BLACKMAIL
As Hervey entered the valley of the ranch he listened for the warning
owl cries. To-day, however, there were none. He smiled to himself as
he noted the fact, for he knew their origin; he knew their object. He
understood that these cries were the alarm of sentries stationed at
certain points to warn those at the ranch of the approach of
strangers. He knew, too, that they were used as signals for other
things. And he admired the ingenuity of Iredale in thus turning the
natural features of the valley to his own uses. Rain was beginning to
fall in great drops, and the thunder of the rising storm had already
made itself heard. He urged his horse forward.
Few men can embark on a mission of hazard or roguery without some
feelings of trepidation. And Hervey was no exception to the rule. He
experienced a feeling of pleasurable excitement and anticipation.
There was sufficient uncertainty in his mission to make him think hard
and review his powers of attack with great regard for detail. There
must be no loophole of escape for his victim.
On the whole he was well satisfied. But he was not unprepared for
failure. During his acquaintance with Iredale he had learned that the
master of Lonely Ranch was not easily trifled with, neither was he the
man to accept a tight situation without making a hot fight for it. It
was just these things which gave Hervey the gentle qualms of
excitement as he meditated upon the object of his journey. He thought
of the large sums of money he had borrowed from this man, and the ease
with which they had been obtained. He remembered the kindly ways and
gentle manner of this reserved man, and somehow he could not get away
from the thought of the velvet glove.
But even as he thought of it he laughed. There was no getting away
from the facts he possessed, and if it came to anything in the shape
of physical resistance, well, he was not unprepared. There was a
comfortable feeling about the heavy jolt of the six-chambered "lawyer"
in his pocket.
The valley seemed much more lonely than usual. The horrid screeching
of the watchful sentries would almost have been welcome to him. The
forest was so dark and still. Even the falling raindrops and the deep
rolling thunder had no power to give the place any suggestion of life.
There was a mournful tone over everything that caused the rider to
glance about him furtively, and wish for a gleam of the prairie
sunlight.
At length he drew up at the house. There was no one about. A few
cattle were calmly reposing in the corrals. There was not even the
sharp bark of a dog to announce his arrival. As Hervey drew up he
looked to see Iredale come to the door, for he knew the rancher had
returned from his wanderings; but the front door remained shut, and,
although the window of the sitting-room was wide open, there was no
sign of any occupant within the room. He dismounted and stood thinking
for a moment. Then he raised his voice and called to Chintz.
His summons was repeated before the man's ferret face appeared round a
corner of the building. The little fellow advanced with no show of
alacrity. Iredale had told him nothing about any expected visitor. He
was not quite sure what to do.
By dint of many questions and replies, which took the form of nods and
shakes of the head on the part of Chintz, Hervey learnt that Iredale
had gone over to Loon Dyke, but that he would be back to supper.
"Then I'll wait for him," he said decidedly. "You can take my horse.
I'll go inside."
The head man took the horse reluctantly and Hervey passed into the
house.
For a long time he stood at the open window watching the storm. How it
raged over the valley! The rain came down in one steady, hissing
deluge, and the hills echoed and re-echoed with the crashing thunder.
The blinding lightning shot athwart the lowering sky till the nerves
of the watcher fairly jumped at each successive flash. And he realized
what a blessing the deluge of rain was in that world of resinous
timber. What might have been the consequences had the storm preceded
the rain? Hardened as he was to such things, even Hervey shuddered to
think.
Wild as was the outlook, the waiting man's thoughts were in keeping
with his surroundings, for more relentless they could not well have
been. Iredale's money-bags should surely be opened for him that night
before he returned home. He would levy a heavy toll for his silence.
His great dark eyes, so indicative of the unrestrained nature which
was his, burned with deep, cruel fires as he gazed out upon the scene.
