Julian Caspar at Bay
Cy Liskard was squatting on his rolled blankets. The interior
of his log shanty was disordered. For all the man’s physical
roughness, for all the conditions of the life he lived, his hut on
the hills above the Lias River had always been something scrupulous
in its neatness. Now its interior was completely dishevelled. It
was an atmosphere associated with final departure, with absolute
quittance.
But it was something more. It was as if the man had searched it
completely with a view to the destruction of everything that could
leave a clue to the identity of its occupant. There was a pile of
stuff lying upon the hard-beaten earth floor awaiting destruction,
and outside the door a large fire was doing its share in the work
of concealment. Then, too, down on the creek below there was a
great smouldering heap which represented the complete destruction
of the elaborate sluice box and the general gear of the gold
worker’s craft that could not easily be otherwise removed.
The man had done his work systematically and without apparent
haste. And now he sat on his blankets gazing out through the open
doorway on the devouring flames of his fire. There was the pile on
the floor yet to be consumed. There was the removal of his blankets
and kit. Then there was the shanty itself to be disposed of. After
that----?
The man’s dead eyes were more than usually expressionless for
all the teeming thought of his brain. He was lost in one of those
fierce trains of thought which leave the body completely relaxed,
inert.
He had returned from the river mouth at a speed that rarely drove
him. Apprehension had pursued him every mile of the way. But it was
not physical fear. No. It was something deeper, more abiding than
that. He was beset with concern for an invisible, intangible threat
that seemed to be enveloping him. A threat that was clear enough in
its work of despoliation without a sign of how or whence it came.
Fury was driving him hard. Fury, and that other thing that left him
groping for the thing he must do.
Now as he sat waiting for the fire outside to do its work, he was
contemplating the courses that were open to him. And his mind and
brutish nature, being what they were, looked first and foremost for
some method of retaliation upon an unseen, unknown, but not wholly
unguessed agency that was operating for his hurt.
No. It was not unguessed. Two agencies sprang to his mind. There
was the memory of those “fool” figures in their hooded white
cloaks who had surrounded him while a rawhide rope dangled before
his eyes. For all he derided their methods they were not easily
forgotten. Then there was that other. The man he had sought to
kill, and who, through his friends, had contrived to outwit him.
A queer desperation was driving. He knew he must act quickly, at
once. But even the feeling of desperation and the uncertainty of
the thing about him could not rob him of his lust for vengeance.
His lust to kill.
His plans had been urgently completed. He knew he must quit his
mountain retreat. He must defy everything and reach Beacon with
all speed. His credit was lying at Victor Burns’ bank. That was
his, which he believed no power could rob him of. He must collect
it at once. It was all that had been left to him. And with that in
his possession he would be free to devote himself to the vengeance
which looked a thousand times more desirable to him now.
He rose from his seat and replenished the fire outside with the
collected heap in the shack. It was the last. He had destroyed the
last of his makeshift furnishings, and only his camp outfit and his
treasured weapons were left to encumber his journey. And now he sat
again, having closed the door to defend himself against the fierce
heat and the smoke of his fire.
Yes. Beacon must be his first objective. It would be easy enough.
At the bank he was just an ordinary customer. There was, there
could be no doubt about his credit there. He was wholly unknown
except as a gold man from the hills. There was nothing against him
except for the sentence of that absurd bunch who called themselves
the Aurora Clan. They were powerless to interfere---- He stirred
uneasily.
No. He would give them no chance. He would give no one any chance.
He would descend upon the bank at the busiest time of the day, and
be gone with his cash before a soul was wise to his presence in the
city. Then----
He dismissed Beacon from his mind and his thought was caught and
held where a wrecked ship that was lying on the rocks at the mouth
of the Alsek River. And curiously enough the mental vision of it
robbed him of something of the even train of his urgent thought. A
queer feeling took hold of him in the pit of the stomach. It came
of a sudden, and he stirred uneasily, and strove to moisten his
lips with a tongue that had somehow become almost dry.
