IN THE SHADOWS
In the house where Nigger Nat, assassin, had himself been struck by the
hand of Death in the night, Douglas Hampton, alias Hammerless, alias
Hamp, sat alone.
Nigger Nat lay in his grave, if grave it could be called; a hastily dug
hole into which he had been rolled like a dead skunk. No pretense of
ceremony, and certainly none of mourning, had graced his departure from
the sight of men. Nor was any headboard set above his mound. As soon as
he had been disposed of, his burial party had departed with all speed.
For the sake of the living, however, the spot where he lay would be not
only marked, but improved. Even now his headboard was being carved--and
by the man whom he had attempted to murder. On a piece of planking,
found among the odds and ends of Jake Dalton’s shed and dressed clean
with the hatchet, Douglas was cutting in deep, bold letters:
NAT OAKS
He intended, too, to clear away the brush around the mound and cut to
it a straight trail from the road, so that the women whom Nat left
behind him could--if they wished--visit his grave. But that work could
wait for another day. Now, while Hampton’s hands were drawing his
knife-point along the neat lines and hollowing out the spaces between
them, his mind was reviewing the events since the interment.
For a time the four men, united in a common task of humanity, had
shelved their mutual distrust in fruitless search for the cause of
Nat’s death. With Douglas’ tacit permission, the pair of officers
had inspected the house from roof to foundations, Uncle Eb meanwhile
narrating in full the tale of Jake Dalton’s death. Douglas in turn had
told of his first meeting with Oaks, the fight with the dogs and Nat
himself, his whim to view the sunrise, his finding of the corn-hook
driven into the dummy. He did not, however, deem it necessary to
mention the warning note which he had partly burned.
“The feller ye want to git,” Uncle Eb barked, rounding on Ward and
Bill, “is Snake Sanders! Git him an’ ye’ve got the man that’s back of
all the devil-work into the Traps. If ye make him talk, ye’ll git an
awful lot o’ knowledge all to oncet.”
The pair, taking in everything and saying almost nothing, had nodded
slightly at this. And at length, non-committal as to what they might
plan to do, they had gone. Before departure, however, Ward had scoffed
at the ha’nt.
“I don’t take any stock in this ghost stuff,” he said. “Oaks was an old
souse. Heart prob’ly was rotten with booze. He came in here with a bun
on, took a swipe at the dummy, got cold feet sudden--heard somethin’,
perhaps, a rat or somethin’--and beat it. Heart quit on him and he
croaked.
“This Dalton, you say he was a souse too. Funny that two guys should
croak the same way in the same place, yeah. But if the booze you guys
make around here is as bad as the wildcat whiskey I’ve struck in some
other places, I ain’t much surprised. It’d kill anybody that lapped it
up for a steady diet. So long. Come on, Bill.”
When they were out of the way, Douglas had talked awhile with Uncle Eb.
To him he had told something of Steve’s condition, and from him he had
learned that Marion already knew of the finding of her father’s body.
In his straightforward way Uncle Eb had gone to the nearest place--the
Oaks house--for the shovel, and had given her the news. She had said
little--“acted ’most like she was expectin’ sumpthin’ like that,” Eb
said--and gone at once to her mother.
“An’ now ’bout you, son,--ye better not stay into this place no
longer,” the old man had concluded. “Come up an’ live ’long o’ me,
don’t ye want to?”
But the anxious invitation was declined with thanks. Douglas had
determined to do now something which more than once previously he had
thought of doing--to remain awake all night and catch the ha’nt, if it
could be caught. The presence of the thing in his house was a challenge
to him; and if the phantom walked to-night, he vowed, he would smash
it or himself be smashed. This intention, however, he kept to himself,
merely saying that he had been unharmed thus far and knew no reason
why he should not remain so.
So, bearing with him the quinine and other medicines which Douglas
thought might be useful to Steve, the old man had gone back to the
Oaks house and then home. Under the circumstances, Douglas himself did
not feel like intruding just then on the girl and her mother; and the
errand could be done just as well by Uncle Eb. And now, back to the
wall and eyes lifting now and then to survey all around him, Hampton
was toiling on the headboard. And the hot day was nearing its end.
Lucky, thrice lucky had been Steve’s refusal to accompany him home,
he thought: lucky for Steve, for Marion, for himself. Alone, he had
come back openly and opportunely. With Steve he would have come more
slowly and furtively, and by that time the man-hunters might have been
scouting around in the woods on an investigation tour--and promptly
sprung on their prey. There would certainly have been a fight, and
before it ended Hampton and even Marion might have outlawed themselves.
Yes, it was lucky all around.
Leaning back, he inspected his handiwork, yawned, and clicked his knife
shut. Nigger Nat’s monument was completed. Glancing through the open
doorway at the lengthening shadows, he lifted his brows and pulled out
his watch.
“Where’s the time gone?” he asked himself. “It’s almost sundown. Better
rustle some grub and clear the decks for action against Mister Ha’nt.
Hope this isn’t his night off. Do ha’nts work union hours, I wonder?
Midnight to daybreak, maybe? Might get some sleep if I only knew. It’s
going to be a long, long night.”
