There were deep significances in the fact that Bruce kept his head in
this moment of crisis. It meant nothing less than an iron self-control
such as only the strongest men possess, and it meant nerves steady as
steel bars.
The bear was on Hudson, and the man had gone down, before Bruce even
interpreted him. Then it was just a gray patch, a full three hundred
yards away. His instinct was to throw the gun to his shoulder and fire
without aiming; yet he conquered it with an iron will. But he did move
quickly. He dropped to his knee the single second that the gun leaped to
his shoulder. He seemed to know that from a lower position the target
would be more clearly revealed. The finger pressed back against the
trigger.
The distance was far; Bruce was not a practiced rifle shot, and it
bordered on the miraculous that his lead went anywhere near the bear's
body. And it was true that the bullet did not reach a vital place. It
stung like a wasp at the Killer's flank, however, cutting a shallow
flesh wound. But it was enough to take his dreadful attention from the
mortally wounded trapper in the pine needles.
He whirled about, growling furiously and biting at the wound. Then he
stood still, turning his gaze first to the pale face of Dave Turner
thirty feet above him in the pine. The eyes glowed in fury and hatred.
He had found men out at last; they died even more easily than the fawn.
He started to turn back to the fallen, and the rifle spoke again.
It was a complete miss, this time; yet the bear leaped in fear when the
bullet thwacked into the dust beside him. He did not wait for a third.
His caution suddenly returning to him, and perhaps his anger somewhat
satiated by the blow he had dealt Hudson, he crashed into the security
of the thicket.
Bruce waited a single instant, hoping for another glimpse of the
creature; then ran down to aid Hudson. But in driving the bear from the
trapper's helpless body he had already given all the aid that he could.
Understanding came quickly. He had arrived only in time for the
Departure,--just a glimpse of a light as it faded. The blow had been
more than any human being could survive; even now Hudson was entering
upon that strange calm which often, so mercifully, immediately precedes
death.
He opened his eyes and looked with some wonder into Bruce's face. The
light in them was dimming, fading like a twilight, yet there was
indication of neither confusion nor delirium. Hudson, in that last
moment of his life, was quite himself.
There was, however, some indication of perplexity at the peculiar turn
affairs had taken. "You're not Dave Turner," he said wonderingly.
Dim though the voice was, there was considerable emphasis in the tone.
Hudson seemed quite sure of this point, whether or not he knew anything
concerning the dark gates he was about to enter. He wouldn't have spoken
greatly different if he had been sitting in perfect health before his
own camp fire and the shadow was now already so deep his eyes could
scarcely penetrate it.
"No," Bruce answered. "Dave Turner is up a tree. He didn't even wait to
shoot."
"Of course he wouldn't." Hudson spoke with assurance. The words dimmed
at the end, and he half-closed his eyes as if he were too sleepy to stay
awake longer. Then Bruce saw a strange thing. He saw, unmistakable as
the sun in the sky, the signs of a curious struggle in the man's face.
There was a singular deepening of the lines, a twitching of the muscles,
a queer set to the lips and jaws. They were as much signs of battle as
the sound of firing a general hears from far away.
The trapper--a moment before sinking into the calm of death--was
fighting desperately for a few moments of respite. There could be no
other explanation. And he won it at last,--an interlude of half a dozen
breaths. "Who are you?" he whispered.
Bruce bowed his head until his ear was close to the lips. "Bruce
Folger," he answered,--for the first time in his knowledge speaking his
full name. "Son of Matthew Folger who lived at Trail's End long ago."
The man still struggled. "I knew it," he said. "I saw it--in your face.
I see--everything now. Listen--can you hear me?"
"Yes."
"I just did a wrong--there's a hundred dollars in my pocket that I just
got for doing it. I made a promise--to lie to you. Take the money--it
ought to be yours, anyway--and hers; and use it toward fighting the
wrong. It will go a little way."
"Yes," Bruce looked him full in the eyes. "No matter about the money.
What did you promise Turner?"
"That I'd lie to you. Grip my arms with your hands--till it hurts. I've
only got one breath more. Your father held those lands only in
trust--the Turners' deed is forged. And the secret agreement that I
witnessed is hidden--"
The breath seemed to go out of the man. Bruce shook him by the
shoulders. Dave, still in the tree, strained to hear the rest.
"Yes--where?"
"It's hidden--just--out--" The words were no longer audible to Dave, and
what followed Bruce also strained to hear in vain. The lips ceased
moving. The shadow grew in the eyes, and the lids flickered down over
them. A traveler had gone.
Bruce got up, a strange, cold light in his eyes. He glanced up. Dave
Turner was climbing slowly down the tree. Bruce made six strides and
seized his rifle.
The effect on Dave was ludicrous. He clung fast to the tree limbs, as if
he thought a bullet--like a grizzly's claws--could not reach him there.
Bruce laid the gun behind him, then stood waiting with his own weapon
resting in his arms.
"Come down, Dave," he commanded. "The bear is gone."
Dave crept down the trunk and halted at its base. He studied the cold
face before him. "Better not try nothing," he advised hoarsely.
"Why not?" Bruce asked. "Do you think I'm afraid of a coward?" The man
started at the words; his head bobbed backward as if Bruce had struck
him beneath the jaw with his fist.
"People don't call the Turners cowards and walk off with it," the man
told him.
"Oh, the lowest coward!" Bruce said between set teeth. "The yellowest,
mongrel coward! Your own confederate--and you had to drop your gun and
run up a tree. You might have stopped the bear's charge."
Dave's face twisted in a scowl. "You're brave enough now. Wait to see
what happens later. Give me my gun. I'm going to go."
"You can go, but you don't get your gun. I'll fill you full of lead if
you try to touch it."
Dave looked up with some care. He wanted to know for certain if this
tenderfoot meant what he said. The man was blind in some things, his
vision was twisted and dark, but he made no mistake about the look on
the cold, set face before him. Bruce's finger was curled about the
trigger, and it looked to Dave as if it itched to exert further
pressure.
"I don't see why I spare you, anyway," Bruce went on. His tone was
self-reproachful. "God knows I hadn't ought to--remembering who and what
you are. If you'd only give me one little bit of provocation--"
Dave saw lurid lights growing in the man's eyes; and all at once a
conclusion came to him. He decided he'd make no further effort to regain
the gun. His life was rather precious to him, strangely, and it was
wholly plain that a dread and terrible passion was slowly creeping over
his enemy. He could see it in the darkening face, the tight grip of the
hands on the rifle stock. His own sharp features grew more cunning. "You
ought to be glad I didn't stop the bear with my rifle," he said
hurriedly. "I had Hudson bribed--you wouldn't have found out something
that you did find out if he hadn't lain here dying. You wouldn't have
learned--"
But the sentence died in the middle. Bruce made answer to it. For once
in his life Dave's cunning had not availed him; he had said the last
thing in the world that he should have said, the one thing that was
needed to cause an explosion. He hadn't known that some men have
standards other than self gain. And some small measure of realization
came to him when he felt the dust his full length under him.
Bruce's answer had been a straight-out blow with his fist, with all his
strength behind it, in the very center of his enemy's face.