SUSPENSE
It was nearly sundown. A chilly mist was stealing down the slopes of
the surrounding hills. It densified to a ruddy fog as it caught the
glow of the evening sun, and finally settled upon the valley. And with
each passing moment the hills seemed to recede, their outlines to grow
more indistinct and ghostly. And gradually the whole prospect took on
the depressing aspect of a day dying wearily.
Had Jessie been less preoccupied as she stood at the door of the
ranch-house she might have felt something of all this. But she heeded
nothing of the hour, and saw nothing of the picture before her. Her
eyes only visualized the scenes that a world of troubled and
apprehensive thought yielded her. Her mind and heart were full of a
great terror, a terror which left her helpless and dazed.
She stirred restlessly. Time and again she changed her position. Now
she was leaning against one casing of the doorway, now against the
other. A nervous glance over her shoulder, as some sound in the
darkness of the room behind her set her shivering, told of the
state of her nerves, as also, with ears ever on the alert, her
fearful glances at a definite spot in the rapidly dimming hills told
of a straining, harassed expectancy. Her nerves were almost at
breaking-point. Her handsome face was drawn and haggard. All the
youthful freshness seemed to have vanished from it forever, leaving
her radiant eyes shadowed and hopeless. It was a painful change. But
the outward and visible signs were nothing to the changes that had
taken place within her.
Thirty yards away a decrepit choreman was making pretense of some work
upon a corral fence. But it was only pretense. His real occupation was
espionage. His red-rimmed eyes never for a moment lost sight of his
master's woman when she showed herself in the open. A curious-looking
dog of immense proportions, half mastiff, half Newfoundland, squatted
on its haunches at his side, alternating his green-eyed attention
between a watchful regard for the hand that fed and thrashed it and
the woman at the doorway. There was not much to choose between the
faces of these wardens of the ranch. Both were cruel, both were
intensely vicious. In neither pair of eyes was there any friendliness
for the woman. And it needed little imagination to understand that
both possessed to the full all the instincts of the savage watch-dog.
But Jessie had no thought for either. Her own terrible thoughts and
feelings held her. It is doubtful if she was even aware of their
presence at all. Just now one thought stood out dominant in her mind.
She was expecting the return of--James. And the return of James
meant--She shuddered.
He was returning from his expedition in the neighborhood of Suffering
Creek, and this knowledge brought with it the remembrance that his
object was to give her possession of at least one of her children.
Distracted as she was with her mother's desire for possession of her
offspring, although the man was now only obeying her expressed wishes,
she dreaded the child's coming almost as much as she dreaded her
lover's return. The thought of seeing Vada in this man's arms maddened
her to such a degree that she was well-nigh beside herself.
For two whole days now had she brooded under a cloud of despair. She
had scarcely stirred out of her room; she had eaten scarcely enough to
sustain life. She had shut herself up, a prey to harrowing remorse and
terror--a remorse which she knew to be as useless as her terror was
nerve-racking. Her awakening had come, sudden, awful. And, like all
such awakenings, it had come too late, so that the horror of her
future was written in letters of fire before her mental eyes, a fire
which burnt into her broken heart and left her in the depths of an
unutterable despair.
It was on the morning of her lover's departure for the region of
Suffering Creek that the awakening had come. It had come with an
overwhelming rush of horror which, in the midst of her dressing, had
sent her reeling and fainting upon the bed from which she had only
just risen, and where for two hours she had subsequently lain in a
state of collapse.
She was brushing her hair, her mind busy with the pleasant thought
that shortly she was to have one of her children with her again. She
knew that her appeal to her husband had failed, but James had sworn to
keep his promise, and now he was setting out for that expressed
purpose. And such was her foolish woman's blind faith that she had no
doubts. When he returned he was to bring, at least, little Vada with
him. The fresh mountain air was doubly pleasant to her that morning.
The brilliant sunlight raised her spirits. All qualms of conscience
were thrust into the background, and she was as nearly happy as
earthly interest could make her.