There was a profoundness, a capacity for hellishness in their
expression which scarcely belonged to a sanely-balanced mind. It was
inconceivable that he could be of the same flesh and blood as his
sister, and yet there was no doubt about it. Perhaps some unusually
sagacious observer would have been less hard to convince. Hervey was
bad, bad all through. Prudence was good. Swayed by emotion the girl
might have displayed some strange, hidden, unsuspected passionate
depths, as witness her feelings at her dying lover's bedside. Her rage
at the moment when she realized that he had been murdered was
indescribable. The hysterical sweep of passion which had moved her at
that moment had been capable of tragic impulse, the consequences of
which one could hardly have estimated. But her nature was thoroughly
good. Under some sudden stress of emotion, which for the moment upset
the balance of reason, a faint resemblance to the brother might be
obtained. But while Hervey's motives would be bad, hers would have for
their primary cause a purpose based upon righteousness. The man needed
no incentive to sway his dispositions. He had let go his hold upon the
saving rock, now he floated willingly upon the tide of his evil
disposition. He preferred the broad road to Hell to the narrow path of
Righteousness. It may not always have been so.
The storm abated with the suddenness of its kind. During Hervey's long
wait Chintz did not leave him entirely alone. Several times, on some
trivial pretext the little man visited the sitting-room. And his
object was plainly to keep an eye upon his master's unbidden guest. At
last there came a clatter of galloping hoofs splashing through the
underlay of the forest, and presently Iredale pulled up at the door.
Hervey watched the rancher dismount. And his survey was in the nature
of taking the man's moral measure. He looked at the familiar features
which he had come to know so well; the easy, confident movements which
usually characterized Iredale; the steady glance, the quiet
undisturbed expression of his strong face. The watching man saw
nothing unusual in his appearance, nothing to give him any clue; but
Hervey was not a keen observer. Only the most apparent change would
have been seen by him; the subtler indications of a disturbed mind
were beyond his ken. Iredale seemed to be merely the Iredale he knew,
and as he watched his lips parted with a sucking sound such as the
gourmand might make in contemplating a succulent dish.
Iredale came in. Hervey met him at the door of the sitting-room, and
his greeting was cordial, even effusive.
"How are you, George? I knew you were to be back to-day. Jolly glad
you've returned. Quite missed you, you know. By Jove! what a storm.
Wet?"
"A bit; nothing to speak of. They told me at the farm you were over
here."
Iredale looked quickly round the room. His survey was not lost upon
his visitor. Then he went on--
"Chintz looked after you? Had any refreshment? Whisky?"
"Chintz looked after me! He looked in every now and then to see what I
was doing." Hervey laughed unpleasantly. "Yes, I can do with a gentle
'four-fingers'; thanks."
Iredale produced a decanter and glasses and a carafe of water. Then he
excused himself while he went to change his clothes. While he was gone
Hervey helped himself to a liberal measure of the spirit. He felt that
it would be beneficial just then. His host's unconcerned manner was a
little disconcerting. The rancher seemed much harder to tackle when he
was present.
Presently Iredale returned, and, seating himself in a deck-chair,
produced a pipe, and pushed his tobacco jar over to his visitor. He
was wondering what Hervey had come over for. He had no wish for his
company just then. He had hoped to spend this evening alone. His mind
was still in a state of feverish turmoil. However, he decided that he
would get rid of the man as quickly as the laws of hospitality would
allow.
A silence fell whilst the rancher waited to hear the object of the
visit. The other refused to smoke, but Iredale lit his pipe and smoked
solemnly. His face was, if possible, more serious than usual. His eyes
he kept half veiled. Hervey cast about in his mind for the opening of
his attack. He seated himself on the edge of the table and looked out
of the window. He raised his eyes to the leaden sky, then he withdrew
his gaze and looked upon the floor. He swung one leg to and fro, as he
leant sideways and supported his attitude with a hand resting upon the
table. At length, as the silence continued, and Iredale presently
raised his eyes and stared straight at him, he turned to the decanter
and helped himself to another drink. Then he set his glass down with a
heavy hand.
"Good tack, that," he observed. "By the bye, where have all your owls
departed to? Are they like the ducks, merely come, pause, and proceed
on their migratory way? Or perhaps"--with a leer--"they only stand on
sentry in the valley when--when you require them to."
Iredale permitted the suspicion of a smile. But there was no geniality
in it; on the contrary, it was the movement of his facial muscles
alone. Hervey had touched upon delicate ground.
"Did they not welcome you with their wonted acclamation?" he asked,
removing his pipe from his lips, and gently pressing the ash down into
the bowl with his finger-tip.
