BY THE LIGHT OF THE LAMP
Impelled by curiosity and nervous anticipation Tresler did not long
remain in the shelter of the barn. It was too dark to see distinctly
all that way off, so he closed up on the object of his watch. He
intended to miss nothing of what was happening, so he crept out into
the open, quite careless of the chances of being discovered at his
undignified occupation.
And all the time he was a prey to unpleasant foreboding; that
unaccountable foreboding so truly prophetic, which refuses to be
shaken off. He knew that disaster was in the air as surely as if it
had all happened, and there was nothing left for him but to gaze
impotently upon the ruin. He had a certain amount of reason for his
fears, of course, but that reason was largely speculative, and, had he
been asked to state definitely what he anticipated, on whom disaster
was to fall, he could not have answered with any real conviction.
Something prompted him that Jake was to be the central figure, the
prime mover. But beyond that his ideas were vague. The man's very
summons at the door was a positive aggravation, and suggested
possibilities.
An answer came with the abrupt opening of the stable door, which
revealed the lithe figure of the dusky half-breed, framed in a
setting of dingy yellow light from the lantern within. He could see
the insolent, upward stare of the man's eyes as he looked up into the
great man's face; nor at that moment could he help thinking of all he
had heard of "Tough" McCulloch. And the recollection brought him a
further feeling of uneasiness for the man who had thus come to beard
him in his own den.
But even while these thoughts passed swiftly through his brain the
bullying, hectoring tones of Jake's voice came to him. They were
unnecessarily loud, and there was a thickness in them which
corroborated the evidence of his uneven gait. Jake had certainly been
priming himself with spirit.
"Where was you last night, Anton?" he heard him ask.
"An' wher' should I be, Mr. Jake?" came the half-breed's sullen
retort.
"That ain't no answer," the other cried, in a vicious tone.
The half-breed shrugged with apparent indifference, only there was no
indifference in the resentful flash of his eyes.
"I not answer to you," he said, in his broken way, throwing as much
insolence as he could into his words.
Jake's fury needed no urging; the spirit had wound him up to the
proper pitch.
"You black son-of-a----," he cried, "you shall answer to me. For two
pins I'd wring your blasted neck, only I'm savin' that fer the rope.
I'll tell you wher' you was last night. You wer' out. Out with the
horses. D'you hear? And you weren't at the Breed camp neither. I know
wher' you was."
"Guess you shoot your mouth off," Anton said, with dangerous calmness.
"Bah! I tell you I stay right hyar. I not out. You mad! Voila!"
Suddenly Jake's hand went up as though to strike the man, but the blow
did not fall. His arm dropped to his side again; for once caution
saved him. Tresler felt that had the blow fallen there might perhaps
have been a sudden and desperate end to the scene. As it was he
listened to Jake's final words, with every nerve throbbing.
"You lie, you black son-of-a----; you lie!"
And then he saw him swing round on his heel and stride away to the
rancher's house, as if he could no longer control himself and sought
safety in flight.
For the moment the watcher was so interested in the half-breed that he
lost the significance of the foreman's going. Anton was still standing
in the doorway, and the expression of his face was plainly visible in
the lamplight. There was a saturnine grin about the lower part of the
features, but the black eyes were blazing with a deep fire of hatred.
He looked after the departing man until he reached the verandah, then
suddenly, as though an inspiration had moved him, he vanished at a run
within the stable.
Now Tresler became aware of Jake's object. He had mounted the verandah
and was making for the door of the house. And this sight moved him to
immediate action. Without a second thought he set off at a run to
warn Diane of the visit. Why he wished to warn her he did not know.
Perhaps it was the result of premonition, for he knew quite well that
it was Jake's custom to wait on his chief at about this time in the
evening.
He skirted the house well out of range of the light of its windows,
and came to the kitchen just in time to hear the blind man calling to
his daughter for a light. And when Diane returned from obeying the
order she found him waiting for her. Her first feeling was one of
apprehension, then love overcame her fears and she ran to him.
"Jack!" she whispered softly. "You here?"
He folded her in a bear-like embrace, and as she raised her face to
him to speak he stopped her with a rain of kisses. The joy of the
moment had driven the object of his coming from his head, and they
stood heart to heart, lost in their mutual happiness, until Jake's
voice, raised in bitter imprecation, reached them from the office.
Then Tresler abruptly put her from him.
"I had forgotten, dear," he said, in a whisper. "No, don't close that
door." Diane had moved over to the door leading into the dining-room.
