A FIRE IN THE NIGHT
The sledding was good on the tote-road.
The thaw that ruined the iced surface of the skid-ways was followed by
several days of freezing weather that put a hard, smooth finish on the
deep snow of the longer road, over which the runners of the box-bodied
tote-sled slipped with scarcely any resistance to the pull of the
sharp-shod team.
Bill Carmody, snugly bundled in robes in the bottom of the sled, idly
watched the panorama of tree-trunks between which the road twisted in
an endless succession of tortuous windings.
It was not yet daylight when he rounded the bend which was the scene of
his fight with the werwolf.
But by the thin, cold starlight and the pale luminosity of the fading
aurora, he recognized each surrounding detail, and wondered at the
accuracy with which the trivialities of the setting had been
subconsciously impressed upon his memory.
It was here he had first met Fallon, and he remembered the undisguised
approval in the Irishman's voice and the firm grip of the hand that
welcomed him into the comradery of the North-men as he stood, faint
from hunger and weary from exertion, staring dully down at the
misshapen carcass of Diablesse.
"Good old Irish," he muttered, and smiled as he thought of himself,
Bill Carmody, proud of the friendship of a lumberjack.
He had come to know that in the ceaseless whirl of society the heavier
timbers--the real men are thrown outward--forced to the very edges of
the bowl, where they toil among big things upon the outskirts of
civilization.
He pulled off his heavy mitten and fumbled for his pipe. In the
side-pocket of his mackinaw his hand encountered an object--hard and
cold and unfamiliar to his touch.
He withdrew it and looked at the wicked, blue-black outlines of an
automatic pistol. Idly he examined the clip, crowded with shiny, yellow
cartridges. He recognized the gun as Fallon's, and smiled as he
returned it to his pocket.
"Only in case of a pinch," he grinned, and glanced approvingly at the
fist that doubled hard to the strong clinch of his fingers.
Hour after hour he slipped smoothly southward, relieving the monotony
of the journey by formulating his plan of action in case the
forebodings of Fallon should be realized.
Personally he apprehended no trouble, but he made up his mind that
trouble coming should not find him unprepared.
When at last the team swung into the clearing of Melton's old No. 8,
the stars winked in cold brilliance above the surrounding pines, and
the deserted buildings stood lifeless and dim in the deepening gloom.
Bill headed the horses for the stable which he found, as Irish had told
him, located at some distance from the other buildings and cut off from
sight by a knoll and a heavy tangle of scrub that had sprung up in the
clearing.
He climbed stiffly and painfully from the sled-box, and with the aid of
his crutch, hobbled about the task of unhitching the horses. He watered
them where a plume of thin vapor disclosed the whereabouts of a
never-freezing spring which burbled softly between its low,
ice-encrusted banks.
It proved a difficult matter, crippled as he was, to handle the horses,
but at length he got them into the stable, chinked the broken
feed-boxes as best he could, and removed the bridles, hanging them upon
the hames.
He closed the door and, securing his lantern, blankets, and
lunch-basket, made his way toward the old shack where he had spent his
first night in the timber land.
The sagging door swung half open, and upon the rough floor the
snow-water from the recent thaw had collected in puddles and frozen,
rendering the footing precarious.
Bill noted with satisfaction that there still remained a goodly portion
of the firewood which he had cut and carried in upon his previous
visit, and he soon had a fire roaring in the rusty stove.
He was in no hurry. He knew that any attempt to make away with the team
would be delayed until the thief believed him to be asleep, and his
plans were laid to the minutest detail.
Setting the lantern upon the table, he proceeded to eat his lunch,
after which he lighted his pipe, and for an hour smoked at the
fireside. In spite of the pain of his injured foot his mind wandered
back to the events of his first visit to the shack.
There, in the black shadow of the pile of firewood, lay the empty
whisky bottle where the Indian had tossed it after drinking the last
drop of its contents.
