MOVES IN THE GAME OF LOVE
Stanley Fyles's extreme satisfaction was less enduring than might have
been expected. Success, and the prospect of success, were matters
calculated to affect him more nearly than anything else in his life.
That was the man, as he always had been; that was the man, who, in so
brief a time, had raised himself to the commissioned ranks of his
profession. But, somehow, just now a slight undercurrent of thought
and feeling had set in. It was scarcely perceptible at first, but
growing rapidly, it quickly robbed the tide of his satisfaction of
quite half its strength, and came near to reducing it to the condition
of slack water.
McBain was in the quarters attending to the detail which fell to his
lot. A messenger from Winter's Crossing had come in announcing the
arrival, at that camp, of the reinforcing patrol. This was the
culminating point of Fyles's satisfaction. From that moment the
undercurrent set in.
The inspector had moved out of the bluff, which screened the temporary
quarters from chance observation, and had taken up a position on the
shoulder of the valley, where he sat himself upon a fallen fence post
to consider the many details of the work he had in mind.
The sun was setting in a ruddy cauldron of summer cloud, and, already,
the evening mists were rising from the heart of the superheated
valley. The wonderful peace of the scene might well have been a
sedative to the stream of rapid thought pouring through his busy
brain.
But its soothing powers seemed to have lost virtue, and, as his almost
unconscious gaze took in the beauties spread out before it, a curious
look of unrest replaced the satisfaction in his keen eyes. His brows
drew together in a peevish frown. A discontent set the corners of
his tightly compressed lips drooping, and once or twice he stirred
impatiently, as though his irritation of mind had communicated itself
to his physical nerves.
Once more the image of Kate Seton had risen up before his mind's eye,
and, for the first time it brought him no satisfaction. For the first
time he had associated the probable object of his plans with her.
Charlie Bryant was no longer a mere offender against the law in his
mind. In concentrating his official efforts against him he realized
the jeopardy in which his own regard for Kate Seton placed him. He saw
that his success now in ridding the district of the whisky-runner
would, at the same time, rob him of all possible chance of ever
obtaining the regard of this woman he loved. It meant an ostracism
based upon the strongest antipathy--the antipathy of a woman wounded
in her tenderest emotions, that wonderful natural instinct which is
perhaps beyond everything else in her life.
The more than pity of it. Kate's interest in Charlie Bryant had
assumed proportions which threatened to overwhelm his whole purpose.
It became almost a tragedy. Pondering upon this ominous realization a
sort of panic came near to taking hold of him. Apart from his own
position, the pain and suffering he knew he must inflict upon her set
him flinching.
Her protestations of Charlie's innocence were very nearly absurd. To
a mind trained like his there was little enough doubt of the man's
offense. He was a rank "waster," but, as in the case of all such
creatures, there was a woman ready to believe in him with all the
might of feminine faith. It was a bitter thought that in this case
Kate Seton should be the woman. She did believe. He was convinced of
her honesty in her declaration. She believed from the bottom of her
heart, she, a woman of such keen sense and intelligence. It was--yes,
it was maddening. Through it all he saw his duty lying plainly before
him. His whole career was at stake, that career for which only he had
hitherto lived, and which, eventually, he had hoped to lay at Kate's
feet.
What could he do? There was no other way. He--must--go--on. His dream
was wrecking. It was being demolished before his eyes. It was not
being sent crushing at one mighty stroke, but was being torn to shreds
and destroyed piecemeal.
He strove to stiffen himself before the blow, and his very attitude
expressed something of his effort. He told himself a dozen times that
he must accept the verdict, and carry his duty through, his duty to
himself as well as to his superiors. But conviction was lacking. The
human nature in him was rebelling. For all his discipline it would not
be denied. And with each passing moment it was gaining in its power to
make itself felt and heard.
