A STAB IN THE NIGHT
Rain drizzled monotonously down on the Traps; cold, raw rain swept
slantwise by wind. Along Mohonk and the Great Wall crawled clammy fog,
blinding all vision and chilling all flesh within its folds. Through
rain and fog feebly penetrated the sickly light of a dismal dawn.
In the dankness and the dimness moved a bedraggled figure laden with
a sodden blanket-pack and a dripping shotgun; a man whose blue lips
and hollow eyes betokened a gnawing chill and scant sleep. Downward
through dripping bushes he meandered uncertainly, avoiding steep slants
of smooth rock on which his slippery boot-soles would inevitably
precipitate him into disaster, and peering continuously about in search
for a thin spot in the creeping cloud-bank. Only the unmistakable slant
of the mountainside told him which way he was heading--back into the
Traps gulf which he had left on the previous day.
“A gorgeous sunrise--I guess so!” he grumbled. “Mister Jupiter Pluvius,
this is a dirty, low-down trick. And Mister Ninety-Nine, you can keep
your mine till the crack of doom, for all I care. Go to thunder, both
of you! I’m cured.”
If the two old-timers whom he addressed were listening, they must
have chortled in malicious mirth--especially the former. Catching
this mortal asleep beside a dying fire, the rain-god had called up
his soggy servitors in the night and let them wreak their will on the
lone man--drowning his fire in the first drenching assault and then
battering him right merrily. Without shelter, without light, he had
been compelled to huddle up and endure it until dawn; and even now,
though he was in motion once more, he had to shut his teeth to keep
them from chattering.
From side to side he wormed along his erratic way, swinging from one
ghostly bush-clump to another, ever following the rambling line of
safe footholds, gradually descending toward the lower edge of the
enshrouding mist. After a time the bare rock ended and he came into
dense forest where the footing was secure. Down through this he passed
with swinging strides. The rain ceased, and the wind died to a breath.
Faster and faster he pressed on, warmer now, but eager to reach his
house and dry out. Then suddenly he slowed.
Dead ahead opened a cleared space, and beyond, vague in the gray-white
blur, were the faint outlines of a rough shack. Scanning the place
as he moved on, he became sure that it was one which he had not seen
in his previous wanderings. The exterior of the house was decidedly
uninviting, but from its lopsided chimney smoke was drifting thinly
away into the fog. His stride lengthened again. Since the inhabitants
of this house were up, he would stop there and ask for some hot coffee.
But the quick decision was as quickly reversed. As he neared the door
it stealthily opened. Out stole Lou Brackett.
“Morning,” he sang out, speeding up again. “Lovely day.”
She started, turned her head, looked behind, advanced with hand
uplifted for silence. He paused.
“Don’t talk so loud,” she implored as she reached him. “Snake, he’s
a-sleepin’, but ye might waken him up. What ye want round here?”
“Nothing. Just going home. Been up above and got wet.” Smiling a
little, he added: “I wanted to see where the sun hit the wall first in
the morning, but it isn’t hitting to-day.”
Into the black eyes came a sudden light. She laid a plump, not
over-clean hand on his wet shoulder.
“Ye’re a-huntin’ the mine! I bet ye’ll find it, too, if ye jest
keep a-lookin’ long ’nough. Ye ain’t got nawthin’ else to do--keep
a-huntin’! An’ when ye git to it ’member ye promised me some o’ the
silver. Will ye? An’ don’t tell nobody. Jest me an’ you--we can git
outen here together then.”
The broad hint brought a tart retort to his tongue, but he swallowed
it. Instead he asked: “So you still want to leave? Why don’t you go,
then?”
She stared as if he had lost his senses.
“Go wher’? Go how? I ain’t got no folks, mister--I ain’t got no place
to go--I ain’t got no money--I ain’t got nawthin’. I ain’t never
been nowheres--wha’d I do outside o’ the Traps? An’ Snake, he’d kill
me sure’s shootin’, he would. ’Course, if I had some silver or
somethin’--but I ain’t got none. ’Less’n ye want to take me out with
ye----”
“No, I don’t,” he broke in bluntly. “But you can get work in plenty of
places outside where he never would bother you.”
“I can’t!” she disputed, drawing back. “Them that’s borned into the
Traps lives into the Traps an’ dies into the Traps. Ther’ ain’t no
place for us outside.”
“All right. That doesn’t match very well with what you said about
leaving, but never mind. How did you and Snake make out that day
about--er--the bridge?”
A slow smile spread across her face, revealing anew the gap in her
teeth.
“Oh, we got ’long all right--I done what ye told me. He’d hearn ’bout
it, but when he come at me I cracked him good with the sadiron an’
jumped onto him ’bout them Oakses. It kinder took the tuck outen him.
But”--her smile faded and her face turned hard--“that red-head o’ Nat’s
better leave my man ’lone! Fust thing she knows I’ll--wal, she better
look out, tha’s all!”