Carmody stared a long time at this silent reminder of his first serious
brush with King Alcohol, then, from the inner pocket of his mackinaw,
he drew the sealed packet and gazed for many minutes at the likeness of
the girl--dimming now from the rub of the coarse cloth of the pocket.
Suddenly a great longing came over him--a longing to see this girl, to
hear the soft accents of her voice and, above all, to tell her of his
great love for her, that in all the world there was no woman but her,
and that each day, and a hundred times each day, her dear face was
before his eyes, and in his ears, ringing above the mighty sounds of a
falling forest, was the soft, sweet sound of her voice.
He could not speak to her, but she could speak to him, even if it were
but a repetition of the words of the letters he already knew by heart,
but which had remained sealed in the envelope ever since the day he bid
farewell to Broadway--and to _her_.
His fingers fumbled at the flap of the heavy envelope. He could at
least feast his eyes upon the lines traced by her pen and press his
lips to the page where her little hand had rested.
His foot throbbed with dull persistence. He was conscious of being
tired, but he must not sleep this night. Rough work possibly, at any
rate, a man's work, awaited him there in the gloom of the silent
clearing.
Again his eye sought the whisky bottle and held. His fingers ceased to
toy with the flap, for in that moment the thought came to him that had
the bottle not been empty, had it been filled with liquor--strong
liquor--with the pain in his foot and the stiffness of his tired
muscles and the work ahead--well, he might--for the old desire was
strong upon him--he might take a drink.
"Not yet," he muttered, and returned the packet to his pocket unopened.
"I told her I would beat the game. I've bucked old John Barleycorn's
line and scored a touchdown; the hardest of the fighting is past, but
there is just a chance that I might miss goal."
Bill looked at his watch; it was eight o'clock. He stood up, wincing as
his injured foot touched the floor, and hobbled across the room where
he wrenched a rough, split shelf from the wall. This, together with
some sticks of firewood, he rolled in a blanket, placing it near the
stove. He added more wood until the bundle was about the size and shape
of a man, and covered it with his other two blankets. Filling the
broken stove with wood he blew out the lantern and limped silently out
into the night.
Two hours later Creed, bird's-eye spotter and bad man of the worn-out
little town of Hilarity, knocked the ashes from his pipe and held a
glowing brand to the dial of his watch.
"The greener should be asleep by now," he muttered, and, rolling his
blanket, kicked snow over the remnant of his camp-fire, picked up his
rifle, and ascended the steep side of a deep ravine lying some two
hundred yards to the westward of the clearing where Bill Carmody had
encamped for the night.
After leaving Moncrossen's office on the previous afternoon he had
traveled all night, and reached Melton's old No. 8 in the early
morning.
All day he had slept by the side of his fire in the bottom of the
ravine, and in the evening had lain in the cover of the scrub and
watched the greener stable the horses and limp to the deserted shack.
At heart Creed was a craven, a bullying swashbuckler, who bragged and
blustered among the rheumy-eyed down-and-outers who nightly
foregathered about Burrage's stove, but who was servile and cringing as
a starved puppy toward Moncrossen and Stromberg, who openly despised
him.
They made good use of his ability to "spot" a bird's-eye tree as far as
he could see one, however, an ability shared by few woodsmen, and which
in Creed amounted almost to genius.
The man had never been known to turn his hand to honest work, but as a
timber pirate and peddler of rotgut whisky among the Indians, he had
arisen to comparative affluence.
His hate for the greener was abysmal and unreasoning, and had been
carefully fostered by Moncrossen who, instinctively fearing that the
new man would eventually expose his nefarious double-dealing with his
employer, realized that at the proper time Creed could be induced to do
away with the greener under circumstances that would leave him,
Moncrossen, free from suspicion.
In the framing of Bill Carmody, Stromberg had no part. Moncrossen could
not fathom the big Swede, upon whose judgment and acumen he had come to
rely in the matter of handling and disposing of the stolen timber.