"Leave it open. It is on that account I am here."
"On what account?" the girl asked, in some perplexity.
"Jake. There's something up, and--hark!"
They stood listening. The foreman's voice was raised again. But now
Marbolt's broke in, sharp, incisive. And the words were plainly
audible.
"Keep your voice down," he said. "D'you want the girl to hear
everything? You were always a blunderer, Jake."
"Blunderer be ----" But he nevertheless lowered his tone, for the
listeners could distinguish nothing more.
"He's up to some devil's work," Tresler whispered, after making sure
they could hear no more. "Danny," he went on eagerly, "I must slip
into the hall and try and hear what's going on. I must be ready
to----Listen! He's cursing again. Wait here. Not a sound; not a word!
There's going to be trouble."
And his assertion seemed to have reason enough, for the rancher's
sharp tones were now mingling with the harsher note of the other, and
both had raised their voices again. Tresler waited for nothing now. He
tiptoed to the door and stood listening. Then he crept silently out
into the hall and stole along toward the blind man's office. He paused
as he drew near the open door, and glanced round for some hiding-place
whence he could see within. The hall was unlit, and only the faintest
light reached it from the office. There was a long, heavy overcoat
hanging on the opposite wall, almost directly in front of the door,
and he made for it, crossing the hall in the darkest part, and sidling
along in the shadow until he reached it. Here he drew it in front of
him, so that he only elongated its outline and yet obtained a full
view of the room.
Jake was not visible. And Tresler concluded that he was sitting in the
chair which he knew to be behind the door. But the blind man was
almost directly in front of him. He was seated beside the small
window table on which the lamp stood, a safety lamp, especially
reserved for his use on account of his blindness. His ruddy eyes were
staring in the direction in which Tresler believed Jake to be sitting,
and such was the effect of that intent stare that the watching man
drew well within his cover, as though he feared the sightless sockets
would penetrate his hiding-place.
But even from this vantage ground he found his purpose thwarted. Jake
was talking, but his voice was so low that it only reached him in a
thick growl which blurred his words into a hazy murmur. Therefore he
fixed his attention on the man facing him, watching, and seeking
information from his expression and general attitude.
And what he beheld riveted his attention. Whatever control the blind
man had over himself--and Tresler had reason to know what wonderful
control he had--his expression was quite unguarded now. There was a
devilish cruelty in every line in his hard, unyielding features.
His sanguinary eyes were burning with a curiously real live
light--probably the reflection of the lamp on the table--and his
habitually knit brows were scowling to an extent that the eyes beneath
them looked like sparks of living fire. And though he was lounging
comfortably back in his chair, without energy, without alertness, and
one arm was resting on the table at his side, and his outstretched
fingers were indolently drumming out a tattoo on the bare wood, his
breath was coming short and fast, in a manner that belied his
attitude.
Had Tresler only seen behind the door he would have been startled,
even alarmed. The inflamed Jake was oblivious to everything but his
own purpose. His mind was set on the object of his talk, to the
exclusion of all else. Just then he had not the slightest fear of the
blind man. There was nothing of the submission about him now that he
had displayed once before in Tresler's presence. It was the spirit he
had imbibed that had fortified him for the time. It is probable that
Jake, at that moment, had no fear of either man or devil.
And, though Tresler could not distinguish a word, his talk was
braggart, domineering, and there was a strong flavor of drink in its
composition. But even so, there was a relentless purpose in it, too.
"Ther' ain't no option fer you, Marbolt," Jake was saying. "You've
never given me an option, and I'm not goin' to be such a blazing fool
as to give you one. God A'mighty, Marbolt, ther' never was a man
treated as I've been by you. We've been together fer donkey's years, I
guess. 'Way back in them old days, when we was mates, before you was
blind, before you was cranked against 'most everybody, when we
scrapped agin them black-backs in the Indies side by side, when we
quarreled an' made friends again, I liked you, Marbolt, an' I worked
honest by you. There wa'n't nothin' mean to you, then, 'cep' in
handin' out dollars. I hadn't no kick comin' those days. I worked fer
so much, an' I see I got it. I didn't ask no more, an' I guess I
didn't want. That's all right. Then you got blind an' you changed
round. That's where the rub come. I was no better than the rest to
you. You fergot everything that had gone. You fergot I was a square
dealin' man by you, an' since that time I've been dirt under your
feet. Pshaw! it ain't no use in talkin'; you know these things just as
well as I do. But you might have given me a show. You might have
treated me 'white.' It was to your interest. I'd have stayed by you.