“What’s that? Why, you’re crazy! She hates the sight of him. Don’t you
start any trouble with her, or you’ll be mighty sorry. And what’s more,
you can tell your man that unless he lets her alone he’ll run into
something hard--the same thing that hit him on Dickie Barre awhile ago.
She belongs to----”
The next word on his tongue was “Steve,” with more words to follow. But
his habitual avoidance of that name suddenly stopped his speech. She
grinned sneeringly, interpreting his abrupt silence according to her
lights.
“She does, hey? Then ye better take her into yer own house an’ watch
her. Me an’ Snake don’t git ’long none too well, but no red-headed
catamount like her is a-goin’ to git him. He was down ther’ last
night late, I know he was--he never tells me nawthin’, but I ain’t
simple, an’ I know. He come back ’way ’long late, an’ he hadn’t been
a-drinkin’, an’ if he ain’t drinkin’ to Oaks’s what’s he a-doin’ ther’?
He’s----”
All at once she turned hurriedly, as if sensing something in the house
behind her. When she faced back she looked perturbed.
“I got to git in. He might waken up any time. G’by.”
“All right. But you mind what I told you!”
Without reply, she padded hastily doorward. Frowning, he pushed away
down-hill. The door opened and softly closed, and the woman was gone.
The mist sifted around the man, and he too was gone. And neither of
them knew that Sanders, sleeping with one ear open, had started up at
the sound of the intruder’s first careless greeting and since then had
watched snakily from the interior gloom.
He had heard nothing of what was said, for he was in his bedroom,
behind a shut door and a closed window; and he had preferred to
remain there, using his eyes rather than his ears, making no move.
Furthermore, something about the appearance of that man in the ghostly
fog had seemed to paralyze him for a moment when he first looked out.
Then, recovering himself, he had watched the colloquy with the eyes of
evil, interpreting it with the brain of evil. And now, though again in
bed and to all appearances asleep when the woman Lou stealthily peeped
in at him, he was mentally gliding along a black, black path--like a
copperhead slithering through a sunless morass wherein moved nameless
things.
Onward down the slope marched Douglas, scowling ahead at a well-marked
path which his feet now were following but which his mind hardly
noticed. The half-spoken threat of the woman behind against Marion Oaks
bothered him. Primitive, ignorant, unmoral, willing to abandon her
“man” for a better one but jealous of any other woman who might attract
him--there was no knowing what she might do in some vindictive rage.
Douglas was not one of those men who look on all women as children and
scoff at their dangerous moods; his newspaper experience had repeatedly
brought him into contact with stark tragedies resulting from feminine
jealousy; and he recalled the Indian cheek-bones of Lou. Marion, he
felt, should be warned.
But he shrank from the thought of delivering that warning himself. Not
only was the rôle of tale-bearer utterly repugnant to him, but that
wall of Pride loomed high and hard, as before. Moreover, the girl had
repeatedly shown that she wished her acquaintance with him to remain
unknown, had commanded him to remain away from Nigger Nat’s house.
What, then, should he do?
The problem solved itself. The mist thinned, then lifted a little, and
he found himself nearing the road, only a short distance above the Oaks
place. And when, striding along the road itself, he approached the
house of Nigger Nat, he saw both Marion and her “mom” outside the door,
apparently looking around for some one. To his astonishment, Eliza Oaks
hailed him.
“Say! See anythin’ o’ my man anywheres?”
“Why, no. Lost him?” He turned into the yard.
“I dunno. Ye didn’t see him up the road nowheres?”
“Nope. But I haven’t been up the road very far. Just came down
across-lots.”
Her gaze went over him, taking in his thorough wetness and the soggy
blanket-pack. His eyes turned to the girl, who had drawn back a little
and was steadfastly watching him. Over her thin dress she was wearing
a ragged old coat, evidently the property of her father; and down
the shoulders of the threadbare garment, unconfined by the few pins
which generally held it up on her head, her hair cascaded in rippling
glory. Meeting his eyes, her own contracted a little; but they held,
unwavering. As swiftly as he had decided what to do for Steve that day
at Uncle Eb’s, he determined what to do for her.
“Am I correct in assuming that this is Miss Marion Oaks?” he asked
formally, with the tiniest droop of the off eyelid.
“You are,” she answered with a cold dignity matching his own. “What of
it?”
A subdued gurgle from the older woman drew his gaze to her. On her
shrewish lips he found a sour smile.
“Ye needn’t to be so awful perlite,” she drawled. “Marry told me ’bout
what ye done to that ’ere catamount, an’ how ye made them fellers leave
her ’lone onto the road, an’ ’bout--wal, we’re ’bliged to ye.”
“Good! Glad you know we’ve met before, I mean--there’s no obligation.
Er--how does Nat feel about it?”
A scowl wiped off the thin smile. After a moment of silence she
answered guardedly: “He dunno nawthin’ ’bout it.”