Its promptings came swiftly, and in a direction hardly conceivable in
a man of his balance of mind. But the more sure the strength of the
man, the more sure the strength of the old savage lurking beneath the
sanest thought. The savage rose up in him now in a reckless challenge
to all that was best and most noble in him. A cruel suspicion swept
through his mind and quickly permeated his whole outlook. What if he
had read Kate's regard for the man Bryant wrong? What if he had read
it as she intended him to read it, seeking to blind him to the true
facts? He knew her for a clever woman, a shrewd woman, even a daring
woman. What if she had read through his evident regard for her, and
had determined to turn it to account in saving her lover from
disaster, by posing with a maternal, or sisterly regard for his
welfare? Such things he felt had been done. He was to be a tool, a
mere tool in her hands, the poor dupe whose love had betrayed him.
He sprang from his seat.
No, a thousand times no, he told himself. His memory of her beautiful,
dark, fearless eyes was too plainly in his mind for that. The honesty
of her concern and regard for the man was too simply plain to hold
any trace of the perfidy which his thought suggested. He told
himself these things. He told himself again and again, and--remained
unconvinced. The savage in him, the human nature was gaining an
ascendancy that would not be denied, and from the astute, disciplined
man he really was, at a leap, he became the veriest doubting lover.
He threw his powerful arms out, and stretched himself. His movements
were the movements of unconcern, but there was no unconcern within
him. A teeming, harassing thought was urging him, driving him to the
only possible course whereby he could hope to obtain a resumption of
his broken peace of mind.
He must see Kate. He must see her again, without delay.
* * * * *
Kate Seton was sitting in the northern shadow of her little house the
following morning when Stanley Fyles rode down the southern slope of
the valley toward the old footbridge. She had just dispatched Big
Brother Bill on an errand to the village, and, with feminine tact, had
requested him to discover Helen's whereabouts, and send her, or bring
her home. She had no particular desire that Helen should return home.
In fact, she would rather she didn't until mid-day dinner. But she
felt she was giving the man the excuse he evidently needed.
As a matter of fact, she had a good deal of work to do. And the first
hour after Bill had taken his departure she was fully occupied with
her two villainous hired men. After that she returned to the house,
and wrote several letters, and, finally, took up her position in the
shade, and devoted herself to a basket of long-neglected sewing.
At the sound of the approaching horseman she looked up with a start.
She had no expectation of a visitor, she had no desire for one just
now. Nevertheless, when she discovered the officer's identity, she
displayed no surprise, and more interest, than might have been
expected.
She did not disguise from herself the feelings this man inspired. On
the contrary she rather reveled in them, especially as, in a way, just
now, all her actions must be in direct antagonism to his efforts.
She felt that a battle, a big battle, must be fought and won between
them. It was a battle to be fought out openly and frankly. It was her
determination that this man should not wrong himself by committing a
great wrong upon Charlie Bryant.
Kate was very busy at the moment Fyles rode up. She was intent upon
fitting a piece of lace, obviously too small, upon a delicate white
garment of her sister's, which was obviously too big.
For a moment, as she did not look up, Fyles sat leaning forward in the
saddle with his arms resting upon its horn. He was watching her with
a smiling interest which was not without anxiety.
"There's surely not a dandier picture in the world than a girl sitting
in the shade sewing--white things," he said at last, by way of
greeting.
Kate glanced up for the briefest of smiling glances. Then her dark
head bent over her sewing again.
"And there's surely nothing calculated to upset things more than a man
butting in, where the same girl's fragment of brain is worrying to fit
something that doesn't fit anyway."
"Meaning me?"
Fyles smiled in his confident way.
"Seeing there's no one else around, I must have meant some other
fellow."
Kate laid the lace aside, and looked up with a sigh. A gentle
amusement shone in her fine dark eyes.
"Have you ever tried to make things fit that--just won't?" she
demanded.
Fyles shook his head.
"Maybe I can help, though," he hazarded.
"Help?" Kate's amusement merged into a laugh. "Say, when it comes to
fitting things that don't fit, two heads generally muss things right
up. All my life I've been trying to fit things that don't fit, and I
find, if you're to succeed, you've got to do it to yourself, and by
yourself. It always takes a big lot of thinking which nobody else can
follow. Maybe your way of thinking is different from other folks, and
so they can't understand, and that's why they can't follow it. Now
here's a bit of lace, and there's a sleeve. The lace is short by an
inch. Still there's ways and ways of fixing it, but only one right
way. If I make the sleeve smaller the lace will fit, but poor Helen
won't get her arm through it. If I tack on a bit more lace it'll muss
the job, and make it look bad. Then there's other ways, too,
but--there's only one right way." She dropped the lace in her basket
and began to fold the garment. "I'll get some new lace that does fit,"
she declared emphatically.