The stare of his dead eyes displayed nothing of his emotion. They
looked and looked squarely at the lateral logs of the wall in front
of him. Even the flutter of the torn cotton which covered the
window directly above where he was gazing drew not a vestige of
his attention. And it was not until the loose cotton ripped with a
screaming tear that his gaze came back to the things about him. He
looked up with a start to find himself gazing into the ominous ring
of the muzzle of a heavy gun. It was thrust through the aperture of
the windows where the cotton had been torn away.
“Sit right there, Julian Caspar. Don’t move a little bit. Not a
finger, boy, or you’re as dead as Jim Carver you murdered for his
gold.”
It was spoken quietly, almost gently, in a voice whose tones
startled the man on his blankets and left him utterly unmoving. His
queer eyes were fixed on the dark face peering in at him through
the aperture of the window from behind the threatening gun.
But the whole position underwent a change on the instant. The door
was flung open and Ivor McLagan thrust his way in.
“Up with those hands, Caspar!” he cried roughly. And his own
levelled gun enforced the sharp order. “Right up--this time. That’s
better. You didn’t do it right at the Speedway. You’re learning
manners. No. Keep ’em up. Len Stern’s here and is yearning to sift
his hands through your pockets. Get busy, Len. I’ll watch his
monkey tricks.”
The man on the blankets gave no sign, and his eyes helped the
illusion of submission. His hands were thrust above his head while
he watched the man he hated most in the world. But Ivor bulked
large and fiercely threatening behind the deadly automatic he was
gripping. And the other had reason enough to know there was no
play-game where McLagan was concerned.
In less than a minute the work was completed. Len Stern, relieved
of his hold-up through the window, came to his task on the run. The
man was deprived of his gun and a pocket full of cartridge clips.
The rifle leaning against the wall was unloaded and put out of
harm’s way. And furthermore, a long, razor-like sheath knife was
transferred to the keeping of the man from Australia.
“That all, Len?” McLagan spoke in the harsh tone of a man without
mercy. “We’re taking no chances with the feller who’s done up a
ship’s company. Is he harmless?”
“As a babe.”
Len Stern left the man and moved clear. Then he waited, leaning
with his elbow propped on the window framing while McLagan lowered
his threatening weapon.
The engineer’s quick eyes took in the details of the dishevelled
interior.
“Making a quick getaway, Caspar, eh?” he snapped sharply. “Making
a break for the open where the thing lying back of you’s not going
to come again.” He shook his head. “You can’t escape that, boy,
not as long as you live. And when you’re dead, I guess you’ll get
its consequences. Say, a feller can’t commit cold-blooded murder
without it leaving a hell of a stain, if it’s only on the brutal
mind that designed it. Can you guess why we’re here? Can you guess
why Len Stern’s come all along from Perth in Australia? Sure you
can. But I tell you, in case you don’t guess right. Len Stern’s got
along to make sure you swing by your darn neck for murdering his
partner, and goodness knows how many more. You can drop your hands.”
The man lowered his arms and it was noticeable that his fists
were tightly clenched. His eyes displayed nothing but cold
contemplation as they looked back into McLagan’s face. Those
looking on, observing his every movement with the closest scrutiny,
were not without a feeling of appreciation for the sheer nerve he
was displaying. But they were neither of them deceived. A storm
lay behind those cold eyes. It was raging, consuming. And it was
expressed in the two fiercely clenched fists.
The man shook his head.
“You’re wrong,” he said calmly, with a shrug. “You’re dead wrong.
I’m not worried a thing with any memory of murder. I don’t have to
be. I don’t know this feller you call Len Stern. And as for his
partner I can’t guess the thing you’re talking. I’m a gold man
scratching over the dirt of this creek. And my name’s Liskard--Cy
Liskard. You’ve a hold-up on me for, I suppose, the stuff you
reckon to get out of me. You’ll get not an ounce. I’m quitting for
the reason the show don’t pay. Well?”
