Ben walked quietly into the circle of firelight and stood at Beatrice's
side. But while Ray and Chan gazed at him as if he were a spectre from
the grave, Beatrice's only impulse was one of immeasurable and
unspeakable thankfulness. No fate on earth was so dreadful but that it
would be somewhat alleviated by the fact of his presence: just the sight
of him, standing beside her, put her in some vague way out of Ray's
power to harm. Exhausted, reeling, he was still the prop of her life and
hope.
"Here I am," he said quietly. "The letter's in my pocket. Do what you
want with me--but let Beatrice go."
His words brought Ray to himself in some degree at least. The ridiculous
fear of the moment before speedily passed away. Why, the man was
exhausted--helpless in their hands--and the letter was in his pocket. It
meant _triumph_--nothing else. All Ray's aims had been attained. With
Ben's death the claim, a fourth of which had been his motive when he had
slain Ezram, would pass entirely to him,--except for such share as he
would have to give Chan. His star of fortune was in the sky. It was his
moment of glory,--long-awaited but enrapturing him at last.
Neilson lay seriously wounded, perhaps dead by now. Whatever his
injuries, he would not go back with them to share in the gold of the
claim. The girl, also, was his prey,--to do with what he liked.
"I see you've come," he answered. "You might as well; we'd have found
you to-morrow." His voice was no longer flat, but rather exultant,
boasting. "You thought you could get away--but we've shown you."
Ben nodded. "You are--" he strained for the name he had heard Beatrice
speak so often--"Ray Brent?" His eyes fell to the form of Neilson,
wounded beyond the fire. "I see you've been at your old job--killing. It
was you who killed Ezra Melville."
Ray smiled, ever so faintly: this was what he loved. "You're talking to
the right man. Anything you'd like to do about it?"
Ben's face hardened. "There is nothing I can do, now. You came too late.
But I would have had something to do if I had my rifle. I'm glad it was
you, not Beatrice's father. I ask you this--will you accept my
proposition. To take Ezram's letter, destroy it and me too--and let the
girl go in safety?"
Beatrice stretched her bound arms and touched his hairy wrist. "No,
Ben," she told him quietly. "There's no use of trying to make such a
bargain as that. Men that murder--and assault women,--won't keep their
word."
"They were about to attack you, were they?" His voice dropped a tone;
otherwise it seemed the same.
"Yes--just as you came."
He turned once more to Ray, eyeing him with such a look of contempt and
scorn that it smarted like a whiplash in spite of the protecting mantel
of his new-found triumph. "Oh, you depraved dogs!" he told them quietly
and distinctly. "You yellow, mongrel cowards!"
Ray straightened, stung by the words. "And I'll make you wish you was
dead before you ever said that," he threatened. "I'll tell you what you
wanted to know a minute ago--and I tell you no. I won't make any deal
with you. We'll do what we like to you, and we'll do what we like with
your dirty squaw, too--the woman you've been living with all these
months. We've got you where we want you. You're in no fix to make terms.
Chan--put a rope around his legs and a gag in his rotten mouth!"
They moved toward him simultaneously, and Ben summoned the last jot of
his almost-spent strength to hurl them off. They did not need deadly
weapons for this wasted form. Yet for the duration of one second Ben
fought with an incredible ferocity and valor.
He hurled Chan from his path, and his sound right arm leaped to Ray's
throat in a death grip. For that one instant his old-time strength
returned to him,--as to Samson as his arms went about the pillars of the
temple. They found him no weakling, in that first instant, but a deadly,
fighting beast, the "Wolf" Darby of the provinces,--his finger nails
sinking ever deeper into the flesh of Ray's throat, his body braced
against Chan's attack. And for all that Beatrice's arms were tied, she
leaped like a she-wolf to her lover's aid.
But such an unequal battle could last only an instant. Ray focused his
attack upon Ben's injured left arm, Chan struck once at the girl,
hurling her to the ground with a base blow, then lashed brutal blows
into Ben's face. The burst of strength ebbed as quickly as it had come:
his legs wilted under him, and he sank slowly to the ground.
Maddened with battle, for a moment more Chan lashed cowardly blows into
his face; and he left the brutal labor only to help Ray affix ropes
about his ankles. Then the two conquerors stood erect, breathing loudly.
Seemingly the utter limit of their brutality was reached,--but for the
moment only. A strange and foreboding silence fell over the camp: only
the sound of troubled breathing was heard above the lessening crackle of
the fire. They did not turn at once again to the work of crushing Ben's
life out with their fists and boots, nor did they restrain Beatrice as
she crawled over the blood-stained grass to reach her lover's side.
"Let her go," Ray said to Charley. "She can't help him any."
It was true. They had put up their last defense. The girl crept nearer,
lying almost prone beside him, and her soft hands stole over his bruised
flesh. But no tears came now. She was past the kindly mercy of tears.
She could only gaze at him, and sometimes dry half-sobs clutched at her
throat. The man half-opened his eyes, smiling.
Life still remained in his rugged body. Even the cruel test of the last
hour had not taken that from him. The sturdy heart still beat, and the
breath still whispered through his lips: there was life in plenty to
afford such sport as Ray and Chan might have for him.
The last, least quality of redemption--such magic and beauty as might
have been wrought by the firelight dancing over the moonlit glade--was
quite gone now. The powers of wickedness were in the ascendency, and
this was only the abode of horror. Yet it was all tragically true, not a
nightmare from which she would soon waken. This was the remote heart of
Back There--a primeval land where the demons of lust and death walked
unrestrained--and the shadow of the moonlit trees fell dark upon her.
The back logs were burning dully now, and the coals were red, and Chan
and Ray took seats on a huge, dead spruce to talk over their further
plans. It was all easy enough. They could linger here, living mostly on
meat, until the rising waters of the Yuga could carry them down to the
Indian villages. Their methods and procedure in regard to Ben were the
only remaining questions.
For a few minutes they took little notice of the prone figures at the
far edge of the fading firelight. In their hands they were as helpless
as Jeffery Neilson, left already by the receding radiance to the soft
mercy of the shadows. Attention could be given them soon enough. Their
own triumph was beginning to give way to deep fatigue.
Ben and Beatrice had talked softly at first, accepting their fate at
last and trying to forget all things but the fact of each other's
presence. They had kept the faith to-night, they had both been true; and
perhaps they had conquered, in some degree, the horror of death. His
right hand held hers close to his lips, and only she could understand
the message in its soft pressure, and the gentle, kindly shadows in his
quiet eyes. But presently her gaze fastened on some object in the grass
beside him.
He did not understand at first. He knew enough not to attract his
enemies' attention by trying to turn. The girl relaxed again, but her
hand throbbed in his, and her eyes shone somberly as if the luster of
some strange, dark hope.
"What is it?" he asked whispering.
"I see a way out--for us both," she told him. She knew he would not
misunderstand and dream that she saw an actual avenue to life and
safety. "Don't give any sign."
"Then hurry," he urged. "They may be back any instant. What is it?"
"A way to cheat 'em--to keep them from torturing you--and to save
me--from all the things they'll do to me--when you're dead. Oh,
Ben--you won't fail me--you'll do it for me."