Fyles nodded, but the amusement died out of his eyes.
"All of which is sound sense," he said seriously, "and is leading us
toward controversial--er--subjects. Eh?"
Kate raised a pair of shoulders with pretended indifference. But her
eyes were smiling that challenge which Stanley Fyles always associated
with her.
"Not a bad thing when the police are getting so very busy, and--you
are their chief in the district," she said.
"I must once more remark, you are well informed," smiled Fyles.
"And I must once more remark not as well informed as I could wish,"
retorted Kate quickly.
Fyles had permitted his gaze to wander down the wooded course of the
river. Kate was watching him closely, speculatively. And curious
enough she was thinking more of the man than his work at that moment.
The man's eyes came back abruptly to her face, and her expression was
instantly changed to one of smiling irony.
"Well?" she demanded.
Fyles shook his head.
"It isn't," he said. "May I ask how you know we are--so very busy?"
"Sure," cried Kate, with a frank laugh. "You see, I have two of the
worst scamps in the valley working for me, and they seem to think it
more than necessary that they keep themselves posted as to--your
movements."
"I see." Fyles's lighter mood had entirely passed, and with its going
Kate's became more marked. "I s'pose they spy out everything for the
benefit of their--chief."
Kate clapped her hands.
"What reasoning. I s'pose they have a chief?" she added slyly.
A frown of irritation crossed the policeman's brow.
"Must we open up that old sore, Miss Kate?" he, asked almost sharply.
"They are known to be--when not occupied with the work of your
farm--assisting Charlie Bryant in his whisky-running schemes. They are
two of his lieutenants."
"And so, because they are so known among the village people here, you
are prosecuting this campaign against a man whom you hope to catch
red-handed."
"I have sufficient personal evidence to--prosecute my campaign," said
Fyles quickly. "As you said just now, we are not idle."
"Yes, I know," Kate sighed, and her gaze was turned upon the western
reaches of the valley. "Your camp out there is full of activity. So
is Winter's Crossing. And the care with which you mask your coming and
going is known to everybody. It is a case of the hunter being hunted.
Yes, I say it without resentment, I am glad of these things, because
I--must know."
"If we are against each other--it is only natural you should wish to
know."
Kate's eyes opened wider.
"Of course we are against each other, as long as you are against
Charlie. But only in our--official capacities." A whimsical smile
stole into the woman's eyes. "Oh, you are so--so obstinate," she cried
in mock despair. "In this valley it is no trouble for me to watch your
every move, and, in Charlie's interests, to endeavor to frustrate
them. But the worst of it is I'd--I'd like to see you win out. Instead
of that I know you won't. You've had some news. You had it yesterday,
I suppose, by that patrol. Maybe it's news of another cargo coming in,
and you are getting ready to capture it, and--Charlie. I'm not here to
give any one away, I'm not here to tell you all I know, must know,
living in the valley, but you are doomed, utterly doomed to failure,
if you count the capture of Charlie success."
In spite of the lightness of Kate's manner her words were not without
their effect upon Fyles. There was a ring of sincerity in them that
would not be denied. But its effect upon him was not that which she
could have wished. His face set almost sternly. The challenge of the
woman had stirred him out of his calm assurance, but it was in a
direction which she could scarcely have expected. He thrust his
sunburned face forward more aggressively, and challenged her in
return.
"What is this man to you?" he demanded, his square jaws seeming to
clip his question the more shortly.
In a moment Kate's face was flushing her resentment. Her dark eyes
were sparkling with a sudden leaping anger.
"You have no right to--ask me that," she cried. But Fyles had
committed himself. Nor would he draw back.
"Haven't I?" he laughed harshly. "All's fair in love and--war. We are
at war--officially."
