To the man lying in the soaked grass and moss of the sandstone ledge
came flashes of realization that were without definite beginning or end,
separated by gaps of insensibility. Out of his limbs all power and
volition seemed to have evaporated, and his breath was an obstructed
struggle as though the mountain upon which he lay were lying instead
upon his breast. Through him went hot waves of pain under which he
clenched his teeth until he swooned again into a merciful numbness.
He heard in an interval of consciousness the thrashing of his
companion's boots through the tangle and the curses with which his
companion was vainly challenging his assailant to stand out and fight in
the open.
Then, for a little while, he dropped endlessly down through pits of
darkness and after that opened his eyes to recognize that he was being
held with his head on Rowlett's knee. Rowlett saw the fluttering of the
lids and whispered:
"I'm goin' ter tote ye back thar--ter Harper's house. Hit's ther only
chanst--an' I reckon I've got ter hurt ye right sensibly."
Bas rose and hefted him slowly and laboriously, straightening up with a
muscle-straining effort, until he stood with one arm under the limp
knees and one under the blood-wet shoulders of his charge.
For a moment he stood balancing himself with his feet wide apart, and
then he started staggering doggedly down the stony grade, groping, at
each step, for a foothold. In the light of the sinking moon the slowly
plodding rescuer offered an inviting target, with both hands engaged
beyond the possibility of drawing or using a weapon, but no shot was
fired.
The distance was not great, but the pace was slow, and the low moon
would shortly drop behind the spruce fringe of the ridges. Then the
burden-bearer would have to stumble forward through confused
blackness--so he hastened his steps until his own breath rattled into an
exhausted rasp and his own heart hammered with the bursting ache of
effort.
When he had reached the half-way point he put his load down and shouted
clamorously for help, until the black wall of the Harper house showed an
oblong of red light and the girl's voice came back in answer.
"I've got a dyin' man hyar," he called, briefly, "an' I needs aid."
Then as Maggard lay insensible in the mud, Bas squatted on his heels
beside him and wiped the sweat drench from his face with his
shirt-sleeve.
It was with unsteady eyes that he watched a lantern crawling toward him:
eyes to which it seemed to weave the tortuous course of a purposeless
glow-worm.
Then the moon dipped suddenly and the hills, ceasing to be visible
shapes, were felt like masses of close crowded walls, but at length the
lantern approached and, in its shallow circle of sickly yellow, it
showed two figures--that of the old man and the girl.
Dorothy carried the light, and when she held it high and let its rays
fall on the two figures, one sitting stooped with weariness and the
other stretched unconscious, her eyes dilated in a terror that choked
her, and her face went white.
But she said nothing. She only put down the lantern and slipped her arms
under the shoulders that lay in the wet grass, shuddering as her hands
closed on the warm moisture of blood, and Rowlett rose with an effort
and rallied his spent strength to lift the inert knees. While the old
man lighted their footsteps the little procession made its painful way
down what was left of the mountainside, across the road, and up into the
house.
* * * * *
When Haggard opened his eyes again he was lying with his wounds already
bathed and roughly bandaged. Plainly he was in a woman's room, for its
clean particularity and its huge old four-poster bed spread with a
craftily wrought "coverlet" proclaimed a feminine proprietorship. A
freshly built fire roared on a generous hearth, giving a sense of space
broadening and narrowing with fickle boundaries of shadow.
The orange brightness fell, too, on a figure that stood at the
foot-board looking down at him with anxiety-tortured eyes; a figure
whose heavy hair caught a bronze glimmering like a nimbus, and whose
hands were held to her breast with a clutching little suspended gesture
of dread.
Voices vaguely heard in disjointed fragments of talk called him back to
actuality.
The old man was speaking:
"... I fears me he kain't live long.... 'Pears like ther shot war a
shore deadener...." and from Rowlett came an indignant response "... I
heered ther crack from right spang behind us ... I wheeled 'round an'
shot three shoots back at ther flash."