She could see the crowded corrals from where she stood. She could hear
the bellowing of the restless cattle as they pushed and horned each
other in their forceful, bovine desire to get out to the succulent
grass of their beloved pastures. All the men were astir, preparing for
their lawless expedition. The saddle-horses, ready for the trail, were
hitched to the corral fences. Through the open window she could hear
her lover ordering and hectoring, as was his way of dealing with the
ruffians who served under his leadership; and a thrill of excitement,
a subtle sympathy, stirred her. She moved to the window, leaving her
beautiful hair flowing in the bright air, and stood watching for the
departure.
Then came that hideous thing which was to shadow all her future life.
It came almost without warning. In a flash, it seemed, the last tinge
of romance was swept from her thoughts, and the hideous skeleton of
reality was laid bare.
The men had tightened up the cinchas of their saddles, and passed the
reins over their horses' heads, ready to mount. She watched them all
with something very like admiration in her blinded eyes. Their hard,
desperate faces did not appear so to her. These things, in her foolish
mind, were the hall-mark of reckless courage, of strong, virile
manhood. They were men who feared nothing, who cared no more for their
own lives than they would care for the life of an enemy. And somehow
this seemed to her just as it should be.
She waited to see them mount their raw-boned bronchos. But somehow
there was a delay; and in this delay a change came over the scene. The
men drifted away from their horses and gathered into groups. They
stood whispering together with faces averted from their leader. A
feeling of apprehension somehow caught hold of her. She did not
understand why, but she felt that all was not right. She turned to
James, and saw that he was moving round his horse all unconcernedly,
and she wondered if he were aware of the change in his men.
But all further speculation was abruptly checked, for at that moment
she heard the leader issue one of his sharp orders. She did not quite
catch his words, but she noticed that no one moved or attempted to
comply. Only talk ceased instantly. Then she saw the handsome face of
her lover flush, as he glanced about him at this unusual phenomenon,
and in a moment she recognized the sudden savage anger that flashed
into his eyes. Simultaneously his hand dropped to the butt of one of
his guns.
Then she heard his words, as they were shouted to the accompaniment of
a string of vicious oaths.
"Ho, you, Ned, an' you, too, Sully!" he cried fiercely, "get your ears
flappin'. Huyk that rotten skunk Conroy out. I ain't tellin' you
again."
The woman had thrilled at his words. There was such command, such
fearlessness in them, in his whole poise. She felt, too, that there
was trouble looming. There was rebellion in the air. Her excitement
rose, and her sympathies were all for this one man.
The two men indicated suddenly bestirred themselves, and moved off
under their leader's eye. The rest drifted together--eight of them,
she found herself counting. And as they drew together a murmur arose.
Instantly James' gun flew from its holster; and he stood, the
personification of cold authority.
"Another word an' I empty this into your lousy hides!" she heard him
cry. And instantly the murmur died out.
But the threatening weapon did not return to its holster. James stood
there waiting. And presently she beheld the two men he had despatched
returning, bringing in their custody, tottering awkwardly between
them, the man Abe Conroy, with his arms tightly fastened behind his
back, and a pair of horse-hobbles securing his ankles. They came
slowly, for the hobbles allowed but little play, and halted less than
five yards away from their leader.
As they paused the woman shivered. Some premonition of what was about
to happen got hold of her, and struck terror to her heart. She stood
staring now, unable to move. A hideous fascination seemed to paralyze
her.
The next thing that reached her comprehension was that James was
speaking in a harsh metallic voice. She had never heard him speak like
that before, and her fears swiftly increased as his words floated in
through the open window.
"Now, you skunk," he was saying, "you guess you're man enough to run
this lay-out. You guess you're a bigger man than me. You guess you got
me squealin' around like a suckin' kid. You! An' I took you out o'
jail, wher' they was goin' to set you swingin'. Gee! I could tell you
a heap, but I ain't no time talkin' to bastards of your kidney.