“I see. You don’t tell him all you know. Good idea, maybe. He’s still
sore at me, then. All right. Just keep him away from me and we won’t
have any trouble. I’m sorry I had to shoot up those dogs of yours,
but----”
“Oh, ’t’s all right. I was mad then, but we’re better off ’thout
’em--they et more’n they was wuth. An’ mebbe ye done right to crack Nat
when he come for ye. He don’t mean no harm, Nat don’t, but he--he’s
kind o’ funny--he gits spells when he ain’t his own self, like.” She
looked worriedly around again. “I wisht I knowed what’s ’come o’ him.
He ain’t been to home all night.”
Douglas eyed her, remembering what Lou had said--that Snake had been
here until late last night. But then, feeling that the jealous woman
might have been utterly mistaken in her statement, he kept his thought
to himself. As for Nat, he probably was drunk somewhere. He turned to
Marion.
“Miss Marion, I’ve heard something which I think you ought to know,”
he plunged. “Er--well, a certain woman up yonder thinks you and Snake
Sanders are too friendly to suit her. It’s absurd, of course, but
still--folks get queer ideas, and sometimes they do queer things,
and--maybe you’d better--er--keep your eyes open----”
He floundered to a stop, reddening under the steady gray gaze, in which
he read mounting scorn. Humiliated already by his position, he squirmed
at her drawling answer.
“So that’s where you’ve been to. Ain’t Snake to home yet? You’re takin’
big chances, seems like. But that ain’t anything to me. You needn’t
worry for me, Mister Hampton--I can take pretty good care of my own
self. But you can tell your friend, when you see her the next time, if
she’ll jest bust Snake’s head so he won’t never come to, I’ll be much
’bliged.”
Before he could retort, her mother’s voice broke in.
“That ’ere Lou’s a bigger fool ’n Snake, ’n’ he’s crazy ’nough. I ast
him only yestiddy, says I, ‘Ye mizzable idjit, how d’ye think ye’d ever
git Marry when ye got Lou already? I’ve told ye time an’ time to keep
outen here----’”
She checked herself suddenly, as if regretting her outburst. The blond
man’s eyes were on hers again, boring like gimlets.
“So Snake was here last night,” he said. “And where was Nat?”
“Nat--he was here--it warn’t last night--’twas in the aft’noon. Then
they went away, an’ Nat ain’t back. I wisht I knowed----”
Once more she looked up and down the road.
“Snake’s at home,” he told her. “At least I was told he was, when I
came by his place just now. Maybe Nat’s there with him. I don’t know.
Well, good-day.”
Without another look at the girl he swung about. At his first step,
however, Marion stopped him.
“Wait a minute,” she said. As he glanced at her he found another change
in her attitude. She still stood with unconscious dignity, but the
smouldering scorn had died from her eyes, and her face had softened.
“I want to say thank you for what you done that day onto the
road--makin’ that detective feller let go of me; and, more’n that, for
helpin’ out--you know who--up to Uncle Eb’s. And you meant all right by
tellin’ me jest now to look out, I shouldn’t wonder. So I say thank you
for that too. G’by.”
With that she was gone into the house. He opened his mouth, shut it,
glanced at Eliza Oaks, saw a faint smile in her face, and laughed
shortly. With a wave of his free hand he started off again, and kept
going.
“What a wayward, fiery little thoroughbred!” he thought. “Quick as a
cat--now you see her mind and now you don’t. She made one awful fool of
you, Hamp. Serves you right, too, confound you, with your tattling! But
she thanked you, at that, like the real little lady she is. If she only
had a chance to be somebody--if it weren’t for the black blood--and
Steve---- Lordy, what a woman she’d make!”
The thought kept revolving in his mind until he entered the fallow
little field beside his bleak abode. Then it fled.
His front door was open.
Instinctively he slowed. His searching scrutiny revealed no other
change in the house. Only that door, which he had made to fit tightly
by tacking on strips, stood as if shoved back by a hurried entrance--or
departure.
“Wind?” he debated. “Wind blew last night, but not hard. H’m! How come?”
Approaching guardedly, he peered within. Nobody was there. Nothing
seemed altered. The place not only looked empty--it felt empty.
But before stepping over the threshold he shoved the door hard with one
foot. It swung back and struck the wall, proving that nothing waited
behind it. Entering, he shot a glance into the bedroom where lay the
forgotten dummy of burlap. For a second he stood rigid. Then he leaped
into the room.
The dummy still lay there. But it had been visited in the night. The
visitor had left a memento of his call. Its handle jutted horizontally
from the huddled sacks.
Douglas grasped that handle and drew upward. From the burlap and the
corn-husk mattress beneath slid a long blade. Grimly he inspected it.
When he turned toward the outer room his face was flint.
He had seen that murderous tool before. It was the corn-hook of Nigger
Nat Oaks.