PUPPETS OF FATE
The house in the Gap that had sheltered Nan for many years seemed
never so empty as the night she left it with de Spain. In spite of his
vacillation, her uncle was deeply attached to her. She made his home
for him. He had never quite understood it before, but the realization
came only too soon after he had lost her. And his resentment against
Gale as the cause of her leaving deepened with every hour that he sat
next day with his stubborn pipe before the fire. Duke had acceded with
much reluctance to the undertaking that was to force her into a
marriage. Gale had only partly convinced him that once taken, the step
would save her from de Spain and end their domestic troubles. The
failure of the scheme left Duke sullen, and his nephew sore, with
humiliation.
In spite of the alarms and excitement of the night, of Gale's
determination that de Spain should never leave the Gap with Nan, and
of the rousing of every man within it to cut off their escape, Duke
stubbornly refused to pursue the man he so hated or even to leave the
house in any effort to balk his escape. But Gale, and Sassoon who had
even keener reason for hating de Spain, left Duke to sulk as he would,
and set about getting the enemy without any help from the head of the
house. In spite of the caution with which de Spain had covered his
movements, and the flood and darkness of the night, Sassoon by a mere
chance had got wind through one of his men of de Spain's appearance at
Duke Morgan's, and had begun to plan, before Nan and de Spain had got
out of the house, how to trap him.
Duke heard from Pardaloe, during the night and the early morning,
every report with indifference. He only sat and smoked, hour after
hour, in silence. But after it became known that de Spain had, beyond
doubt, made good his escape, and had Nan with him, the old man's
sullenness turned into rage, and when Gale, rankling with defeat,
stormed in to see him in the morning, he caught the full force of
Duke's wrath. The younger man taken aback by the outbreak and in drink
himself, returned his abuse without hesitation or restraint. Pardaloe
came between them before harm was done, but the two men parted with
the anger of their quarrel deepened.
When Nan rode with de Spain into Sleepy Cat that morning, Lefever had
already told their story to Jeffries over the telephone from
Calabasas, and Mrs. Jeffries had thrown open her house to receive Nan.
Weary from exposure, confusion, and hunger, Nan was only too grateful
for a refuge.
On the evening of the second day de Spain was invited to join the
family at supper. In the evening the Jeffrieses went down-town.
De Spain was talking with Nan in the living-room when the telephone-bell
rang in the library.
De Spain took the call, and a man's voice answered his salutation. The
speaker asked for Mr. de Spain and seemed particular to make sure of
his identity.
"This," repeated de Spain more than once, and somewhat testily, "is
Henry de Spain speaking."
"I'd like to have a little talk with you, Mr. de Spain."
"Go ahead."
"I don't mean over the telephone. Could you make it convenient to come
down-town somewhere, say to Tenison's, any time this evening?"
The thought of a possible ambuscade deterred the listener less than
the thought of leaving Nan, from whom he was unwilling to separate
himself for a moment. Likewise, the possibility of an attempt to
kidnap her in his absence was not overlooked. On the other hand, if
the message came from Duke and bore some suggestion of a compromise in
the situation, de Spain was unwilling to lose it. With these
considerations turning in his mind, he answered the man brusquely:
"Who are you?"
The vein of sharpness in the question met with no deviation from the
slow, even tone of the voice at the other end of the wire. "I am not
in position to give you my name," came the answer, "at least, not over
the wire."
A vague impression suddenly crossed de Spain's mind that somewhere he
had heard the voice before. "I can't come down-town to-night,"
returned de Spain abruptly. "If you'll come to my office to-morrow
morning at nine, I'll talk with you."
A pause preceded the answer. "It wouldn't hardly do for me to come to
your office in daylight. But if it would, I couldn't do it to-morrow,
because I shan't be in town in the morning."
"Where are you talking from now?"
"I'm at Tenison's place."
"Hang you," said de Spain instantly, "I know you now." But he said the
words to himself, not aloud.
"Do you suppose I could come up to where you are to-night for a few
minutes' talk?" continued the man coolly.
"Not unless you have something very important."
"What I have is more important to you than to me."
De Spain took an instant to decide. "All right," he said impatiently;
"come along. Only--" he paused to let the word sink in, "--if this is
a game you're springing----"
"I'm springing no game," returned the man evenly.
"You're liable to be one of the men hurt."
"That's fair enough."
"Come along, then."
"Mr. Jeffries's place is west of the court-house?"
"Directly west. Now, I'll tell you just how to get here. Do you
hear?"
"I'm listening."
"Leave Main Street at Rancherio Street. Follow Rancherio north four
blocks, turn west into Grant Avenue. Mr. Jeffries's house is on the
corner."
"I'll find it."
"Don't come any other way. If you do, you won't see me."
"I'm not afraid of you, Mr. de Spain, and I'll come as you say.
There's only one thing I should like to ask. It would be as much as my
life is worth to be seen talking to you. And there are other good
reasons why I shouldn't like to have it known I _had_ talked to you.
