words rang in his ears--"I want John Gaylord"--and before
he knew what he was doing he had answered: "Very well. I'll give him to
you," and crossed quickly to the door of his bedroom and flung it open.
On the threshold he paused stock-still. The place was empty; a draught
sucked through the open window, flirting with the curtain and telling
the story of the trader's exit.
"If you're looking for your coat, it's here," he heard Stark say. "Get
into it, and we'll go for him."
The Lieutenant's mind was working fast enough now, in all conscience,
and he saw with clear and fateful eyes whither he was being led, at
which a sudden reckless disregard for consequences seized him. He felt
a blind fury at being pulled and hauled and driven by this creature,
and also an unreasoning anger at Gale's defection. But it was the
thought of Necia and the horrible net of evil in which this man had
ensnared them both that galled him most. It was all a terrible tangle,
in which the truth was hopelessly hidden, and nothing but harm could
come from attempting to unravel it. There was but one solution, and
that, though fundamental and effective, was not to be expected from an
officer of the law. Nevertheless, he chose it, for Ben Stark was too
potent a force for evil to be at large, and needed extermination as
truly as if he were some dangerous beast. He determined to finish this
thing here and now.
Meade went to his bureau, took his revolver from the belt where he had
hung it, and came out into the other room. Stark, seeing the weapon,
exclaimed:
"You don't need that; he won't resist you."
"I've decided not to take him," said Burrell.
"Decided not to take him?" shouted the other. "Have you weakened? Don't
you intend to arrest that man?"
"No!" cried the soldier. "I've listened to your lies long enough; now
I'm going to stop them, once for all. You're too dangerous to have
around."
They faced each other silently a moment; then Stark spoke in a very
quiet voice, though his eyes were glittering:
"What's the meaning of this? Are you crazy?"
"Gale was here just before you came, and told me who killed your wife.
I know."
"You do?"
"I do."
"Well?"
"It's pretty late. This place is lonely. This is the simplest way."
The gambler fell to studying his antagonist, and when he did not speak
Burrell continued:
"Come, brace up! I'm giving you a chance."
But Stark shook his head.
"Don't be afraid," insisted the Lieutenant. "There are no witnesses. If
you get me, nobody will know, and your word is good. If not--it's much
simpler than the other." Then, when the gambler still made no move, he
insisted, "You wouldn't have me kill you like a rattlesnake?"
"You couldn't," said the older man. "You're not that kind--and I'm not
the kind to be cheated, either. Listen! I've lived over forty years,
and I never took less than was coming to me. I won't begin to-night."
"You'll get your share--"
"Bah! You don't know what I mean. I don't want you; it's him I'm after,
and when I'm done with him I'll take care of you; but I won't run any
risk right now. I won't take a chance on losing what I've risked so
much to gain, what I've lived these fifteen years to get. You might put
me away--there's the possibility--and I won't let you or any other
man--or woman either, not even my girl--cheat me out of Gale. Put up
your gun."
The soldier hesitated, then did as he was bidden, for this man knew him
better than he knew himself.
"I ought to treat you like a mad dog, but I can't do it while your
hands are up. I'm going to fight for John Gale, however, and you can't
take him."
"I'll have his carcass hung to my ridge-pole before daylight."
"No."
"I say yes!" Stark turned to go, but paused at the door. "And you think
you'll marry Necia, do you?"
"I know it."
"Like hell you will! Suppose you find her first."
"What do you mean? Wait--"
But his visitor was gone, leaving behind him a lover already sorely
vexed, and now harassed by a new and sudden apprehension. What venom
the man distilled! Could it be that he had sent Necia away? Burrell
scouted the idea. She wasn't the kind to go at Stark's mere behest; and
as for his forcing her, why, this was not an age of abductions! He
might aim to take her, but it would require some time to establish his
rights, and even then there were Gale and himself to be reckoned with.
Still, this was no time for idling, and he might as well make certain,
so the young man put on his coat hurriedly, knowing there was work to
do There was no telling what this night would bring forth, but first he
must warn his friend, after which they would fight this thing together,
not as soldier and civilian, but as man and man, not for the law, but
against it. He smiled as he realized the situation. Well, he was
through with the army, anyhow; his path was strange and new from this
time henceforth, and led him away from all he had known, taking him
among other peoples; but he did not flinch, for it led to her. Behind
him was that former life; to-night he began anew.
Stark traced his way back to his cabin in a ten times fiercer mood than
he had come, reviling, cursing, hating; back past the dark trading-post
he went, pausing to shake his clenched fist and grind out an oath
between his teeth; past the door of his own saloon, which was a-light,
and whence came the sound of revelry, through the scattered houses,
where he went more by feel than by sight, up to the door of his own
shack. He fitted his key in the lock, but the door swung open without
his aid, at which he remembered that he had only pulled it after him
when he came away with Necia. He closed it behind him now, and locked
it, for he had some thinking to do; then felt through his pockets for a
match, and, striking it, bent over his lamp to adjust the wick. It
flared up steady and strong at last, flooding the narrow place with its
illumination; then he straightened up and turned towards the bed to
throw off his coat, when suddenly every muscle of his body leaped with
an uncontrollable spasm, as if he had uncovered a deadly serpent coiled
and ready to spring. In spite of himself his lungs contracted as if
with the grip of giant hands, and his breath came forth in a startled
cry.
John Gale was sitting at his table, barely an arm's-length away, his
gray-blue eyes fixed upon him, and the deep seams of his heavy face set
as if graven in stone. His huge, knotted hands were upon the table, and
between them lay a naked knife.