It was consummately done. It was too well done. McLagan laughed
coldly.
“We’ll cut all that right out,” he said. He dropped back to the
door framing and leant his big body against it, but his gun was
in his hand ready for instant use. “This isn’t any old game of
bluff. It’s just cold business that’s going through as we fixed
it. You can keep that junk for the law courts where you’ll stand
up to answer for your play. For the moment the things concerning
us are toting you right in to Beacon, and handing you over to Alan
Goodchurch. Then you’ll be passed on to Fairbanks. I’m not wise
if they use an electric chair there or hang a boy like you right
out of hand. It don’t signify, anyway. They don’t treat murder
easy in Fairbanks, which makes me feel good passing you along in
that direction. Your ponies are fixed for your journey. You’ve
set things that way, and I’m obliged. We’ll be able to travel the
quicker. You can get up off those blankets. You’re going to start
right away. I can’t give you even blanket room on the journey. You
see, we’re going to make Beacon quick.”
But the man who had been called Julian Caspar made no attempt
to obey. He stirred where he sat, but that was all. McLagan was
watching. He was watching with every faculty alert. He was looking
to read behind that baffling mask which was his victim’s greatest
asset.
It was that slight shift of position that betrayed. It was an
unconscious movement impelled by some inner qualm, a qualm similar
to that which had assailed him when he had thought of the wreck at
the mouth of the Alsek River. And a feeling of satisfaction warmed
McLagan as he waited for the reply he saw coming.
The man spoke harshly, but without any sign of the fury that was
driving him. He had himself under a control that rarely enough gave
way, and was strongest in emergency.
“You’re talking a whole lot, McLagan,” he said, “but you’re not
talking the way of a feller who’s dead sure of the thing he’s
putting on the other feller.” He shook his head. “Try again. Maybe
that way you’ll make me feel like the boy you’re reckoning to make
me believe I am. A hold-up’s generally got more behind it than
seems. You see you’re not a sheriff, or a law officer. You’re just
an oil man. I haven’t seen a sign of any warrant for my arrest. Do
you get me?”
McLagan smiled at the shrewd retort. He was more than prepared
for it. He signed to Len Stern, while his gun was raised ever so
slightly covering his man.
“That’s all right, Caspar,” he said. “I’m not worrying for details.
You can think the thing you please. We won’t waste time in
discussion. Just fix those bracelets right on his wrists, Len, and
then go fix his ponies ready for the start. No, Caspar. Don’t move.
Not a move. As sure as God I’ll fix you right here. And I’ll fix
you better than the mess you made of things down at my home place.
I told you then you’ll hang, and that’s sure why I’m here now.
That’s it, Len,” he went on, as the irons were clipped on the man’s
wrists. “Now go and see to his plugs while I look to him.”
The two men remained watching each other in silence after Len Stern
had passed out of the shack. It seemed as if a tremendous silent
conflict of will was raging. The hard face of Julian Caspar was
apparently unyielding under the hate that no power of his seemed
able to abate. The eyes of the other were harshly compelling, and
kept the queer dead eyes of his victim unblinkingly observing him.
McLagan’s decision was clear in his mind. It was impossible to
judge of the thing passing in the mind of the other as he sat with
his shackled hands resting on his drawn-up knees.
At last the prisoner shook his head.
“You’re needing something, McLagan,” he said, his face slightly
relaxing. “Maybe I can guess the thing it is. Well, if you’re ready
to hand out the price I’ll sell what you need.”
McLagan drew a deep breath. Quite suddenly a curious feeling of
admiration stirred within him. The man’s words and manner inspired
him with a sense of his own inferiority. His shrewdness and nerve
amazed him. He felt he had been read like an open book. He failed
utterly to realise that this man was fighting for something he
treasured above all else--his life. And knew full well that it was
forfeit unless his wit should adequately serve him.
He nodded.
“I surely do,” he said quietly. “And when a murderer is captured,
and the irons are fixed right, there’s only one price he can ask.