I'd have done good by you. An' I'd have been real sorry when you died.
But I ain't no use fer that sort o' thing now. What I want I'm goin'
to have, an' you've got to give--see? It ain't a question of
'by-your-leave' now. I say right here I want your gal."
The man paused. But Marbolt remained undisturbed. He still beat an
idle tattoo on the table, only his hand had drawn nearer to the lamp
and the steady rapping of his fingers was a shade louder, as though
more nervous force were unconsciously finding outlet in the movement.
"So you want my girl," he said, his lips scarcely parting to let the
tone of his voice pass.
"Ay," Jake said emphatically, "I want that gal as I took out o' the
water once. You remember. You said she'd fell overboard, after I'd
hauled her back on to the ship out o' reach o' the sharks. That's what
you said--after."
He paused significantly. If he had expected any display from his
hearer he must have been disappointed. The other remained quite still
except for those moving fingers tapping their way nearer and nearer
the lamp.
"Go on."
"Wal, I've told you how I stand, an' I've told you how you stand,"
Jake proceeded, with his voice ever so little raised. He felt that the
other was too easy. And, in his unimaginative way, he thought he had
spoken too gently. "An' I say again I want that gal fer my wife. Time
was when you would have been glad to be quit of her, 'bout the time
she fell overboard. Being ready to part then, why not now? I'm goin'
to get her,--an' what do I pay in return? You know. You'll go on
ranchin' in peace. I'll even stay your foreman if you so want. I'll
shut right down on the business we both know of, an' you won't have
nothin' to fear. It's a fair an' square deal."
"A fair and square deal; most generous."
Even Jake detected the sarcasm, and his anger rose at once. But he
gave no heed to those fingers which had now transferred their
attention to the brass body of the lamp.
"I'm waitin' fer your answer," he said sharply.
Tresler now heard his words for the first time.
"Go slow, Jake, go slow," retorted the rancher. "I like to digest the
position thoroughly. You put it so well."
The sarcasm had grown more fierce by reason of the restraint the
rancher was putting on himself. And this restraint was further evident
in the movement of the hand which had now settled itself upon the body
of the lamp, and clutched it nervously.
Jake no longer kept check on himself. And his answer came in a roar.
"You shall take my price, or----"
"Keep calm, you blundering jackass!" the blind man rasped between his
clenched teeth.
"No, you don't, Mr. blasted Marbolt!" cried Jake, springing to his
feet and moving out to the middle of the room threateningly. "No, you
don't!" he cried again; "I've had enough of that. God's curse on you
for a low swine! I'll talk no more; it's 'yes' or 'no.' Remember"--he
bent over toward the sitting man and pointed in his face with fierce
delight--"I am your master now, an' ef you don't do as I say, by
G----! but I'll make you whine for mercy."
And Marbolt's answer came with a crash of brass and smashing of glass,
a leap of flame, then darkness, as he hurled the lamp to the floor and
extinguished it. It came in silence, but a silence ruffled by the
sound of sudden movement. It came, as was only to be expected from a
man like him, without warning, like the silent attack of a puma, and
with as deadly intent.
Tresler could see nothing, but he knew that death was hovering over
that room for some one. Suddenly he heard the table dragged or pushed
across the floor, and Jake's voice, harsh with the effort of struggle,
reached him.
"You would, would you? Right; it's you or me!"
At that moment the onlooker was about to rush forward, for what
purpose he had but the vaguest idea. But even as he took the first
step he felt himself seized forcibly by the arm from behind. And
Diane's voice whispered in his ear.
"Not you, Jack!" she said eagerly. "Leave it to me; I--I can save
him--Jake."
"Jake?"
"Yes."
She was gone, and in an instant returned with the lighted kitchen
lamp, which she held aloft as she rushed into the room.
Tresler was taken utterly by surprise. The girl's movements were so
sudden, so unexpected, and her words so strange.
There she stood in the middle of the room with the light held above
her head like some statue. And all the signs of a deadly struggle were
about her. Jake was sheltered behind the window table, and stood
blinking in the sudden light, staring at her in blank astonishment.
But the chief figure of interest was the blind man. He was groping
about the opposite edge of the table, pitifully helpless, but snarling
in impotent and thwarted fury. His right hand was still grasping the
hilt of a vicious-looking, two-edged hunting-knife, whose point
Tresler saw was dripping blood.