Would you mind putting out the lights before I come up--I mean, in the
front of the house and in the room where we talk?"
"Not in the least. I mean--I am always willing to take a chance
against any other man's. But I warn you, come prepared to take care of
yourself."
"If you will do as I ask, no harm will come to any one."
De Spain heard the receiver hung up at the other end of the wire. He
signalled the operator hastily, called for his office, asked for
Lefever, and, failing to get him, got hold of Bob Scott. To him he
explained rapidly what had occurred, and what he wanted. "Get up to
Grant and Rancherio, Bob, as quick as the Lord will let you. Come by
the back streets. There's a high mulberry hedge at the southwest
corner you can get behind. This chap may have been talking for
somebody else. Anyway, look the man over when he passes under the
arc-light. If it is Sassoon or Gale Morgan, come into Jeffries's house
by the rear door. Wait in the kitchen for my call from the
living-room, or a shot. I'll arrange for your getting in."
Leaving the telephone, de Spain rejoined Nan in the living-room. He
told her briefly of the expected visit and explained, laughingly, that
his caller had asked to have the lights out and to see him alone.
Nan, standing close to him, her own hand on his shoulder and her
curling hair against his scarred cheek, asked questions about the
incident because he seemed to be holding something back. She professed
to be satisfied when he requested her to go up to her room and
explained it was probably one of the men coming to tell about some
petty thieving on the line or of a strike brewing among the drivers.
He made so little of the incident that Nan walked up the stairs on de
Spain's arm reassured. When he kissed her at her room door and turned
down the stairs again, she leaned in the half-light over the banister,
waving one hand at him and murmuring the last caution: "Be careful,
Henry, won't you?"
"Dearie, I'm always careful."
"'Cause you're all I've got now," she whispered.
"You're all I've got, Nan, girl."
"I haven't got any home--or anything--just you. Don't go to the door
yourself. Leave the front door open. Stand behind the end of the
piano till you are awfully sure who it is."
"What a head, Nan!"
De Spain cut off the lights, threw open the front door, and in the
darkness sat down on the piano stool. A heavy step on the porch, a
little while later, was followed by a knock on the open door.
"Come in!" called de Spain roughly. The bulk of a large man filled and
obscured for an instant the opening, then the visitor stepped
carefully over the threshold. "What do you want?" asked de Spain
without changing his tone. He awaited with keenness the sound of the
answer.
"Is Henry de Spain here?"
The voice was not familiar to de Spain's ear. He told himself the man
was unknown to him. "I am Henry de Spain," he returned without
hesitation. "What do you want?"
The visitor's deliberation was reflected in his measured speaking. "I
am from Thief River," he began, and his reverberating voice was low
and distinct. "I left there some time ago to do some work in Morgan's
Gap. I guess you know, full as well as I do, that the general office
at Medicine Bend has its own investigators, aside from the division
men. I was sent in to Morgan's Gap some time ago to find out who
burned the Calabasas barn."
"Railroad man, eh?"
"For about six years."
"And you report to----?"
"Kennedy."
De Spain paused in spite of his resolve to push the questions. While
he listened a fresh conviction had flashed across his mind. "You
called me up on the telephone one night last week," he said suddenly.
The answer came without evasion. "I did."
"I chased you across the river?"
"You did."
"You gave me a message from Nan Morgan that she never gave you."
"I did. I thought she needed you right off. She didn't know me as I
rightly am. I knew what was going on. I rode into town that evening
and rode out again. It was not my business, and I couldn't let it
interfere with the business I'm paid to look after. That's the reason
I dodged you."
"There is a chair at the left of the door; sit down. What's your
name?"
The man feeling around slowly, deposited his angular bulk with care
upon the little chair. "My name"--in the tenseness of the dark the
words seemed to carry added mystery--"is Pardaloe."
"Where from?"
"My home is southwest of the Superstition Mountains."
"You've got a brother--Joe Pardaloe?" suggested de Spain to trap him.
"No, I've got no brother. I am just plain Jim Pardaloe."
"Say what you have got to say, Jim."
"The only job I could get in the Gap was with old Duke Morgan--I've
been working for him, off and on, and spending the rest of my time
with Gale and Dave Sassoon. There were three men in the barn-burning.
Dave Sassoon put up the job."
"Where is Dave Sassoon now?"
"Dead."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean what I say."
Both men were silent for a moment.
"Yesterday morning's fight?" asked de Spain reluctantly.
"Yes, sir."
"How did he happen to catch us on El Capitan?"
"He saw a fire on Music Mountain and watched the lower end of the Gap
all night. Sassoon was a wide-awake man."
"Well, I'm sorry, Pardaloe," continued de Spain after a moment.
"Nobody could call it my fault. It was either he or I--or the life of
a woman who never harmed a hair of his head, and a woman I'm bound to
protect. He was running when he was hit. If he had got to cover again
there was nothing to stop him from picking both of us off. I shot
low--most of the lead must have gone into the ground."
"He was hit in the head."
De Spain was silent.