That’s freedom.”
“That’s so. Well?”
The relaxing was gone from the man’s face. McLagan read the anxiety
lying behind that final interrogation.
“I let you go once before, Caspar,” he went on coldly. “I told you
then you’d hang, you were born to hang. That’s why I let you go.
I’m still sure you’ll hang. That’s why I’m ready to let you loose
on this hill country again. But if you want me to do that, why,
you’ve got to hand me the story of your ship the _Imperial_ from A
to Z. There’s no lies’ll serve you. Len Stern and I know enough to
check you up all the time. You can only get away on the truth. In
return we’ll release you now, right here. There’s the hill country
back of here, and the Canadian border beyond. It’s a dog’s chance.
You’re tough, and maybe you can get through. I don’t know and don’t
care. It’s a chance of a respite before that hanging which is
coming your way.”
McLagan ceased speaking and the sound of Len Stern passing outside
came in the silence that followed. Then Caspar cleared a throat
that was dry with fierce anxiety. And suspicion lurked behind his
expressionless eyes.
“Why d’you need that story? What’s the dirty game behind it? When
a feller like you gets his hands on a man he reckons to have done
murder, why, for a story, is he ready to hand him a getaway?” He
shook his head. “The price is right, McLagan. But ther’s a snag
somewhere. It looks like your case is bad. It looks like you’re
maybe a bad payer. It looks like ther’s things to you you ain’t
yearning to have around in the light of open court.”
Again he shook his head.
But the challenge left McLagan quite unruffled. His smile was
derisive as his answer came on the instant.
“That’s all right, Caspar,” he said. “It can look just as it
pleases you to make it look. I don’t care a cent. The only thing
is Len’s coming right back. I can hear him. And so can you. The
ponies, I guess, are fixed. Well, we’re starting for Beacon right
away, or we aren’t. You can please your darn self. The price will
be paid or not, as you choose. But you’ve only five seconds to
choose in.”
Caspar stirred.
“You swear to get out an’ leave me free?”
“On those terms, yes.”
“Then you can have the yarn.”
“The simple facts?”
“Yes--curse you!”
The malevolent fury in the man’s final curse was the epitome of all
his pent feeling. McLagan was his one object of insane hate. And he
was driven to bend before his will. He knew the desperate nature of
the thing he was doing. He knew the risk of it all. The evidence he
was about to put into his hated enemy’s hand. But he knew, being
the man he was, and with shackles on his wrists, that it was his
only chance. So he yielded. But his yielding had only come with
his recognition that the shackles holding him were the official
shackles of the United States Government, and must clearly have
been put into the hands of these men for their present purpose.
* * * * *
Julian Caspar was still sitting on his piled blankets. McLagan was
still leaning against the doorway with his gun in evidence. Len
Stern was propped, as before, where the cotton hung loose from
the window framing. The monotonous tones of the prisoner’s voice
broke up the stillness of the atmosphere of the place. He had been
talking for some time. He was not looking at his captors. His dead
eyes were on the log wall in front of him. And his gaze suggested
a mind reviewing in sequence a series of pictures which gave him
not a moment of mental unease. He was transferring his stock at a
price. And only was it the payment of the price for which he was
concerned.
“It was too easy,” he was saying, with a sound that was perhaps a
mirthless imitation of a laugh. “It’s queer ther’s such darn fools
running around loose. That boy, Carver, and Stern, here, surely
needed wet-nurses before they set out to handle a bunch of dust the
way they thought. Why should I stand around on a lousy commission
with the stuff lying safe under my hatches, and with only a bum
crew of Chinks, an’ a few poor whites to deal with.” He shook his
head. “Not on your life. I’d have stood for equal share. I’d have
let that boy live for some other guy to do up later. But he guessed
to hand me commission. Me, who was the only thing that could help
him handle his stuff right. No. My mind was fixed the moment Stern
an’ me signed our charter. There was haf a million of stuff to
trade, and I guessed I knew who would do the trading.”
