For the second time in his life Ray Brent felt the sting of Beatrice's
strong hand against his face. In the desperation of fear she had smote
him with all her force. His arms withdrew quickly from about her; and
her wide, disdainful eyes beheld a sinister change in his expression.
The moonlight was in his eyes, silver-white; and they seemed actually to
redden with fury, and again she saw that queer, ghastly twitching at the
corner of his lips. The girl's defiance was broken with that one blow.
She dropped her head, then walked past him into the presence of her
father.
Neilson and Chan were on their feet now, and they regarded her in the
utter silence of amazement. Breathing fast, Ray came behind her.
"Build up the fire, Chan," he said in a strange, grim voice. "We want to
see what we've caught."
Obediently Chan kicked the coals from under the ashes, and began to heap
on broken pieces of wood. The sticks smoked, then a little tongue of
yellow flame crept about the fuel. But still the emburdened silence
continued--the white-faced girl in the ring of silent, watching men.
Slowly the fire's glow crept out to her, revealing--even better than the
bright moonlight--her wide, frightened eyes and the dark, speculative
faces of the men. Then Ray spoke sharply in his place.
"Well, why don't you question her?" he demanded of Neilson. "I suppose
you know what she was doing. She was trying to steal food. It looks to
me like she's gone over to the opposite camp."
Her father sighed, a peculiar sound that seemed to come from above the
tree tops, as if fast-flying waterfowl were passing overhead. "Is that
so, daughter?" he asked simply.
"I was trying to take some of your food--to Ben," Beatrice replied
softly. "He's in need of it."
"You see, they're on intimate terms," Ray suggested viciously. "Ben was
in need of food--so she came here to steal it."
But Neilson acted as if he had not heard. "Why didn't you speak to
us--and tell us you were safe?" he asked. "We've come all the way here
to find you."
"Perhaps _you_ did. If you had been here alone, I would have told you.
But Ray and Chan came all the way here to find Ben. I heard what they
said--back there in the brush. They intend to kill him when they find
him. I--I didn't want him killed."
Her father stared at her from under his bushy brows. "After carrying you
from your home--taking you into danger and keeping you a prisoner--you
still want to protect him?"
The girl nodded. "And I want you to protect him, too," she said.
"Against these men." Suddenly she moved forward in earnest appeal. "Oh,
Father--I want you to save him. He's never touched me--he's treated me
with every respect--done everything he could for me. When he was injured
he told me to go back--to take what little food there was, and go
back--"
"I can take it, then, that you're out of food?" Ray asked.
"We're starving--and Ben's sick. Father, I make this one appeal--if your
love for me isn't all gone, you'll grant it. I love him. You might as
well know that now, as later. I want you to save the man your daughter
loves."
Chan cursed in the gloom, his lean face darkened; but Neilson made no
answer. Ray in his place sharply inhaled; but the sullen glow in his
eyes snapped into a flame.
If Beatrice had glanced at Ray, she would have ceased her appeal and
trusted everything to the doubtful mercy of flight,--into the gloom of
the forest. As it was, she did not fully comprehend the cruel lust, like
flame, that sped through his veins. She would have hoped for no mercy if
she could have seen the strange, black surge of wrath in his face.
"He has been kind to me--and he was in the right, not in the wrong. I
know about the claim-jumping. Father, I want you to stand between him
and these men--help him--and give him food. I didn't speak to you
because I was afraid for him--afraid you'd kill him or do some other
awful thing to him--"
Slowly her father shook his head. "But I can't save him now. He brought
this on himself."
"Remember, he was in the right," the girl pleaded brokenly. "You
won't--you couldn't be a partner to murder. That's all it would
be--murder--brutal, terrible, cold-blooded murder--if you kill him
without a fight. It couldn't be in defense of me--I tell you he hasn't
injured me--but was always kind to me. It would be just to take that
letter away from him--"
"So he has the letter, has he?" Ray interrupted. He smiled grimly, and
his tone was again flat and strained. "And he's sick--and starving. It
isn't for your father to say, Beatrice, what's to be done with Ben.