The other grinned significantly. He had plunged, and now he felt that
things were easier. Besides, the spirit had warmed him.
"That's a real good game you play, George, old man. The imitation is
excellent. I was deceived entirely by it. It was only the other night
that I learned that those fearful screech-owls were human. Most
ingenious on your part. You are well served."
Iredale never moved. He smoked quite calmly. His legs were crossed and
the smile still remained about his mouth. Only his eyes changed their
expression, but this was lost upon Hervey, for they were half
closed.
"I don't think I quite understand. Will you explain?" The rancher
spoke very deliberately, his voice was well modulated but cold.
Hervey laughed boisterously to cover a slight nervousness. This
attitude of Iredale's was embarrassing. He had anticipated something
different.
"Is there any need of explanation?" he asked, when his forced hilarity
had abruptly terminated. "The only thing which puzzles me is that
you've kept it up so long without being discovered."
There was a long pause. Then Iredale removed his pipe from his mouth,
knocked it out upon the heel of his boot, and returned it to his
pocket. Then he rose from his seat and stood squarely before the
other.
"Don't let us beat about the bush," he said. "I think plain speaking
is best--in some cases. Now, what have you to say?"
Hervey shrugged his shoulders. His dark eyes avoided the other's gaze;
the steely flash in Iredale's grey eyes was hard to confront.
"A good deal," he said, with raucous intonation. "The smuggling of
Chinese and consequently opium is a profitable trade. There's room for
more than one in it."
"Go on."
Iredale's tone was icy.
"Of course I am not the man to blow a gaff like this. There's too much
money in it, especially when worked on extensive lines, and when one
is possessed of such an ideal spot as this from which to operate That
was a positive stroke of genius of yours in selecting the graveyard as
a hiding-place. I suppose now that place is honeycombed with cellars
for the storage of--of--yellow. Must be, from the number of
'yellow-devils' I saw come out of the grave the other night. My, but
you're slick, Iredale; slick as paint. I admire you immensely. Who'd
have thought of such a thing? I tell you what, you were never intended
for anything but defeating the law, George, my boy. We could do a lot
together. I suppose you aren't looking for a partner?"
Iredale's face wore an almost genial expression as he replied. The
rancher's tones were so cordial that Hervey congratulated himself upon
the manner in which he had approached the subject.
"Well, to tell you the truth, I wasn't," he said. "As a matter of
fact, you must have seen me despatching my last cargo of--yellow. Why?
Were you thinking of starting in the business?"
"That _is_ my intention."
"Is?"
"Yes, is." Hervey's tone was emphatic, and his attitude truculent.
"Ah! are you prepared to buy this place?" Iredale went on. "I can
easily hand you over my connection."
"Buy?" Hervey thought this man was dense. "Why, I haven't two cents to
my name to buy anything with. No, I don't think there will be any
buying and selling between us, George Iredale."
"Then what do you propose? We may as well come to a definite
arrangement."
The rancher's tone was peculiar.
"We'll run this thing for all it's worth. Hang to it as long as
there's a cent to be made."
Hervey helped himself to more whisky. His self-satisfaction was
immense. He had not thought that Iredale would have been so easy to
handle.
"Um. A very nice, comfortable arrangement--for you." Iredale moistened
his lips slowly. "You'll sup the juice while I squeeze the orange for
you. No, friend Hervey, I'm not dealing."
"But you must!"
"Must?"
"Yes; don't be a fool. It means more money to you, and I shall share
in the profits."
"If I wanted to make more money I could continue in the business
alone. I am not here to make money for you."
Iredale stared straight into the face before him. His grey eyes seemed
to pierce through and through his companion. Hervey moved from his
position. Iredale's attitude was coldly uncompromising.
"Then you refuse my offer?"
"Most emphatically."
Hervey was inclined to show his teeth. However, he checked the impulse
and spoke in a conciliating tone.
"There is another alternative. Your fortune is very large. I want
fifty thousand dollars."
Iredale's face relaxed into a genuine smile.
"Your demands are too modest," he said ironically, "Anything else?"
The other's eyes looked dangerous. The lurid depths were beginning to
glow.