"It was a soft-nose bullet," continued Pardaloe.
Again there was a pause. "I'll tell you about that, too, Pardaloe," de
Spain went on collectedly. "I lost my rifle before that man opened
fire on us. Nan happened to have her rifle with her--if she hadn't,
he'd 've dropped one or both of us off El Capitan. We were pinned
against the wall like a couple of targets. If there were soft-nose
bullets in her rifle it's because she uses them on game--bobcats and
mountain-lions. I never thought of it till this minute. That is it."
"What I came up to tell you has to do with Dave Sassoon. From what
happened to-day in the Gap I thought you ought to know it now. Gale
and Duke quarrelled yesterday over the way things turned out; they
were pretty bitter. This afternoon Gale took it up again with his
uncle, and it ended in Duke's driving him clean out of the Gap."
"Where has he gone?"
"Nobody knows yet. Ed Wickwire told me once that your father was shot
from ambush a good many years ago. It was north of Medicine Bend, on a
ranch near the Peace River; that you never found out who killed him,
and that one reason why you came up into this country was to keep an
eye out for a clew."
"What about it?" asked de Spain, his tone hardening.
"I was riding home one night about a month ago from Calabasas with
Sassoon. He'd been drinking. I let him do the talking. He began
cussing you out, and talked pretty hard about what you'd done, and
what he'd done, and what he was going to do--" Nothing, it seemed,
would hurry the story. "Finally, Sassoon says: 'That hound don't know
yet who got his dad. It was Duke Morgan; that's who got him. I was
with Duke when he turned the trick. We rode down to de Spain's ranch
one night to look up a rustler.' That," concluded Pardaloe, "was all
Sassoon would say."
He stopped. He seemed to wait. There was no word of answer, none of
comment from the man sitting near him. But, for one, at least, who
heard the passionless, monotonous recital of a murder of the long ago,
there followed a silence as relentless as fate, a silence shrouded in
the mystery of the darkness and striking despair into two hearts--a
silence more fearful than any word.
Pardaloe shuffled his feet. He coughed, but he evoked no response. "I
thought you was entitled to know," he said finally, "now that Sassoon
will never talk any more."
De Spain moistened his lips. When he spoke his voice was cracked and
harsh, as if with what he had heard he had suddenly grown old.
"You are right, Pardaloe. I thank you. I--when I--in the morning.
Pardaloe, for the present, go back to the Gap. I will talk with
Wickwire--to-morrow."
"Good night, Mr. de Spain."
"Good night, Pardaloe."
Bending forward, limp, in his chair, supporting his head vacantly on
his hands, trying to think and fearing to think, de Spain heard
Pardaloe's measured tread on the descending steps, and listened
mechanically to the retreating echoes of his footsteps down the shaded
street. Minute after minute passed. De Spain made no move. A step so
light that it could only have been the step of a delicate girlhood, a
step free as the footfall of youth, poised as the tread of womanhood
and beauty, came down the stairs. Slight as she was, and silent as he
was, she walked straight to him in the darkness, and, sinking between
his feet, wound her hands through his two arms. "I heard everything,
Henry," she murmured, looking up. An involuntary start of protest was
his only response. "I was afraid of a plot against you. I stayed at
the head of the stairs. Henry, I told you long ago some dreadful thing
would come between us--something not our fault. And now it comes to
dash our cup of happiness when it is filling. Something told me,
Henry, it would come to-night--some bad news, some horror laid up
against us out of a past that neither you nor I are to blame for. In
all my sorrow I am sorriest, Henry, for you. Why did I ever cross your
path to make you unhappy when blood lay between your people and mine?
My wretched uncle! I never dreamed he had murder on his soul--and of
all others, that murder! I knew he did wrong--I knew some of his
associates were criminals. But he has been a father and mother to me
since I could creep--I never knew any father or mother."
She stopped, hoping perhaps he would say some little word, that he
would even pat her head, or press her hand, but he sat like one
stunned. "If it could have been anything but this!" she pleaded, low
and sorrowfully. "Oh, why did you not listen to me before we were
engulfed! My dear Henry! You who've given me all the happiness I have
ever had--that the blood of my own should come against you and yours!"
The emotion she struggled with, and fought back with all the strength
of her nature, rose in a resistless tide that swept her on, in the
face of his ominous silence, to despair. She clasped her hands in
silent misery, losing hope with every moment of his stoniness that she
could move him to restraint or pity toward her wretched foster-father.
She recalled the merciless words he had spoken on the mountain when he
told her of his father's death. Her tortured imagination pictured the
horror of the sequel, in which the son of the murdered man should meet
him who had taken his father's life. The fate of it, the hopelessness
of escape from its awful consequence, overcame her. Her breath, no
longer controlled, came brokenly, and her voice trembled.
"You have been very kind to me, Henry--you've been the only man I've
ever known that always, everywhere, thought of me first. I told you I
didn't deserve it, I wasn't worthy of it----"
His hands slipped silently over her hands. He gathered her close into
his arms, and his tears fell on her upturned face.