The woman's flushing cheeks remained, but the sparkle of her eyes had
changed again to an ironical light.
"War--yes. Perhaps you're right. The only courtesies recognized in war
are observed in the prize ring, and in international warfare. Our
warfare must be less exalted, and permits hitting--below the belt.
I've told you what Charlie is to me, and I have told you truly. I am
trying to defend an innocent man, who is no more to me than a brother,
or--or son. I am doing so because of his peculiar ailments which make
him well-nigh incapable of helping himself. You see, he does not care.
His own safety, his own welfare, are nothing to him. It is for that
reason, for the way he acts in consequence of these things, that all
men believe him a rogue, and a--a waster. I tell you he is neither."
She finished up a little breathlessly. She had permitted her loyalty
and anxiety to carry her beyond the calm fencing she had intended.
But Fyles remained unmoved, except that the harshness had gone out of
his manner.
"It is not I who am obstinate," he said soberly. "It is you, Miss
Kate. What if I told you I had irrefutable circumstantial evidence
against him? Would that turn you from your faith in him?"
The woman shook her head.
"It would be merely circumstantial evidence," she said. "God knows how
circumstance has filled our penitentiaries wrongfully," she added
bitterly.
"And but for circumstance our population of wrongdoers at large would
be greater by a thousand per cent.," retorted the officer.
"That is supposition," smiled Kate.
"Which does not rob it of its possibility in fact."
The two sat looking at each other, silently defiant. Kate was smiling.
A great excitement was thrilling her, and she liked this man all the
better for his blunt readiness for combat, even with her.
Fyles was wondering at this woman, half angry, half pleased. Her
strength and readiness appealed to him as a wonderful display.
He was the first to speak, and, in doing so, he felt he was
acknowledging his worsting in the encounter.
"It's--it's impossible to fight like this," he said lamely. "I am not
accustomed to fight with women."
"Does it matter, so long as a woman can fight?" Kate cried quickly.
"Chivalry?" she went on contemptuously. "That's surely a survival of
ages when the old curfew rang, and a lot of other stupid notions
filled folks' minds. I--I just love to fight."
Her smile was so frankly infectious that Fyles found himself
responding. He heaved a sigh.
"It's no good," he said almost hopelessly. "You must stick to your
belief, and I to mine. All I hope, Miss Kate, is that when I've done
with this matter the pain I've inflicted on you will not be
unforgivable."
The woman's eyes were turned away. They had become very soft as she
gazed over at the distant view of Charlie's house.
"I don't think it will be," she said gently. Then with a quick return
to her earlier manner: "You see, you will never get the chance of
hurting Charlie." A moment later she inquired naively: "When is the
cargo coming in?"
But Fyles's exasperation was complete.
"When?" he cried. "Why, when this scamp is ready for it. It's--it's no
use, Miss Kate. I can't stop, or--or I'll be forgetting you are a
woman, and say 'Damn!' I admit you have bested me, but--young Bryant
hasn't. I----" he broke off, laughing in spite of his annoyance, and
Kate cordially joined in.
"But he will," she cried, as Peter began to move away. "Good-bye, Mr.
Fyles," she added, in her ironical fashion as she picked up her
sewing. "I can get on with these important matters--now."
The man's farewell was no less cordial, and his better sense told him
that in accepting his defeat at her hands he had won a good deal in
another direction where he hoped to finally achieve her capitulation.
* * * * *
While the skirmish between Stanley Fyles and Kate Seton was going on,
the object of it was discussing the doings of the police and the
prospect of the coming struggle with Big Brother Bill on the veranda
of his house.
He was leaning against one of its posts while Bill reposed on the hard
seat of a Windsor chair, seeking what comfort he could find in the
tremendous heat by abandoning all superfluous outer garments.
Charlie's face was darkly troubled. His air was peevishly irritable.
"Bill," he said, with a deep thrill of earnestness in his voice, as he
thrust his brown, delicate hands into the tops of his trousers. "All
the trouble in the world's just about to start, if I'm a judge of the
signs of things. There's a whole crowd of the police in the valley
now. They're camped higher up. They think we don't know, but we
do--all of us. I wonder what they think they're going to do?"