He paused and shifted his position. His audience remained unmoving
but watchful.
“I got him in the doldrums south of the line,” he went on, after
a moment. “It didn’t need argument how best I could fix him. He
was soft in his foolishness. It was in the night. There wasn’t
any darn moon, and a thin cloud hid up the stars. There wasn’t a
breath of wind, an’ it was as hot as hell. I guessed a walk along
the deck would be better than blankets on a night like that, and
he guessed that way, too. Then I’d got another thought back of my
head. You see, I knew the monkey tricks of the sailorman, whether
Chink or white. In the doldrums, without a breeze, you can never
keep a watch on deck out of their blankets at night. The midnight
watch came on deck an’ the others went to quarters. Then us two
folks started pacing the main deck for cool. You see, the moment
the watch had changed they’d oozed off for’ard and rolled into
their blankets, and we were left to the main deck where even the
man at the wheel couldn’t guess the thing happening. There was
only the officer of the watch. I waited for him. He went below to
get a drink, I guess. That was my time. That boy and me were away
up near the winch. I jerked that long knife of mine in through the
neck of his thick peacoat. It went deep and far, and he dropped
in my arms without a sound. It’s the Indian trick of skewering a
man’s heart, and comes easy with practice. I heaved him to the rail
and dropped him over, and the thing was done without a mess, and
in a few seconds. Then I waited for the officer. I treated him as
he came out from the cabin, and got rid of him, too. It was not
because he knew a thing. But I looked to make an atmosphere for
those who were to learn things later. Then I dealt with the boy at
the wheel, and left the ship with a loose helm. After that I went
below and waited. The thing I guessed happened. The ship yawed and
was set flat aback. And in awhile I was shouted for by one of the
watch. I cleared from my bunk and raised hell till he’d told me
the thing that had happened. It was a play game to me. It was an
elegant show. I mustered the watches, and looked for the absentees.
I located the first officer was missing. Then I got wise that
Carver, too, was nowhere around. Then I raised every sort of hell a
feller born to the sea knows about. And in the end had the second
officer log a scrap. A ‘hold-up’ by one of the Chink crew--identity
unguessed. And it worked smooth and easy, as I knew it would when
dealing with a bunch of sailor toughs without sense between ’em the
size of a buck louse. Maybe it was--too easy.”
There was a moment of reflective silence before the man spoke
again. McLagan made no attempt to urge him. A queer nauseation
affected him deeply as he watched the man, who, now that he had
embarked upon his story, seemed rather to enjoy dwelling on the
hideous incidents of it. Len Stern was less calm. All the youth
in him was aflame. The cold satisfaction of Caspar in telling of
the slaughter of his partner drove him almost beyond his powers of
restraint.
“The game was only at its start,” Caspar went on at last. “I’d
got it clear cut in my mind. We were coming up through the big
islands, and at first I thought of running for the China coast.
But it didn’t take long to show me it was liable to be a bad move
with twelve Chinks aboard out of a crew of eighteen. I changed plan
right away. I’d run for Alaska where gold is found. I’d deal with
the crew one way or another, and abandon ship, and run the gold
inland by motor launch where its presence wouldn’t set a flutter
stirring. From the start luck ran with me, but it was only later I
was to learn how well it was running.”
“My next move was obvious to a feller looking to lose himself
and his bunch,” he continued, with his queer eyes lighting
unwholesomely. “I was my own wireless man. It was mostly a hobby
with me, and I’d set it up myself. I got busy and sent out a
distress signal. I sent it out telling the darn fools who picked
it up I was foundering a thousand miles from where I happened to
be sailing. I kept sending it to make sure, and I guess it didn’t
let me down. As a result my craft was fathoms deep in the South
Pacific. That left me free with leisure to fix the crew when, and
the way, I wanted ’em.”
He drew a deep breath and once he raised his eyes derisively to
the frowning dark face of Len Stern. Then he went on at once.
