THE MAIDEN’S PERIL.
Over a week had passed by since the night on which this story opened, a
week during which much had been done though little effected. Early in
the day following the house-burning, a heavy shower fell that
effectually obliterated all trails left by the fleeing Night Hawks and
also destroyed Campbell’s hopes of discovering his lost friend with the
aid of hounds.
Through that long week he had scarce rested an hour at a time, spurred
on by the pleadings of Fred’s sister, Fannie Hawksley. He searched every
rod of the _baranca_, in company with Ruel and several other of the lost
man’s comrades, but without finding the slightest trace or clue. They
clambered over the rocky barricade, little suspecting the secrets it
concealed, or that the old man and his peerless daughter were silently
laughing at them for their mole-like blindness.
Thoroughly convinced that their friend had not entered the _baranca_ at
all, the young hunters returned to the level prairie. There a surprise
awaited them.
Beyond the _baranca_, a mile distant, they caught sight of a horse
feeding upon the juicy grass. One glance sufficed. It was the big yellow
horse Mott, on which Fred Hawksley had set forth in pursuit of the
strange woman. The animal was alone, saddled and bridled. Nothing could
be seen of his master.
The prairie around was closely scrutinized. One thing was plain; the
horse had not crossed the _baranca_, nor been nearer to it than when
found, since daylight, else the rain-moistened turf would have betrayed
the fact. Following its trail, they found where it had stood for some
time tied to the hanging limb of a tree, in a hollow hidden from the
_baranca_, a mile or more distant. But nowhere could they find the
imprints of human feet.
All was done that human ingenuity could devise, but at the end of the
week, all was wrapt in darkness. Nothing was learned regarding the young
man’s fate, nor, during that time, had any thing been heard of the
strange woman rider. Both had seemingly disappeared together, without
leaving any trace.
The agonized grief of the bereaved family had settled down to a more
quiet, though not less acute sorrow. The everyday duties of life must be
performed, though the heart be breaking.
It was nightfall when a single horseman drew rein before the dwelling of
Archibald Hawksley, dismounting, and, with plump saddle-bags thrown over
his arm, approached the front door with that assured freedom so
characteristic of the West. There, hospitality is a matter of course. If
sunset catches a traveler near a house, that, for the time being, is his
home. He is welcomed, given the best the place affords, then sent on his
way rejoicing. An experienced traveler never offers money in return;
’tis a poor reward for hospitality to insult a host.
The traveler in question bore evidence of having ridden many a mile, in
the sand and dust that covered his garments, and his heavy horse-hide
boots. There was a peculiar air about him that told a settler his
occupation. Every thing, from the heavy, “black-snake” whip down,
stamped him a drover.
Archibald Hawksley, a tall, stalwart man, bearing his years well, warmly
greeted the stranger. Five minutes later, the drover was comfortably
seated, pipe in mouth, awaiting the evening meal that Fanny was
overseeing.
“Stranger in these parts, I reckon,” quoth Hawksley, also “blowing a
cloud,” falling insensibly into the peculiar dialect of the parts,
though a well-educated man.
“Yas—this is my fust trip this fur out, though I’ve traded over the line
fer some y’ars. Met a feller in Naketosh” (Natchitoches) “last
trip—fergit his name now, but reckon it don’t matter much—who told me
thar was a chaince fer right smart tradin’ up this a-way; so here I be,
ready fer business. I’ve got the money, you fellers hev got the spar’
horses an’ cattle, so I guess we kin come to tarms.”
A man is never so grief-stricken as to entirely neglect his personal
interests, and Hawksley was soon deep in “business talk” with Mark
Haley, as the trader gave his name. There was little difficulty in
coming to terms, for the trader offered good prices, seeming strangely
liberal, for a drover.
During supper, Fannie several times caught his gaze resting fixedly upon
her face, and felt a strange, ill-defined uneasiness that she could not
entirely banish. And yet this close scrutiny might well be pardoned, for
the maiden was very pleasing to look upon, and the drover seemed just in
the prime of life, when one’s fancy is most quickly caught by a fresh,
lovely face.
Fannie Hawksley was more than ordinarily beautiful—indeed the family
were noted for their good-looks, and she was the bright star of all.
Under the medium hight, small and light as a fairy, her form was well
developed and true-proportioned. Rich brown hair, a clear, fresh
complexion, and melting hazel eyes—little wonder that Mark Haley gazed
admiringly at her.