His manner became more excited, and his voice grew deeper and deeper.
"They think they're going to get a big haul of liquor. They think
they're going to get me. I tell you, Bill, that for men trained to
smelling things out, they're blunderers. Their methods are clumsy as
hell. I could almost laugh, if--if I didn't feel sick at their coming
around."
Bill stirred uneasily.
"If there were no whisky-running here they wouldn't be around," he
said pointedly.
Charlie eyed him curiously.
"No," he said. Then he added, "And if there were no whisky-running
there'd be no village here. If there were no village here we shouldn't
be here. Kate and her sister wouldn't be here. Nothing would be here,
but the old pine--that goes on forever. This village lives on the
prohibition law. Fyles may have a reputation, but he's clumsy--damned
clumsy. I'd like to see ahead--the next few days."
"He's smelling a cargo--coming in, isn't he?" Bill's tact was holding
him tight.
Again Charlie looked at him curiously before he replied.
"That's how they reckon," he said guardedly, at last.
Bill had turned away, vainly searching his unready wit for the best
means of carrying on the discussion. Suddenly his eyes lit, and he
pointed across at the Seton's house.
"Say, who's that--on that horse? Isn't it Fyles? He's talking to some
one. Looks like----"
He broke off. Charlie was staring out in the direction indicated, and,
in a moment, his excitement passed, swallowed up in a frowning,
brooding light that had suddenly taken possession of his dark eyes.
Bill finally broke the uncomfortable silence.
"It's--Fyles?" he said.
"Yes, it's Fyles," said Charlie, with a sudden suppressed fury. "It's
Fyles--curse him, and he's talking to--Kate."
At the sound of his brother's tone, even Bill realized his blundering.
He knew he had fired a train of passion that was to be deplored, even
dreaded in his brother. He blamed himself bitterly for his lack of
forethought, his absurd want of discretion.
But the mischief was done. Charlie had forgotten everything else.
Bill stirred again in his chair.
"What does he want down there?" he demanded, for lack of something
better to say.
"What does he want?" Charlie laughed. It was an unpleasant laugh, a
savage laugh. It was a laugh that spoke of sore heart, and feelings
crowding with bitterness. "I guess he wants something he'll never
get--while I'm alive."
He relapsed into moody silence, and a new expression grew in his eyes
till it even dominated that which had shone in them before. Bill
thought he recognized it. The word "funk" flashed through his mind,
and left him wondering. What could Charlie have to fear from Fyles
talking to Kate? Did he believe that Kate would let the officer pump
her with regard to his, Charlie's, movements!
Yes, that must be it.
"He won't get more than five cents for his dollar out of her," he
said, in an effort to console.
Charlie was round on him in a flash.
"Five cents for a dollar? No," he cried, "nor one cent, nor a fraction
of a cent. Fyles is dealing with the cleverest, keenest woman I've
ever met in all my life. I'm not thinking that way. I'm thinking how
almighty easy it is for a man walking a broken trail to trip and
smash himself right up. The more sure he is the worse is his fall,
because--he takes big chances, and big chances mean big falls. You've
hit it, Bill, I'm scared--scared to death just now. If I know Fyles
there's going to be one hell of a time around here, and, if you value
your future, get clear while you can. I'm scared, Bill, scared and
mad. I can't stand to watch that man talking to Kate. I'm not scared
of man or devil, but I'm scared--scared to death when I see that. I
must get out of this. I must get away, or----"
He moved off the veranda in a frantic state of nervous passion.
Bill sprang from his seat and was at his brother's side in two great
strides, and his big hand fell with no little force upon the latter's
arm and held it.
"What do you mean?" he cried apprehensively. "Where--where are you
going?"
With surprising strength Charlie flung him off. He turned, facing him
with angry eyes and flushed face.
"Don't you dare lay hand on me like that again, Bill," he cried
dangerously. "I don't stand for that from--anybody. I'm going down the
village, since you want to know. I'm going down to O'Brien's. And you
can get it right now that I wouldn't stand the devil himself butting
in to stop me."