“I wanted that crew for awhile. We’d a mighty big piece of sailing
to do before I put the rest of my plan into operation. It’s queer,
now I think of it, how my luck stood by. We steered E.N.E. after
we’d cleared the islands. And it came on to blow hard. But it was
a fair breeze, dead on our quarter, and I carried on every stitch
of canvas we could spread. There were times when those darn Chinks
groused. They came aft an’ once looked ugly. But I didn’t let go.
No. I needed ’em yet. The only feller I didn’t need was the second
officer. Well, I took council with the Chink steward I carried. He
was a boy who knew me good, and who’d worked for me since ever I’d
held a master’s ticket. He was handy. I guess he was quicker with a
knife than any yeller mongrel I’ve ever seen. Well, it was blowing
hard and a dead black night, and when morning came and the wind
eased there was a dead officer overboard and only the boy who acted
as third and me to run the ship. And so we came along up towards
the fifties, where we ran into elegant fair weather like spring,
for all it was dead winter. I guess the Pacific’s well named.
“Then the thing that made me feel real good--at first--happened.
It happened at change of watch midday. The bunch were waiting
amidships to take over, standing around smoking and chewing like
the lousy crowd they were. The sun was beating down fine on the
litter of lumber stacked on the deck. I was on the poop deck
watching those boys and guessing about things. And in the midst of
it I saw them boys take a hunch to themselves peeking down the
deck. I looked too. An’ then--Say, you’ve seen it, McLagan. Yes.
It was there. Right at the spot where I jerked my knife under his
collarbone. It was there just as crazy a thing as I ever see. But
it was there, and stayed there, just as long as the sun shone. I
wanted to laff. Then I didn’t. Then I thought hard an’ waited, and
pretended I hadn’t seen.
“It was two days later the play began,” he went on, his manner
becoming harsher. “They came aft. The whole darn bunch. An’ I kind
of knew the thing coming. I was ready for ’em. I saw my whole play
in a jump. That queer thing had been there each day, an’ all the
time the sun shone. Oh, it made me sick, their fool slobber. But I
listened. You see, we were near to the coast, and the weather was
elegant for my plans. So I listened. The darn ship was haunted.
That was their stuff. They were plumb scared, the whole bunch,
except three cold-blooded Chinks who’d the nerve of the whole
flock. I listened and I agreed. I told ’em I’d seen it too, and was
just as badly scared as they were. But I wasn’t a darn fool and
wasn’t yearning for an open boat for the sake of a crazy shadow.
Then I pretended savage and told ’em to get right back to their
sennit an’ holy-stone, or I’d dose their darn guts with lead. It
acted the way I wanted. They tried to rush me. I had Jim Shan, the
steward, with me. A sign from him, and the other three Chinks lent
a hand. They turned on the bunch. And I unloosed. There was a tough
scrap, but we beat ’em back. When they were rightly cowed I handed
’em the thing I’d do. They could have one of the launches. It was
a hundred miles to Seattle. They could have the vittles and get.
They went. And the darn third officer went with ’em. And next day
it blew a howling winter gale. I guess they’d as much chance as
cordite in hell. I was left with four Chinks which included Jim
Shan.
“We had a mighty tough time for two days. But we were quit of that
shadow. There were four of us to handle wheel and sail, and one was
a cook. But the boys had shortened down before they went and we
had to chance the rest. Anyway we got through. And after that the
weather set dead fair and we crawled up the coast. But the shadow
came again and somehow it worried me. Then I played my last trump.
I told Jim Shan the story of the gold, and promised him equal
shares with his friends if we got it through to the coast. Say,
those boys. Ever see a Chink with the yearning for gold looking out
of his queer, snake eyes? It’s not good to look at.
“Do you need more?” Julian Caspar shook his head as his queer
eyes searched the implacable face of McLagan. “But of course you
do. You’re the sort to want every ounce of your pound. Well, you
can have it. I’m looking for that dog’s chance for more than one
reason.”