"The money I am going to have before I leave here to-night."
"Ah! blackmail. I thought so."
Iredale's contempt was biting.
"Call it what you like, Mr. George Iredale. I tell you this, you are
in my power and you will have to buy my silence. You like plain
speaking; and now you've got it. Refuse compliance, and I leave here
to expose you."
"Pooh," said Iredale, leisurely turning to the window. "Do you think
I'm a babe? How are you going to prove your charge? Why, you must be
the veriest simpleton to think I am unprepared. By the time you can
bring the law about me there will not remain a trace of--my work. You
can never bring your charge home."
"Ah, you think not." Hervey's words sounded like a snarl. The
whisky he had drunk had worked him to a proper pitch. He had not done
yet. His next shot was to be a long one and a bold one, and he was not
sure where it would hit. He was not sure that it might not rebound
and--but his was the nature which makes for success or disaster
without a second thought. For him there was no middle course. His
temperament was volcanic and his actions were largely governed by the
passionate nature which was his. Iredale had not turned from the
window, or he would have seen the evil working of that face. His own
great, broad shoulders were set squarely before Hervey's gaze, and
the uncompromising attitude only added fuel to the latter's already
superheated feelings. "Perhaps you might find it interesting to know
that they are hot upon the trail of the man who shot Leslie Grey."
Iredale swung round like a flash. Nor were the storm-clouds which but
now frowned in the heavens more black than the expression of his
face.
"You miserable hound!" he cried, his eyes sparkling, and his jaw
muscles fairly quivering with the force of his clenching teeth. "What
hellish crime would you attempt to fix on me now?"
Hervey grinned with all the ferocity of a tiger.
"I wish to fix no crime on you. I merely mention a fact. Leslie Grey
was the only accuser of his murderer. He stated before he died that
the man who inserted the notice in the paper which ran, 'Yellow
booming--slump in Grey,' was the man who murdered him. I suppose you
don't happen to know who was responsible for that enigmatical line?
You did not inspire it?"
The look that accompanied the man's words was fiendish. The great eyes
shone with a savage light They expressed a hatred which no words could
describe. Iredale's hands clenched and unclenched. His fingers seemed
as though they were clutching at something which they longed to tear
to atoms, and his thoughts centred upon the man before him.
Twice that day he had heard this challenge. Once uttered in all
unconsciousness of its significance, but now with hideous meaning. His
powers of self-restraint were great, but he had reached their limit.
This man had accused him of a dastardly murder. Suddenly his voice
rang out through the room like the bellow of a maddened bull. His
great figure quivered with the fury of his passion. Hervey had done
his worst; now he shrank before the storm he had provoked.
"Out of my house, you scum!" Iredale roared.
"God! but if you stay here an instant longer, I'll smash you as I
would a louse."
The rancher stood panting at the door. His flashing eyes never left
the face of the man before him. Hervey moved; he hesitated. The grin
had left his face and a look of dread had replaced it. Then he moved
on, forgetful of all but his moral and physical fear of the commanding
figure of enraged manhood that seemed to tower over him. He even
forgot the weapon which lay concealed in his pocket. He slunk on out
of the door amidst a profound silence, out into the soft twilight of
the valley.
The door stood open; the window stood open. Iredale looked after him.
He watched the tall, drooping figure; then, as Hervey passed from
view, Iredale turned back and flung himself into his chair, and his
laugh sounded through the stillness of the room.
But there was no mirth in that laugh. It was like the hysterical laugh
of a man whose nerves are strained to breaking tension.
He knew he had made a terrible mistake. His rage had placed a deadly
weapon in his enemy's hands. He had practically admitted his
authorship of the notice in the Winnipeg paper. What would be the
result? he asked himself. Again that strained laugh sounded through
the room.
As Hervey rode away from the valley his fear of George Iredale fell
from him as might a cloak. His face wore full expression of the evil
in his heart.
He, too, laughed; but his laugh was an expression of triumph.
"You're less clever than I thought, George Iredale," he muttered.
"You would have done better to have bought my silence. Now I can sell
my discovery elsewhere. Money I want, and money I mean to have."
But he spurred his horse on as an anxious thought came to him.