Swingin's too good fer sech as you. Anyway, when I got work to do I do
it myself. Here, you, Ned, an' you, Sully, stand aside!"
She saw the two men withdraw. She wanted to scream, without quite
knowing why. But no sound came. Her eyes were starting out of her head
with the horror of what she knew to be about to happen. But she had no
power to stir hand or foot.
She saw James move forward. She saw the bloodless, horror-stricken
face of the prisoner. She saw him stumble as he attempted to move
away. There was no escape.
James moved forward with body crouching, and strides that covered the
intervening space with almost feline stealth.
He came right up to the man, his gun leading. She heard a report and
one dreadful cry of terror and pain. She saw Conroy crumple and fall
writhing upon the ground. She saw the blood streaming from his
stomach. Then the further horror came to her staring eyes as she saw
James stand over his victim and fire shot after shot into the hideous,
writhing heap.
But the limit was reached. With one wild scream she turned away and
flung herself upon her bed; and the next moment everything mercifully
became a blank to her.
That was on the Sunday morning. She saw nothing of what followed. She
knew nothing until she awoke some two hours later to the haunting
vision of the scene she had witnessed. And ever since it had clung to
her--clung like an obsession, a mental parasite sapping her nerve, her
very reason. Nor had she power to disassociate herself from it.
And now she was waiting in an agony of mind for the murderer's
return. Not only was she waiting for his return, but she expected to
see him bearing in his arms one of her own innocent children. The
thought of little Vada in his arms drove her frantic. Her innocent
little Vada in the arms of this cold-blooded assassin!
She knew him now for all he was. The scales had fallen from her
foolish eyes. All the romance of his hideous calling had passed in a
flash, and she saw it as it was. She had no words to express her
feelings of horror and revolting. In her weakness and wickedness she
had torn herself out of the life of a good man to fling herself upon
the bosom of this black-hearted villain. She loathed him; she loathed
his very name. But more than all else she loathed herself. Her
punishment was terrible. She was so helpless, so powerless. She knew
it, and the knowledge paralyzed her thought. What could she do? She
knew she was watched, and any move to get away would be at once
frustrated. She could do nothing--nothing.
No longer able to remain in her room, she had come out to breathe air
which she vainly hoped was less contaminated with the crimes of the
man whose home she had elected to share. But inside or out it made no
difference. The haunting was not of the place. It was in her mind; it
had enveloped her whole consciousness.
But through it all there was one longing, one yearning for all that
she had lost, all she had wantonly thrown away. Suffering Creek, with
its poverty-stricken home on the dumps, suggested paradise to her now.
She yearned as only a mother can yearn for the warm caresses of her
children. She longed for the honest love of the little man whom, in
the days of her arrogant womanhood, she had so mercilessly despised.
All his patient kindliness came back to her now. All his tremendous,
if misdirected, effort on her behalf, his never-failing loyalty and
courage, were things which to her, in her misery, were the most
blessed of all blessings. She wanted home--home. And in that one
bitter cry of her heart was expressed the awakening of her real
womanhood.
But it had come too late--too late. There was no home now for her but
the home of this man. There was no husband for her, only the illicit
love of this man. Her children--she could only obtain them by a theft.
And as this last thought came to her she remembered who it was who
must commit the theft.
The thought brought a fresh terror. How would he accomplish his end?
Had not Scipio tacitly refused to yield up her children? Then
how--how? She shivered. She knew the means James would readily,
probably only too gladly, adopt. Her husband, the little harmless man
who had always loved her, would be swept aside like anyone else who
stood in the way. James would shoot him down as he had shot Conroy
down; even, she fancied, he would shoot him down for the wanton
amusement of destroying his life.
Oh no, no! It was too horrible. He was her husband, the first man she
had ever cared for. She thought of all they had been to each other.