Several times during the winter he had tentatively broached plans and
insinuated means whereby the Swede could "accidentally" remove his
swamper from their path.
The reversing of a hook which would cause a log to roll just at the
right time on a hillside; the filing of a link; the snapping of a
weakened bunk-pin, any one of these common accidents would render them
safe from possible interference.
But to all these suggestions Stromberg turned a deaf ear. The boss even
taunted him with the knock-out he had received at the hands of the
greener.
"That's all right, Moncrossen," he replied; "I picked the fight purpose
to beat him up. It didn't work. He's a better man than me--or you
either--an' you know it. Only he had to lick me to prove it. He chilled
your heart with a look an' a grin--an' the whole crew lookin' on.
"But beatin' up a man is one thing an' murder is another. Appleton's
rich, besides he's a softwood man an' ain't fixed for handlin' veneer,
so I might's well get in on the bird's-eye as let you an' Creed an'
Lebolt steal it all. But I ain't got to the point where I'd murder a
good man to cover up my dirty tracks--an' I never will!"
And so, without consulting Stromberg, Moncrossen bided his time and
laid his plans. And now the time had come. The plan had been gone over
in detail in the little office, and Creed in the edge of the timber
stood ready to carry it out.
Stealthily he slipped into the dense shadows of the scrub and made his
way toward the shack where a thin banner of smoke, shot with an
occasional yellow spark, floated from the dilapidated stovepipe that
protruded from the roof.
The hard crust rendered snowshoes unnecessary, and his soft moccasins
made no sound upon the surface of the snow.
Gaining the side of the shack, he peered between the unchinked logs.
The play of the firelight that shone through the holes of the broken
stove sent flickering shadows dancing over the floor and walls of the
rough interior.
Near the fire, stretched long and silent beneath its blankets, lay the
form of a man. Creed shifted his position for a better view of the
sleeper. His foot caught in the loop of a piece of discarded wire whose
ends were firmly frozen into the snow, and he crashed heavily backward
into a pile of dry brushwood.
It seemed to the frightened man as if the accompanying noise must wake
the dead. He lay for a moment where he had fallen, listening for sounds
from within. He clutched his rifle nervously, but the deathlike silence
was unbroken save for his own heavy breathing and the tiny snapping of
the fire in the stove.
Cautiously he extricated himself from the brush-heap, his heart
pounding wildly at the snapping of each dry twig. It was incredible
that the man could sleep through such a racket in a country where life
and death may hang upon the rustle of a leaf.
But the silence remained unbroken, and, after what seemed to the
cowering man an eternity of expectant waiting, he crawled again to the
wall and glanced furtively into the interior. The form by the fire was
motionless as before--it had not stirred.
Then, as he looked, a ray of firelight fell upon the white label of the
black whisky bottle that lay an easy arm's reach from the head of the
sleeper. A smile of comprehension twisted the lips of his evil face as
he leered through the crevice at the helpless form by the fireside.
"Soused to the guards," he sneered, "an' me with ten years scairt offen
my life fer fear I'd wake him." He stood erect and, with no attempt at
the stealth with which he had approached the shack, proceeded rapidly
in the direction of the stable.
It was but the work of a few moment to bridle the horses, lead them
out, and hitch them to the sled.
Tossing the horse-blankets on top of the big tarpaulin which lay in the
rear of the sled-box ready for use in the covering of supplies, he
settled himself in front and pulled the robes about him.
He turned the team slowly onto the tote-road and glanced again toward
the shack. A spark, larger than the others, shot out of the stovepipe
and lodged upon the bark roof, where it glowed for a moment before
going out. The man watched it in sudden fascination.
He halted the team and stared long at the spot where the spark had
vanished in blackness, but which in the brain of the man appeared as an
ever-widening circle of red, which spread until it included the whole
roof in its fiery embrace, and crept slowly down the log walls.