After supper was dispatched, the men stepped outside, and, with lighted
pipes, continued their bartering. Haley’s eyes often wandered toward the
house, seemingly admiring its structure, a two-story building being
something of a novelty at that time, so far on the frontier.
That evening Ned Campbell called, as usual since Fred’s disappearance,
to report progress. It was the same story of baffled search. Nothing had
been learned regarding the missing man.
Mark Haley seemed deeply interested in the story, but could offer no
suggestion that had not already been tried. Hawksley sunk into a
troubled reverie, and then abruptly retired, first showing Haley his
room.
An hour later Ned Campbell took his departure, sad and heart-sick. For
several months he had been Fannie’s accepted suitor, but never until
this night had she set the time for their wedding.
“Ned,” she had said, looking up into his bold, handsome face, as his
arms tightly encircled her lithe, rounded form, “I can not marry until
Fred returns home, or—or is found. If alive, bring him here; if dead,
bring me proof, and I will be yours. In this horrible uncertainty, I can
think of nothing else. It is killing mother and father. Bring him back
to us, and I am yours.”
“If man can do it, Fannie, I will. But there seems little hope. Think
what we have done—how we have searched. But, God helping me, I will find
him. If only for your sake, I will not rest until I do. Good-by,
darling. I will not come any more until I can bring you tidings, either
good or bad. It only makes the work harder. Seeing your grief unnerves
me. Good-by; pray for my success, and hope for the best, darling.”
“God bless you, Ned,” she answered, her bright eyes dimmed with tears.
“You deserve a better girl than I am, but I will make you happy if I
can.”
Campbell dared not reply in words, but their lips met in a long,
clinging kiss of pure and holy love, then he tore himself away, and
mounting his horse, galloped furiously away toward his own home.
Mechanically, Fannie closed and secured the door and windows, then
covered up the embers in the fire-place with ashes, and taking a candle,
slowly ascended the stairs to her chamber. Though she knew it not, eager
eyes were fixed upon her form until the door closed behind her—eyes that
burned with an evil glow—the eyes of Mark Haley, the drover.
The building was quiet and still. All seemed buried in profound slumber;
but there was one pair of eyes that thought not of closing; one brain
that was busy concocting a piece of diabolical treachery.
Nearly two hours passed by after Mark Haley watched Fannie Hawksley to
her chamber, before he made a move. Then, with moccasins upon his feet,
instead of the heavy boots, he noiselessly emerged from his room, having
in one hand a small bull’s-eye lantern, the slide only partially turned.
In the other he held a small patch of what looked like soiled paper or
cloth, and a coil of stout string. The bushy black beard seemed
one-sided, as though it was false, and had become slightly disarranged.
In the darkness, but partially dispelled by the tiny ray of light, his
eyes burned and glowed with a phosphorescent luster that marks the orbs
of cruel, treacherous creatures, whether human or quadruped. Pausing, he
bent his ear and listened intently.
The house was still as death. Evidently the inmates were all peacefully
slumbering, for a time happily forgetful of their great loss.
Haley smiled viciously, showing the white teeth through the bushy mask
of hair. He chuckled, low and exultantly. Thus far, his plans had worked
admirably. The settler had not suspected him for other than he seemed.
“It works like a charm—had I ordered all things, they could not have
turned out better to my mind,” he muttered, as his ear was bent close to
the door of Fannie’s chamber. “She sleeps—I can hear her breathing
regularly. If I can only reach her before she awakes. A cry from her
lips would fetch that man upon me, and I do not wish to kill him—not
yet; a different death than a quick one by a bullet awaits him. A
thousand times I could have done that—but my revenge is better, much
better.”
These last words were hissed forth with a venom indescribable. Though he
knew it not, Archibald Hawksley was entertaining his most deadly enemy.
Gently Haley lifted the simple latch, and his eyes snapped exultantly as
he found the door yield to his pressure. Deeply troubled, Fannie had
neglected securing it before retiring, and now she lay at the mercy of
this demon in disguise.
Closing the dark-lantern, Haley stealthily entered the chamber, closing
the door behind him. That would be another barrier for sound to pass
through, in case Fannie should take the alarm too soon for his purpose.
The maiden still slept peacefully, breathing soft and regularly. The bed
was dimly revealed by the moonlight that filtered through the window
shade, and the cat-like eyes of the intruder could just discern the
outlines of the maiden’s head and shoulder against the snowy pillow.
The light was sufficient for his purpose, and he gently placed the
lantern upon the floor, crouching low down upon hands and knees. Thus,
unless Fannie should raise up alarmed, he was hidden from her sight.
