An Inevitable Conflict
When Aaron King set out to follow the tracks he had found at Granite Peak,
after his long, hard trip along the rugged crest of the Galenas, his
weariness was forgotten. Eagerly, as if fresh and strong, but with careful
eyes and every sense keenly alert, he went forward on the trail that he
knew must lead him to Sibyl Andrés.
He did not attempt to solve the problem of how the girl came there, nor
did he pause to wonder about her companion. He did not even ask himself if
Sibyl were living or dead. He thought of nothing; knew nothing; was
conscious of nothing; but the trail that led away into the depths of the
mountain wilderness. Insensible to his own physical condition; without
food; unacquainted with the wild country into which he was going; reckless
of danger to himself but with all possible care and caution for the sake
of the girl he loved, he went on.
Coming to the brink of the gorge in which the cabin was hidden, the trail,
following the rim, soon led him to the ledge that lay across the face of
the cliff at the head of the narrow canyon. A moment, he paused, to search
the vicinity with careful eyes, then started to cross. As he set foot upon
the ledge, a voice at the other end called sharply, "Stop."
At the word, Aaron King halted.
A moment passed. James Rutlidge stepped from behind the rocks at the other
end of the ledge. He was covering the artist with a rifle.
In a flash, the man on the trail understood. The automobile, the mirror
signals from Fairlands--it was all explained by the presence and by the
menacing attitude of the man who barred his way. The artist's hand moved
toward the weapon that hung at his hip.
"Don't do that," said the man with the rifle. "I can't murder you in cold
blood; but if you attempt to draw your gun, I'll fire."
The other stood still.
James Rutlidge spoke again, his voice hoarse with emotion; "Listen to me,
King. It's useless for me to deny what brought me here. The trail you are
following leads to Sibyl Andrés. You had her all summer. I've got her now.
If you hadn't stumbled onto the trail up there, I would have taken her out
of the country, and you would never have seen her again. I might have
killed you before you saw me, but I couldn't. I'm not that kind. Under the
circumstances there is no possible compromise. I'll give you a fighting
chance for your life and the girl. I'll take a fighting chance for my life
and the girl. Throw your gun out of reach and I'll leave mine here. We'll
meet on the ledge there."
James Rutlidge was no coward. Mr. Taine, also,--it will be remembered,--on
the night of his death, boasted that he was game.
Without an instant's hesitation, Aaron King unbuckled the belt that held
his weapon and, turning, tossed it behind him, with the gun still in its
holster. At the other end of the ledge, James Rutlidge set his rifle
behind the rock.
Deliberately, the two men removed their coats and threw aside their hats.
For a moment they stood eyeing each other. Into Aaron King's mind flashed
the memory of that scene at the Fairlands depot, when, moved by the
distress of the woman with the disfigured face, he had first spoken to the
man who faced him now. With startling vividness, the incidents of their
acquaintance came to him in flash-like succession--the day that Rutlidge
had met Sibyl in the studio; the time of his visit to the camp in the
sycamore grove; the night of the Taine banquet--a hundred things that had
strengthened the feeling of antagonism which had marked their first
meeting. And, through it all, he seemed to hear Conrad Lagrange saying
that in his story of life this character's name was "Sensual." The artist,
in that instant, knew that this meeting was inevitable.
It was only for a moment that the two men--who in their lives and
characters represented forces so antagonistic--stood regarding each other,
each knowing that the duel would be--must be--to the death. Deliberately,
they started toward the center of the ledge. Over their heads towered the
great cliff. A thousand feet below were the tops of the trees in the
bottom of the gorge. About them, on every hand, the silent, mighty hills
watched--the wild and lonely wilderness waited.
As they drew closer together, they moved, as wrestlers,
warily--crouching, silent, alert. Stripped to their shirts and trousers,
they were both splendid physical types. James Rutlidge was the heavier,
but Aaron King made up for his lack in weight by a more clean-cut,
muscular firmness.
They grappled. As two primitive men in a savage age might have met, bare
handed, they came together. Locked in each other's arms, their limbs
entwined, with set faces, tugging muscles, straining sinews, and taut
nerves they struggled. One moment they crushed against the rocky wall of
the cliff--the next, and they swayed toward the edge of the ledge and hung
over the dizzy precipice. With pounding hearts, laboring breath, and
clenched teeth they wrestled.
James Rutlidge's foot slipped on the rocky floor; but, with a desperate
effort, he regained his momentary loss. Aaron King--worn by his days of
anxiety, by his sleepless nights and by the long hours of toil over the
mountains, without sufficient food or rest--felt his strength going.
Slowly, the weight and endurance of the heavier man told against him.
James Rutlidge felt it, and his eyes were beginning to blaze with savage
triumph.
They were breathing, now, with hoarse, sobbing gasps, that told of the
nearness of the finish. Slowly, Aaron King weakened. Rutlidge, spurred to
increase his effort, and exerting every ounce of his strength, was bearing
the other downward and back.
At that instant, the convict and Sibyl Andrés reached the cliff. With a
cry of horror, the girl stood as though turned to stone.
Motionless, without a word, the convict watched the struggling men.
With a sob, the girl stretched forth her hands. In a low voice she called,
"Aaron! Aaron! Aaron!"
The two men on the ledge heard nothing--saw nothing.
Sibyl spoke again, almost in a whisper, but her companion heard. "Mr.
Marston, Mr. Marston, it is Aaron King. I--I love him--I--love him."
Without taking his eyes from the struggling men, the convict answered,
"Pray, girl; pray, pray for me." As he spoke, he steadily raised his rifle
to his shoulder.
Aaron King went down upon one knee. Rutlidge his legs braced, his body
inclined toward the edge of the precipice, was gathering his strength for
the last triumphant effort.
The convict, looking along his steady rifle barrel, was saying again,
"Pray, pray for me, girl." As the words left his lips, his finger pressed
the trigger, and the quiet of the hills was broken by the sharp crack of
the rifle.
James Rutlidge's hold upon the artist slipped. For a fraction of a second,
his form half straightened and he stood nearly erect; then, as a weed cut
by the sharp scythe of a mower falls, he fell; his body whirling downward
toward the trees and rocks below. The sound of the crashing branches
mingled with the reverberating report of the shot. On the ledge, Aaron
King lay still.
The convict dropped his rifle and ran forward. Lifting the unconscious man
in his arms, he carried him a little way down the mountain, toward the
cabin; where he laid him gently on the ground. To Sibyl, who hung over the
artist in an agony of loving fear, he said hurriedly, "He'll be all right,
presently, Miss Andrés. I'll fetch his coat and hat."
Running back to the ledge, he caught up the dead man's rifle, coat, and
hat, and threw them over the precipice, as he swiftly crossed for the
artist's things. Recovering his own rifle, he ran back to the girl.
"Listen, Miss Andrés," said the convict, speaking quickly. "Mr. King will
be all right in a few minutes. That rifle-shot will likely bring his
friends; if not, you are safe, now, anyway. I dare not take chances.
Good-by."
From where she sat with the unconscious man's head in her lap, she looked
at him, wonderingly. "Good-by?" she repeated questioningly.
Henry Marston smiled grimly. "Certainly, good-by What else is there for
me?"
A moment later, she saw him running swiftly down the mountainside, like
some hunted creature of the wilderness.