There's three of us here, and he's just one. Don't go interfering with
what doesn't concern you, either--about the claim. You take us where he
is, and we'll decide what to do with him."
Her eyes went to his face; and her lips closed tight. Here was one
thing, on this mortal earth, that she must not tell. Perhaps, by the
mercy of heaven, they would not find the cave, hidden as it was at the
edge of the little glade. The forests were boundless; perhaps they would
miss the place in their search. She straightened, scarcely perceptibly.
"Yes, tell us where he is," her father urged. "That's the first thing.
We'll find him, anyway, in the morning."
The girl shook her head. She knew now that even if they promised mercy
she must not reveal Ben's whereabouts. Their rage and cruelty would not
be stayed for a spoken promise. The only card she had left, her one
last, feeble hope of preserving Ben's life, lay in her continued
silence. Ray's foul-nailed, eager hands could claw her lips apart, but
he could not make her speak.
"I won't tell you," she answered at last, more clearly than she had
spoken since her capture. "You said a few minutes ago I had gone
over--to the opposite camp. I am, from now on. He was in the right, and
he gave up his fight against you long ago. Now I want to go."
Fearing that Neilson might show mercy, Ray leaped in front of her. "You
don't go yet awhile," he told her grimly. "I've got a few minutes'
business with you yet. I tell you that we'll find him, if we have to
search all year. And he'll have twice the chance of getting out alive if
you tell us where he is."
She looked into his face, and she knew what that chance was. Her eyelids
dropped halfway, and she shook her head. "I'd die first," she answered.
"It never occurred to you, did it, that there's ways of _making_ people
tell things." He suddenly whirled, with drawn lips, to her father.
"Neilson, is there any reason for showing any further consideration to
this wench of yours? She's betrayed us--gone over to the opposite
camp--lived for weeks, willing, with Ben. I for one am never going to
see her leave this camp till she tells us where he is. I'm tired of
talking and waiting. I'm going to get that paper away from him, and I'm
going to smash his heart with my heel. We've almost won out--and I'm
going to go the rest of the way."
Neilson straightened, his eyes steely and bright under his grizzled
brows. Only too well he knew that this was the test. Affairs were at
their crisis at last. But in this final moment his love for his daughter
swept back to him in all its unmeasured fullness,--and when all was said
and done it was the first, the mightiest impulse in his life. Ben had
been kind to her, and she loved him; and all at once he knew that he
could not yield him or her to the mercy of this black-hearted man before
him.
He had lived an iniquitous life; he was inured to all except the worst
forms of wickedness; but for the moment--in love of his daughter--he
stood redeemed. He was on the right side at last. His hand drew back,
and his face was like iron.
"Shut that foul mouth!" he cautioned, with a curious, deadly evenness of
tone. "I haven't surrendered yet to you two wolves. If one of you dares
to lay a hand on Beatrice, I'll kill him where he stands."
Even as he spoke his thought went to his rifle, leaning against a dead
log ten feet away. This was the moment of test: the jealousy and rivalry
and hatred between himself and Ray had reached the crisis. And the
spirit of murder, terrible past any demon of the Pit, came stalking from
the savage forest into the ruddy firelight.
Ray leered, his muscles bunching. "And I say to you, you're a dirty
traitor too," he answered. "She ain't your daughter any more. She's Ben
Darby's squaw. She's not fit for a white man to touch any more, for all
her lies. You say one word and you'll get it too."
And at that instant the speeding pace of time seemed to halt, showing
this accursed scene, so savage and terrible in the eerie light of the
camp fire, at the edge of the haunted, breathless darkness, in vivid and
ghastly detail. Neilson leaped forward with all his power; and if his
blow had gone home, Ray would have been shattered beneath it like a tree
in the lightning blast. But Ray's arms were incredibly swift, and his
rifle leaped in his hands.
The barrel gleamed. The roar reechoed in the silence. Neilson's head
bowed strangely; and for a moment he stood swaying, a ghastly blankness
on his face; then pitched forward in the dew-wet grass.
Beatrice's last defense had fallen, seriously wounded; and Ray's arm
seized her as, screaming, she tried to flee.