Then Maggard heard, so low that it seemed a joyous and musical whisper,
the announcement from the foot of his bed:
"I'm goin' ter fetch Uncle Jase Burrell now, ter tend yore hurts, Cal,"
she said, softly. "I jest couldn't endure ter start away twell I seed ye
open yore eyes, though."
Maggard glanced toward Bas Rowlett who stood looking solicitously down
at him and licked his lips. There was an acknowledgment which decency
required his making in their presence, and he keyed himself for a feeble
effort to speak.
"Rowlett thar...." he began, faintly, and a cough seemed to start fresh
agonies in his chest so that he had to wait awhile before he went on.
"Mighty few men would hev stood by me ... like he done.... Ef I'd been
his own blood-brother...." there he gulped, choked, and drifted off
again.
Cal Maggard next awoke with a strangely refreshed sense of recovery and
a blessed absence of pain. He seemed still unable to move, and he said
nothing, for in that strange realization of a brain brought back to
focus came a shock of new amazement.
Bas Rowlett bent above his pillow, but with a transformed face. The eyes
that were for the moment turned toward the door burned with a baleful
hatred and the lips were drawn into a vicious snarl.
This, too, must be part of the light-headedness, thought Maggard, but
instinctively he continued to simulate unconsciousness. This man had
been his steadfast and self-forgetful friend. So the wounded man fought
back the sense of clear and persistent reality, which had altered kindly
features into a gargoyle of vindictiveness, and lay unmoving until
Rowlett rose and turned his back.
Then, through the slits of warily screened eyes, he swept a hasty glance
about the room and found that except for the man who had carried him in
and himself it was empty. Probably that hate-blackness on the other face
was for the would-be assassin and not for himself, argued Maggard.
Rowlett went over and stood by the hearth, staring into the fire, his
hands clenching and unclenching in spasmodic violence.
This was a queer dream, mused Maggard, and more and more insistently it
refused to seem a dream.
More surely as he watched the face which the other turned to glare at
him did the instinct grow that he himself was the object of that bitter
animosity of expression.
He lay still and watched Rowlett thrust a hand into his overalls pocket
and scatter peanut shells upon the fire--objects which he evidently
wished to destroy. As he did this the standing figure laughed shortly
under his breath--and full realization came to the wounded man.
The revelation was as complete as it was ugly. As long as he lay
unmoving the pain seemed quiescent, and his head felt crystal clear--his
thought efficient. Perhaps he was dying--most probably he was. If so
this was a lucid interval before death, and in it his mind was playing
him no tricks. The supposed friend loomed in an unmasked and traitorous
light which even the preconceived idea could not confuse or mitigate.
Maggard did not want to give credence to the certainty that was shaping
itself--and yet the conviction had been born and could not be thrust
back into the womb of the unborn. All of Rowlett's friendliness and
loyalty had been only an alibi! It had been Rowlett who had led him,
unsuspecting, into ambush!
Maggard's coat and pistol-holster hung at the headboard of his bed. Now
with a cat-soft tread upon the creaking puncheons of the floor Rowlett
approached them. He paused first, bending to look searchingly down at
the white face on the pillow, and the eyes in that face remained almost
but not quite closed. The hand that rested outside the coverlet, too,
lay still and limp like a dead hand.
Reassured by these evidences of unconsciousness, Bas Rowlett drew a
deep breath of satisfaction. The diabolical thought had come to him that
by shaking the prone figure he could cause a hemorrhage that would
assure death--and the evil fire in his eyes as his hands stole out
toward his intended victim betrayed his reflection.
The seemingly insensible listener, with a Spartan effort, held his pale
face empty of betrayal as the two impulsive hands came closer.
But as quickly the arms drew back, and the expression clouded with
doubt.
"No...." reflected Bas without words. "No, hit ain't needful nohow ...
an' Jase Burrell mout detect I'd done hit."
The bending figure straightened again and its hands began calmly rifling
the pockets of the wounded man's coat.