So realistic was the picture that he seemed to hear the crackle and
roar of the leaping flames. He drew a trembling hand across his eyes,
and when he looked again the shack stood silent and black in the
half-light of the starlit clearing.
"God!" he mumbled aloud. "If it had only happened thataway----" He
passed his tongue over his dry, thick lips. "Why not?" he argued
querulously. "Moncrossen said 'twa'nt safe to bushwhack him like I
wanted to--said how I ain't got nerve nor brains to stand no
investigation.
"But if he'd git burnt up in the shack, that's safer yet. He got that
booze somewhere--some one knows he had it. He got spiflicated, built a
roarin' fire in the old stove--an' there y'are, plain as daylight. No
brains! I'll show him who's got brains--an' there won't be no
investigation, neither."
He drew the team to the side of the tote-road and, slipping the halters
over the bridles, tied them to a stout sapling and made his way toward
the shack.
One look satisfied him that the sleeper had not stirred, and
noiselessly he slipped the heavy hasp of the door over the staple and
secured it with the wooden pin.
He collected dry branches, piling them directly beneath the small,
square window which yawned high in the wall. Higher and higher the pile
grew until its top was almost on a level with the sill.
His hands trembled as he applied the match. Tiny tongues of flame
struggled upward through the branches, lengthening and widening as
fresh twigs ignited, and in his ears the crackle and snap of the dry
wood sounded as the rattle of musketry.
His first impulse as the flames gained headway was to fly--to place
distance between himself and the scene of his crime. But he dared not
go. His knees shook, and he stared with blanched face in horrid
fascination as the flames roared and crackled through the brushwood.
They were curling about the window now, and the whole clearing was
light as day. He slunk around the corner and gained the shadow of the
opposite wall. Fearfully he applied his eye to a crevice--the form by
the stove had not moved.
The air of the interior was heavy with smoke and tiny flames were
eating their way between the logs. The smoke thickened, blurring and
blotting out the prostrate figure. He glanced across at the window. Its
aperture was a solid sheet of flame--he was safe!
With a low, animal-like cry Creed sprang away and dashed in the
direction of the team. With shaking fingers he clawed at the knots and
slipped the halters.
Leaping into the sled, he grabbed up the lines and headed the horses
southward at a run. Behind him the sky reddened as the flames licked
hungrily at the dry logs of the shack.
"It's his own fault! It's his own fault!" he mumbled over and over
again. "Serves him right fer gittin' soused an' buildin' up a big fire
in a busted stove. 'Twasn't no fault of his that spark didn't catch the
roof. Serves him right! Maybe it did catch--maybe it did. 'Taint my
fault no-how--it must 'a' caught--I seen it thataway so plain! Oh, my
God! Oh, my God," he babbled, "if they git to askin' me!
"It was thisaway, mister; yes, sir; listen: I was camped in the ravine,
an' all to wunst I seen the flare of the fire an' I run over there; but
'twas too late--the roof had fell in an' the pore feller must 'a' been
cooked alive. It was turrible, mister--turrible!
"An' I run an' hitched up the team an' druv to Hilarity hell bent fer a
potlatch--that's the way of it--s'elp me God it is! If you don't
b'lieve it ask Moncrossen--ask Moncrossen, I mean, if he didn't have no
booze along--he must 'a' been drunk--an' him crippled thataway!
"Oh, Lordy, Lord! I ain't supposed to know it was the greener, let
alone he was crippled! I'm all mixed up a'ready! They better not go
askin' me questions lessen they want to git me hung--Goda'mi'ty! I'd
ort to done like Moncrossen said!"
So he raved in a frenzy of terror as the horses sped southward at a
pace that sent the steam rising in clouds from their heaving sides.
And under the big tarpaulin in the rear of the sled-box the greener
grinned as he listened, and eyed the gibbering man through a narrow
slit in the heavy canvas.