He passed his manacled hands up to his shock of hair, and tried to
run them back over it. Then they dropped again to his lap.
“The rest was easy--in a way. I set right in to work to change the
vessel’s name, and it took me guessing hard. I had to think like
hell not to leave a clue. Those boys helped me, and Jim Shan was
the neatest hand with paint and a brush I ever located. He did it
all right. And the vessel was sort of reborn the _Limpet_, an’ the
name amused me. But it was the waiting around and watching those
Chinks. Say, ever waited around with a bunch more used to knives
than Bibles? Gee! Then there was that cursed shadow. Say, I’ve
got nerve. But there’s things to break the best nerve if you only
locate ’em. It was that shadow. There wasn’t a day I didn’t sit at
that cabin table, with the alleyway facing me, that I couldn’t see
that shadow traipsing--traipsing--Psha! I could have shut the door.
I could have sat elsewhere. But someway I hadn’t the grit to do it.
No, I had to keep an eye on that shadow all the time--and on those
Chinks.”
“Well, it don’t signify now. I’d got it all fixed ready. We were
making our getaway that night. Then I was eating my food. I’d been
sitting watching the crazy antics of the shadow in the sun, and
sudden I got sick in the pit of the stomach. I quit. I quit right
there and hailed the Chinks. Well, those boys lasted long enough to
crowd on every stitch of canvas. They lasted long enough to launch
the motor with the gold and vittles stowed. They lasted long enough
to clear the vessel’s side and head for the coast. Then they died
quick. All four got lead poisoning, and I dropped ’em over the
side. It was them or me, and I knew it. I wasn’t yearning. So I
pumped ’em plumb up to the plimsol full of lead, and set ’em where
their knives couldn’t reach me. Then----”
“You ran for the mouth of the Lias,” McLagan broke in. “You ran in
and cached your stuff in a cave you didn’t reckon folks ’ud locate.
And stowed your launch where you didn’t see anything but sea-fowl
nosing.”
“You swine!”
McLagan nodded.
“That’s all right,” he said, straightening himself up. “Don’t
worry for compliments. That’s not in the story. Yes. I’ve got
your gold. There’ll be embargo on your credit at Victor Burns’
Bank. And the launch is away up on the Alsek River where its use
in my oil workings’ll keep it in shape. But you’ve got your dog’s
chance. I promised that, and you’re going to get it. It’s a hell
of a poor-bred dog’s chance. Loose those irons, Len. I’ll hold him
covered so there’s no monkeying. He reckons he’d like to translate
his opinion of me into something more active. But he won’t. Loose
him----”
“But--Say, you’re not going----?”
Len Stern, with his whole mind and body seething with the horror of
the thing he had listened to, stared at the engineer incredulously.
“Loose him? What----?”
McLagan nodded.
“Yes. Loose him, boy. I promised him that. I promised him a run for
it. It was the price of his yarn. Leave it that way, boy. Loose
him, and let’s get out into God’s pure air. This place is foul with
the stench of his rotten soul.”
* * * * *
They were out in the open where the air was pure, and the full
daylight was pleasant to contemplate after the contaminated
atmosphere of Julian Caspar’s quarters. The latter was somewhere
behind them, free to undertake anything his evil mind prompted. But
McLagan felt no concern as they moved down the slope to the mouth
of the Creek debouching on the broad waters of the Lias River. It
was left to the more hot-headed Len Stern to concern himself.
“I don’t get it, McLagan,” he said urgently. “You’ve let that
rotten murderer free for the sake of his darn story. You’ve let
him free after murdering poor Jim. Claire’s brother! The brother of
the gal you’re to marry this fall! It’s wrong. It’s crazy. He----”
He broke off to gaze back up the hill at the shack that was still
in full view.
“I can’t stand for it, Mac!” he went on hotly, a moment later. “We
came here that that boy should swing for the thing he’s done. You
said that. You----”
“He will swing, Len. He’ll swing within twenty-four hours.”