Stealthily, noiselessly, like a serpent of evil, the masked fiend crept
toward the bedside, with ready implements that had been provided before
entering the house. Fannie breathed on, soft and low, as he noiselessly
arose and stood beside her.
A ray of moonlight fell upon her countenance, a soft luster-like halo
encircled her head, a pearly tear glistened upon her cheek, but that
fiend felt no pity—only a ferocious joy that he had thus far succeeded
in his designs. The rich brown hair loosened from its fastenings,
covered her neck and gently-heaving bosom as with a vail, while one hand
seemed pressed above her heart to still its throbbings.
Only for a moment did Haley permit himself to gaze upon the picture of
peaceful innocence, then he acted. One hand hovered over the maiden’s
throat, while the other, holding the prepared plaster, clapped it
adroitly over her mouth.
The maiden, thus rudely awakened, looked at the intruder with
horror-distended eyes, but the cry she strove to utter, died away in her
throat. The plaster closed her lips effectually, and the brawny hand
tightly clutched her throat. Mark Haley was complete master of the
situation.
“Lie still—act wisely and obey, or it will be the worse for you. I do
not wish to harm you—will not unless you force me to do so. Remember
this—if the house is aroused, it will be too late to save you. I will
kill you first. You hear? I am not a man to idly threaten what I will
not perform.”
Fannie, half strangled, asked the question with her eyes—“What do you
mean to do with me?” Haley seemed to read her meaning, for he replied:
“I do not intend to harm you, at least not now. But you must go with me.
Remember, at the first attempt to alarm your father, I send this knife
home to your heart,” and as he hissed the words, Haley held a broad,
keen blade before the maiden’s eyes. “I tell you this as a warning. You
will heed it if you have any love for life. But now listen. I said you
must go with me. I mean it, and the ride will be long. As the night is
chilly you will need wraps. Promise me not to attempt to remove this
plaster, and I will free your hands so that you can slip on your
clothes. Refuse, and I take you as you are, in night-dress alone.
Quick—decide. I have no time to waste. If you promise, close your eyes.”
Fannie read stern determination in her captor’s eyes, and making the
best of affairs, signed her assent as indicated. Haley laughed.
“Good! I thought that would touch you. Remember—you may arouse your
father, but he will only find your dead body, and I can escape through
the window. Here—now put them on quickly.”
As he spoke, the villain handed Fannie her garments, and tremblingly she
donned them, though the brute stood over her with uplifted knife. Haley
thrust her shoes into the pockets of his great-coat.
“They would make too much noise. You can put them on when we are safe
outside. But wrap a blanket round you, or you might catch cold in the
night air. You see how very careful I am of your health? Like a
father—ha! ha!” and again his disagreeable chuckle jarred upon her ears.
Scarcely waiting for Fannie to secure her dress, Haley seized her arms
and bound them firmly with the string he had provided, then served her
ankles the same way. On second thoughts, seeing how trembling and
unnerved the maiden appeared, he resolved to carry her, instead of
trusting her to walk out of the dwelling.
With knife clenched between his teeth, Haley picked the maiden up in his
strong arms and rested her over his shoulder, her arms pinned beneath
her. Then he picked up the dark-lantern and stepped out upon the
landing.
All was still below, save the monotonous ticking of the clock. The
settler slept on, all unconscious of this deadly blow that was being
dealt him.
Opening the slide to throw a faint light before him, Haley began
descending the stairs. Twice he paused and listened breathlessly as a
stair creaked beneath his foot, but fortune favored him, and he gained
the outer door in safety.
While he was undoing bolts and bars, Fannie moved restlessly upon his
shoulder. Clutching her tightly he hissed a horrible threat in her ear.
With a gasping gurgle, she resigned all hope of being rescued. She dared
not give the alarm. She felt that instant death would follow, and, even
in this great peril, life seemed very sweet to her.
Stepping outside, Haley gently closed the door behind him, then with a
chuckle of fiendish triumph, he glided rapidly away from the house,
toward the stable. Pausing outside, he deposited the maiden upon the
ground, then clutched his knife firmly.
Only one obstacle now intervened between him and absolute victory, and
he had strong hopes that he might avoid this. As the settler showed him
the horses he wished to dispose of, Haley noticed a huge dog—an almost
full-blooded mastiff—and learned that to his care was confided the stock
at night. A sight rope held him to his post, but not strong enough to
restrain him should an intruder approach. It was merely to keep his duty
before him.