Through the narrow slits of eyes that dissembled sleep Maggard watched,
while Rowlett opened and recognized the threatening letter that had been
nailed to the door. The purloiner nodded, and his lips twisted into a
smile of triumph, as he thrust the sheet of paper into his own pocket.
No longer now could there remain any vestige of doubt in Maggard's
mind--no illusion of mistaking the true for the untrue, and in the
vengeful fury that blazed eruptively through him he forgot the hurt of
his wounding.
He could not rise from his bed and give battle. Had the other not
reconsidered his diabolical impulse to shake him into a fatal hemorrhage
he could not even have defended himself. His voice, in all likelihood,
would not carry to the door of the next room--if indeed any one were
there.
Physically, he was defenseless and inert, but all of him beyond the
flesh was galvanized into quicksilver acuteness and determination. He
was praying for a reprieve of life sufficient to call this Judas friend
to an accounting--and if that failed, for strength enough to die with
his denunciation spoken. Yet he realized the need of conserving his
tenuous powers and so, gauging his abilities, he lay motionless and to
all seeming unconscious, while the tall figure continued to tower over
him.
Cal Maggard had some things to say and if his power of speech forsook
him before he finished it was better not to make the start. These
chances he was calculating, and after Rowlett had turned his back, the
man in the bed opened his eyes and experimented with the one word,
"Bas!"
He found that the monosyllable not only sounded clear, but had the quiet
and determined quality of tone at which he had striven, and as it
sounded the other wheeled, flinching as if the word had been a bullet.
But at once he was back by the bed, and Maggard's estimate of him as a
master of perfidy mounted to admiration, for the passion clouds had in
that flash of time been swept from his eyes and left them disguised
again with solicitude and friendliness.
"By God, Cal!" The exclamation bore a counterfeited heartiness. "I
didn't skeercely suffer myself ter hope y'd ever speak out ergin!"
"I'm obleeged, Bas." Maggard's voice was faint but steady now. "Thar's a
thing I've got ter tell ye afore my stren'th gives out."
Beguiled by a seeming absence of suspicion into the belief that Maggard
had just then awakened to consciousness, Rowlett ensconced himself on
the bedside and nodded an unctuous sympathy. The other closed his eyes
and spoke calmly and without raising his lids.
"Ye forewarned me, Bas.... We both of us spoke out p'int blank ...
erbout ther gal ... an' we both went on bein' ... plum friendly."
"Thet war ther best way, Cal."
"Yes.... Then ye proffered ter safeguard me.... Ye didn't hev no need
ter imperil yoreself ... but ye _would_ hev hit so."
"I reckon ye'd hev done likewise."
"No. I misdoubts I wouldn't ... anyhow ... right from ther outset on you
didn't hev ter be friendly ter me ... but ye was."
"I loves fa'r mindedness," came the sanctimonious response.
A brief pause ensued while Maggard rested. He had yet some way to go,
and the last part of the conversation would be the hardest.
"Most like," he continued at last, "I'll die ... but I've got a little
bitty, slim chanst ter come through."
"I hopes so, Cal."
"An' ef I _does_, I calls on God in heaven ter witness thet afore ther
moon fulls ergin ... I'm a-goin' ter _kill_--somebody."
"Who, Cal?"
The white face on the pillow turned a little and the eyes opened.
"I hain't keerin' none much erbout ther feller thet fired ther shot...."
went on the voice. "Ther man I aims ter git ... air ther one thet hired
him.... _He's_ goin' ter die ... _hard_!"
"What makes ye think"--the listener licked his lips furtively--"thar war
more'n one?"
"Because I knows who ... t'other one is."
Rowlett rose from his seat, and lifted a clenched fist. The miscreant's
thoughts were in a vortex of doubt, fear, and perplexity--but perhaps
Maggard suspected "Peanuts" Causey, and Rowlett went on with an
admirable bit of acting.
"Name him ter me, Cal," he tensely demanded. "He shot at both of us.
He's my man ter kill!"
"When ye lay thar ... by my house ... watchin' with me...." went on the
ambushed victim in a summarizing of ostensible services, "what made ye
discomfort yoreself, fer me, save only friendliness?"