Her mind sped swiftly over past scenes which had so long been
forgotten. She remembered his gentleness, his kindly thought for her,
his self-effacement where her personal comforts were in question, his
devotion both to herself and her children. Every detail of their
disastrous married life sped swiftly before her straining mental
vision, leaving the man standing out something greater than a hero to
her yearning heart. And she had flung it all away in a moment of
passion. She had blinded herself in the arrogance of her woman's
vanity. Gone, gone. And now she was the mistress of a common
assassin.
So she lashed herself with the torture of repentance and regret as the
darkness fell. She did not stir from her post. The damp of the mist
was unnoticed, the chill of the air. She was waiting for that return
which was to claim her to an earthly hell, than which she could
conceive no greater--waiting like the condemned prisoner, numb,
helpless, fearful lest the end should come unobserved.
The ranch wardens waited, too. The man cursed his charge with all the
hatred of an evil nature, as the damp penetrated to his mean bones.
The dog, too, grew restless, but where his master was, there was his
place. He had long since learned that--to his cost.
The night crept on, and there was no change in the position, except
that the man sought the sheltering doorway of one of the barns, and
covered his damp shirt with a jacket. But the woman did not move. She
was beyond all conception of time. She was beyond any thought of
personal comfort or fatigue. All she knew was that she must wait--wait
for the coming of her now hated lover, that at least she might snatch
her child from his contaminating arms. And after that--well, after
that--She had no power to think of the afterwards.
The moon rose amidst the obscurity of the fog. It mounted, and at last
reached a height where its silvery light could no longer be denied by
the low-lying mists. But its reign was brief. Its cold splendor
rapidly began to shrink before the pink dawn, and in less than two
hours it was but a dim white circle set in the azure of the new-born
day.
Still the woman remained at her post, her dark eyes straining with her
vigil. She was drenched to the skin with the night-mists, but the
chill of her body was nothing to the chill of her heart. The spy was
still at his post in the barn doorway, but he was slumbering, as was
his canine servitor, lying curled up at his feet. The sun rose, the
mists cleared. And now the warming of day stirred the cattle in the
corrals.
Suddenly the waiting woman started. Her attention had never once
relaxed. She moved out with stiffened joints, and, shading her eyes
with her hand, stared into the gleaming sunlight. Her ears had caught
the distant thud of horses' hoofs, and now her eyes confirmed. Away
down the valley she could see the dim outline of a number of horsemen
riding towards the ranch.
Her heart began to thump in her bosom, and her limbs quaked under her.
What could she do? What must she do? Every thought, every idea that
her long vigil had suggested was swept from her mind. A blank
helplessness held her in its grip. She could only wait for what was to
come.
The pounding of hoofs grew louder, the figures grew bigger. They were
riding out of the sun, and her eyes were almost blinded as she looked
for that which she trembled to behold. She could not be certain of
anything yet, except that the return of her lover was at hand.
Nearer, nearer they came. Nearer, nearer still. Then suddenly a sharp
exclamation broke from the watcher. It was a cry which had in it a
strange thrill. It might have been the gasp of the condemned man at
the sound of the word "reprieve." It might have been the cry of one
momentarily relieved from years of suffering.
She could see them plainly. For now the figures were no longer
silhouetted against the sun. They had changed their course as they
neared the ranch, and the rising sun was well clear. She could even
recognize them by their horses. She counted. There were ten of them.
One was missing. Who? But her interest was only momentary. She
recognized the leader, and after that nothing else concerned her.
She could not mistake him. He sat his dark brown horse differently to
anybody else. He looked to be part of it. But there was no admiration
in her eyes. And yet there was an expression in them that had not been
in them since his departure. There was hope in her eyes, and something
akin to joy in her whole attitude. James was riding empty-handed!
Hence her cry. But now she glanced swiftly at each horseman, to be
sure that they, too, were empty-handed. Yes, each man was riding with
the loose swinging arms of the prairie man. And with a sigh that
contained in it every expression of an unbounded relief she turned and
vanished into the house. For the time, at least, Vada was safe.