Haley, professing great love for dogs, had fondled and caressed the
mastiff, with this end in view, and now hoped that he would be allowed
to take his own horse without being molested. As he approached the
entrance, a deep, warning growl told him that the dog was on guard.
Softly whistling, though with ready knife, he stepped within. That the
mastiff recognized him was plain, but he resolutely barred the way,
growling deeply.
A curse gritted through Haley’s teeth, as he saw that only over the dead
body of this faithful custodian could he hope to secure his horse.
Bending down he caressed the dog, then, like lightning the heavy knife
was brought round, sinking to the very hilt in the dog’s side. A
half-stifled snarl and the huge brute leaped at the man’s throat,
bearing him to the ground like a child.
In this moment Haley showed his desperate courage. Not a sound escaped
his lips, though the great jaws closed upon his throat. He jerked the
knife from its sheath of flesh and plunged it again and again into the
quivering body.
But this was needless. The dog was already dead. His leap had been
merely convulsive, and the jaws barely closed upon Haley’s throat. The
teeth did not raze the skin.
Flinging the body from him, Haley arose and brushed the blood from his
face, then quickly saddled and bridled his horse. Leading him forth, he
once more picked up Fannie, mounting with the agility of youth.
Even now he did not forget his prudence, but rode slowly away,
readjusting the bushy beard upon his face. Though late, he might meet
with some person and this would aid in directing the search that he knew
would follow with the morning.
“Now, my dear,” he uttered, as he carefully removed the plaster from the
maiden’s lips, “I do this in pure kindness of heart, and I hope for your
sake that you will not abuse my confidence. It’s not likely we will meet
with any of your friends, but if we _do_ and you should cry out, that
cry will be your last. You understand?”
“Where are you taking me? Why have you done this? What have I ever done
to you that you treat me so?” faltered Fannie.
“Nothing—but your father has—much. Never mind now. It will be explained
to you in due time. Until then, keep still. It will be better for you,”
was the brutal reply.
Fannie dared not disobey this command, and relapsed into silence. But
with each passing moment her natural self-possession grew stronger, and
she began to take note of the direction in which she was being taken.
Haley made no attempt to prevent this. He seemed to feel that Fannie was
too entirely in his power to make this knowledge dangerous to his plans.
Now that she was more herself, the maiden regretted not having given the
alarm, while help was near, and inwardly resolved that should another
opportunity offer, to embrace it at all hazards.
For over an hour Haley galloped steadily on, and Fannie felt her heart
sink as she realized that they were now far beyond all habitations of
her friends, with nothing but the vast, almost limitless prairie
stretching out before them. Where was she being taken? What had fate in
store for her?
Her eyes were closed, her head drooping in despair, when, with a low,
fierce curse, Mark Haley suddenly drew rein. With hope thrilling her
heart, Fannie eagerly raised her head and gazed around.
“Utter a whisper and I’ll murder you!” hissed the abductor, venomously.
Fannie saw the reason he had uttered this caution. Before them, blocking
the very path they had been pursuing, she could just distinguish the
forms of three men. Though their features were indistinct, the dress
bespoke them white men.
She saw in them a last hope. The threats of Mark Haley were forgotten or
disregarded. In a clear, imploring voice she cried out:
“Help—for the love of God, save me!”
With a snarling curse Haley lifted his clenched fist and drove it
forcibly full between her eyes. With a convulsive shudder, Fannie’s head
drooped and she lay a lifeless weight upon his arm.
“Hellow! what’s the meanin’ o’ all this, anyhow?” gruffly demanded one
of the three men, stepping forward, his rifle muzzle in advance. “What
ye got thar, mister?”
“None of your business. Attend to your own affairs and don’t meddle with
mine,” boldly replied Haley.
“Eh? Jes’ lis’en, boys. Don’t he crow loud? Reckon you don’t know—why,
hellow! Is’t you, Cap?” and the man lowered his weapon, his face
expressing great surprise.
“I don’t know you—stand aside or I’ll give you cause to regret
interfering with matters that don’t concern you,” snarled Haley, his
revolver coming to a level.
“You will, eh? Is that the way you treat old pards, Jap Morton?” and the
rifle was quickly raised to a level.
Would the man dare fire? In that dead, uncertain light, death to the
maiden must almost assuredly follow.
“Curse you for a meddling rascal!” hissed Mark Haley, and his pistol
spoke sharp and clear.
Like an echo the rifle responded. Then came a shrill cry—a heavy groan
and dull fall; then more shots, a confused trampling—then all was still.