"Thet war all, Cal."
"An' hit war ther same reason thet made ye proffer ter take away thet
letter an' seek ter diskiver who writ hit, warn't hit ... an' ter sa'rch
about an' find thet peanut hull ... an' ter come by hyar an' show me a
safe way home.... All jest friendliness, warn't hit?"
"Hain't thet es good a reason es any?"
The voice on the bed did not rise but it took on a new note.
"Thar couldn't handily be but jest ... one better one ... Bas."
"What mout thet be?"
"Ther right one. Ther reason of a sorry craven thet aimed at a
killin' ... an' sought ter alibi hisself."
Rowlett stood purple-faced and trembling in a transport of maniac fury
with which an inexplicable fear ran cross-odds as warp and woof. The
other had totally deluded him until the climax brought its accusation,
and now the unmasked plotter took refuge in bluster, fencing for time to
think.
"Thet's a damn lie an' a damn slander!" he stormed. "Ye've done already
bore witness afore these folks hyar thet I sought ter save ye."
"An' I plum believed hit ... then. Now I knows better. I sees thet ye
led me inter ambush ... thet ye planted them peanut hulls.... Thet ye
writ thet letter ... an' jest now ye stole hit outen my pocket."
"Thet's a lie, too. I reckon yore head's done been crazed. I toted ye in
hyar an' keered fer ye."
"Ye aimed ter finish out yore alibi," persisted Maggard, disdainfully.
"Ye didn't low I seed ye steal ther letter ... but I gives ye leave ter
tek hit over thar an' and burn hit up, Rowlett--same es them peanut
hulls.... I hain't got no need of nuther them ... nur hit."
Rowlett's hand, under the sting of accusation, had instinctively pressed
itself against his pocket. Now guiltily and self-consciously it came
away and he found himself idiotically echoing his accuser's words:
"No need of hit?"
"No, I don't want nuther law-co'tes ner juries ter help me punish a man
thet hires his killin' done second-handed.... All I craves air one day
of stren'th ter stand on my feet."
With a brief spasm of hope Rowlett bent forward and quickly decided on a
course of temporizing. If he could encourage that idea the man would
probably die--with sealed lips.
"I'm willin' ter look over all this slander, Cal," he generously
acceded; "ye've done tuck up a false notion in yore light-headedness."
"This thing lays betwixt me an' you," went on the low-pitched but
implacable voice from the bed, "but ef I ever gits up again--you're
goin' ter wisht ter God in Heaven ... hit war jest only ther
penitenshery threatenin' ye."
Again Rowlett's anger blazed, and his self-control slipped its leash.
"Afore God, ef ye warn't so plum puny an' tuckered out, I wouldn't stand
hyar an' suffer ye ter fault me with them damn lies."
"Is thet why ye was ponderin' jest now over shakin' me till I bled
inside myself?... I seed thet thought in yore eyes."
The breath hissed out of Rowlett's great chest like steam from an
over-stressed boiler, and a low bellow broke from his lips.
"I kin still do thet," he declared in a rage-choked voice. "I _did_ hire
a feller ter kill ye, but he failed me. Now I'm goin' ter finish ther
job myself."
Then the door opened and old Caleb Harper called from the threshold:
"Did I hear somebody shout out in hyar? What's ther matter, Bas?"
As the menacing face hung over him, Maggard saw it school itself slowly
into a hard composure and read a peremptory warning for silence in the
eyes. The outstretched hands had already touched him, and now they
remained holding his shoulders as the voice answered:
"Cal jest woke up. I reckon he war outen his head, an' I'm heftin' him
up so's he kin breath freer."
Old Man Harper came over to the bed and Rowlett released his hold and
moved away.
"I've done been studyin' whether Dorothy's goin' ter make hit acrost ter
Jase Burrell's or not," said Caleb, quaveringly. "I fears me ther storm
hes done washed out the ford."
Then he crossed to the hearth and sat down in a chair to light his
pipe.