Suddenly he turned fiercely on the girl. For the moment he had been
held silent, confounded, but now his voice rang out in an access of
fury.
"You jade!" he cried, and moved as though to attack her.
Tresler was about to leap to her assistance, but at that instant the
man's attention was suddenly diverted. Jake saw his chance and made
for the door. With a bitter imprecation the blind man lunged at him as
he went, fell against the table, and stumbled almost to the ground.
Instantly the girl took advantage of his position and followed Jake
out, slamming the door behind her and swiftly turning the key as she
went.
Diane had shown herself in a new light. Her presence of mind was
startling, and the whole thing was enacted so swiftly that Tresler
failed to grasp the full meaning of it all. Jake had not seen him. In
a blind rush he had made for the hall door and passed out. The only
thing that seemed real to Tresler was Diane's safety, and he caught
her by the arm to take her to the kitchen. But the girl's readiness
would permit of no such waste of time.
"No," she whispered quickly. "Leave me and follow Jake. Joe is in the
kitchen and will protect me if need be. Quick!" she went on, stamping
her foot in her excitement. "Go! Look to him. There must be no murder
done here."
And Tresler was forced, much against his will, to leave her. For the
moment Diane had soared to a height of alertness and ready action
which was irresistible. Without a word he went, passing out of the
front door.
Jake had left the verandah, and, in the moonlight, Tresler could see
him moving down the hill in the direction of his shack. He followed
him swiftly. But he was too late. The whole thing happened before his
very eyes, while he was yet too far off to stay the ruthless act,
before his warning shout could serve.
He saw a figure dart out from the rancher's stable. He saw it halt and
stand. He saw one arm stretched out, and he realized and shouted to
Jake.
The foreman stood, turned, a pistol-shot rang out, and he fell on his
face. Tresler ran forward, but before he could reach him two more
shots rang out, and a third sent its bullet whistling past his own
head.
He ran for the man who had fired them. He knew him now; it was Anton.
But, fleet of foot, the half-breed had reached the stable, where a
horse stood ready saddled. He saw him vault into the saddle, and he
saw him vanish into the adjacent woods. Then, at last, he gave up the
chase and ran back to the fallen man.
Kneeling at his side he raised the great leonine head. The man was
alive, and he shouted to the men at the bunkhouse for aid. But even as
he called Jake spoke.
"It ain't no good," he said, in a hoarse tone. "I'm done. Done up by
that lyin' son-of-a----, 'Tough' McCulloch. I might 'a' known. Guess
I flicked him sore." He paused as the sound of running feet came from
the bunkhouse and Arizona's voice was calling to know Tresler's
whereabouts. Then the foreman's great frame gave a shiver. "Quick,
Tresler," he said, in a voice that had suddenly grown faint;
"ther' ain't much time. Listen! get around Widow Dangley's
place--to-night--two--mornin' all----"
There came a rattle of flowing blood in his throat which blurred
anything else he had to say. But he had said sufficient. Tresler
understood.
When Arizona came up Jake, so long the bully of Mosquito Bend, had
passed over the One-Way Trail. He died shot in three places, twice in
the chest and once in the stomach. Anton, or rather "Tough" McCulloch,
had done his work with all the consummate skill for which he had once
been so notorious. And, as something of this flashed through Tresler's
brain, another thought came with it, prompted by the presence of
Arizona, who was now on his knees beside him.
"It's Anton, Arizona," he said. "Jake riled him. He shot him, and has
bolted through the wood, back there, mounted on one of Marbolt's
horses. He's making for the hills. Quick, here, listen! the others are
coming. You know 'Tough' McCulloch?"
"Wal?" There was an ominous ring in Arizona's voice.
"You'd like to find him?"
"Better'n heaven."
"Anton is 'Tough' McCulloch."
"Who told you?"
"Jake, here. I didn't mention it before, because--because----"
"Did you say the hills?"
Arizona had risen to his feet. There was no emotion in his manner.
They might have been discussing the most ordinary topic. Now the rest
of the men crowded round. And Tresler heard the rancher's voice
calling from the verandah to inquire into the meaning of the shots.
However, heedless of the others, he replied to the cowpuncher's
question.
"Yes," he said.
"Shake. S'long."
The two men gripped and Arizona faded away in the uncertain light, in
the direction of the barn.
And the dead Jake was borne by rough but gentle hands into his own
shack. And there was not one amongst those "boys" but would have been
ready and eager to help him, if help had been possible. Even on the
prairie death atones for much that in life is voted intolerable.