McLagan’s tone was cold. His manner was inflexible. And somehow the
other remained silent.
They rounded a broad bluff of woodland that mounted the hillside,
and all view of Caspar’s hut was obscured. Now the great waters of
the Lias came into view. Its wide valley opened out in a splendid
picture of forest, and hill, and the smiling sheen of the river’s
waters.
“You beat me, Mac,” Len went on, in a tone of puzzlement. All his
protest had died out of his manner. “How? He’ll hang in twenty-four
hours? Will you tell me?”
McLagan’s pace increased. He was gazing away down at the great
river. And suddenly a hot light filled his eyes, and left them
frowning.
“Len, boy, cut it all out!” he cried irritably. “What sort of
white-livered bunch of craziness do you take me for? What have I
been working for these weeks, an’ months, but to hand that boy his
med’cine? Say, if you’d been here months back and seen that poor
mother woman’s grief, that poor girl’s grief, you’d have known
some of the thing I feel. Those two gentle souls are mine. One of
’em’s going to be my wife, to live with me through the years of our
lives. That boy’s going to die the only right way for a feller of
his sort. He’s going to hang--just as sure as God.”
He laughed mirthlessly.
“I can’t bring that poor feller Jim back alive,” he went on. “But I
can see that feller hangs. Why, I owe it him anyway for myself. If
he lived he’d get me one way or another. No. He’s going to swing,
as I say.”
The landing on the river was in full view when Len put his sharp
question. Sasa Mannik was down there with his canoe waiting
watchfully his boss’s return.
McLagan turned. His face was unsmiling.
“That’s not for you--yet. Someday you may learn things. Meanwhile
get a holt on this. You’ve my word of honour as a man the thing’s
as I say.”
Stern nodded.
“That surely goes, Mac,” he said. “But tell me. You see, you’ve
got me badly guessing. Why for did you send me out of that shack
to--fix his ponies? We’re on the river. We’re travelling by water.”
McLagan laughed.
“That’s easy, boy. The talk of ponies was bluff. I didn’t have a
notion of running that feller into Beacon. Not a notion from the
start. You see, I didn’t let you know the thing in my mind because
of the questions I didn’t feel like answering. No. I left you
thinking he was passing right into Beacon. I sent you out to fix
his ponies because I had to make a talk. And I didn’t want a chance
of you getting hot with the things I said and queering the game. _I
had to get that boy’s yarn._ You see, the thing I reckoned to fix
was justice, not revenge. Well, it would have been justice handing
him over to Goodchurch. But I didn’t fancy that. The law’s queer
and slow. It would have been a worry to Jim’s mother, to Claire.
To all of us. It would have stirred up memories for those women
folk, and would have hurt ’em. So I looked for better, quicker,
surer means. But I’ve a queer sort of conscience that wouldn’t be
satisfied with circumstantial evidence. I had to hear of the thing
he’d done out of his own mouth. So I offered him a run for freedom
to hand me his yarn. It was wiser than it looked. You see, I knew
the man. He knew the thing he’d done. And he guessed what it would
mean going on to Fairbanks. Given a run, he’s confident of making
his getaway. His life’s more precious to him than the chance he
takes handing out his story. I felt that--knowing him. My promise
to him was a run for freedom, and he guessed it was good enough.
You see, he didn’t know the thing I know. Now the thing’s sheer
justice. He’s condemned himself. And the thought of his hanging
leaves me without a qualm or--scruple. Let’s leave it that way,
boy. I’ve given my word to you. Now we’re going to make my home
place to hand over your gold to you, and to close up my shanty.
Then for Beacon.”
“Shall I learn for sure--when it’s done?”
McLagan smiled gently as they paced down the hill. He understood
the other’s feelings. He realised how hard, without further
explanation, it must be for this man, who had been absent so long
from the country, to accept his assurance. So he laid a reassuring
hand upon his arm.
“Yes, Len. And,” he added, “believe me, his hanging’s as inevitable
as that the sun’ll rise to-morrow.”