He yawned again, drowsy from the heavy heat of the day. When his supper
was eaten and his pipe was going he yawned still more widely. Twilight
now filled the great bowl outside--the oddly transparent twilight of
early evening in the Traps, which lay in shadow while the sun still
shone beyond the western heights. Next would come the grayish blur of
true twilight, deepening gradually into night. And when dense darkness
should enwrap all things and the evil man-killer of this house should
begin to stir about--then what?
He arose, stretching and shaking himself to cast off his sleepiness.
After a turn up and down the room he lifted his gun, ejected the
shells, tested the firing-pins with a snap or two, looked carefully at
the ammunition, and reloaded.
“Little old gun, you’ve been a real pal,” he soliloquized. “I bought
you just because you looked good and because I thought I might get a
bit of hunting somewhere up in this country before going back to town.
Little did I think you’d save a girl and blow cats and dogs all to
thunder and shoot at ha’nts----”
“Yoo-hoo!”
The musical call from outside cut short his monologue. In three strides
he was at the door. At the edge of the road stood Marion. On the sand
at her feet rested a sack in which something was tumbling about.
“Don’t you never put down that gun, even when you’re into the house?”
she asked as he crossed the grass-ground. He looked foolishly down
at the forgotten weapon, still gripped loosely in one hand. Without
awaiting an answer, she went on: “But you need it, I shouldn’t wonder.
Are you a-goin’ to stay here now, after--after what come to pop?”
“Yep. Going to sit up to-night and see what will happen.”
She contemplated him soberly, then looked down at the bag.
“I figgered that’s what you’d do. I--I wish you wouldn’t. But I brought
down some company, like I promised. This here is Spit.”
As if answering to its name, the moving thing in the sack vented a
catty spitting sound.
“You’ll want to shut the door and the winders, if there’s any open,
’fore you untie his bag,” she cautioned. “He’s wild, and he’ll go like
a shot if there’s any way outen the house.”
“I’ll take care of him. Why do you wish I wouldn’t stay here?”
She flushed a little, looked at him, dropped her eyes again and stirred
the sand with a foot.
“Why, you--you’re a neighbor, kind of. And you--you’ve been good to
Steve.” The name came in a whisper.
“Oh. I see. Did you take the medicine to him?”
“Yes. He’s a-takin’ care of himself. But he’s wilder’n ever at Snake
Sanders, now he knows about pop. He didn’t like pop much, but it makes
him hate Snake all the more. Where--where is pop?”
“Over yonder,” he told her gently. “In a day or so you can go in. I’m
going to cut a path. You’re not blaming me for this thing, are you,
Marion?”
“No, I ain’t. Mom, she’s wild jest now--says if you never come here
this wouldn’t happened, and so on--but that’s foolish, and I told
her so. She’ll git over it. But”--the firm little jaw set--“if Snake
Sanders comes a-pesterin’ round once more now he won’t never walk outen
our yard! I’ll fix him my own self!”
“How?”
“With pop’s gun. ’Tain’t much good, but it’ll shoot. I got it ready
this afternoon, and if I see his sneakin’ face jest once I won’t ask
questions. I never wanted to see him ’fore, but I’m lookin’ for him
now!”
It was no sudden flare of temper that brought forth the threat. It
was the cold wrath of the hills that sounded in her quiet voice, the
deathless hate of the avenger that glimmered under her curving brows.
Once more Douglas studied a new Marion: a girl resolute, reckless,
ominously hard.
“I wouldn’t do that,” he counseled. “Put the gun on him, but don’t
shoot. March him down here and let me have him. Maybe I can make him
clear Steve.”
“Mebbe,” she half agreed. “I’m a-goin’ now. It’s gittin’ dark. G’by.”
She was gone, running lightly along the shadowy road. Until she
disappeared he stood watching her. Then he lifted the bag and returned
to the house.
Mindful of her caution, he shut the outer door and closed the window
of his sleeping-room before removing the cord from the mouth of the
sack. It was well that he did. When the rangy, rumpled Spit was dumped
on the bare floor he gave one baleful glare at the man towering over
him, one swift survey of his surroundings, one spitting comment on the
place--then he was not where he had been. He was tearing about like
tawny lightning let loose.
Douglas made no effort to pursue him. To do so would have been as
futile as chasing a comet. He only stood marveling at the animal’s
speed and wondering whether he had not better let him out before he
shot bodily through a window-pane. What good would Spit do here,
anyway? He would be only a complication in the still-hunt of the ha’nt.
But--Marion had taken the trouble to bring him, and---- Oh, well, let
him stay.
The lank, homely brute threw himself at every window, every door,
seeming hardly to have hit one before he was at another. The man gave
up even trying to watch him. Moving to his supply-shelf, he cut a chunk
of raw bacon and held it until the baffled Spit finally paused, looking
for a new point of attack. Then he threw the meat.
Spit jumped into the air, came down glaring, circled the meat, spat at
it, sniffed at it, tasted it, considered it with tail yanking from side
to side--and accepted it. With famished speed he gnawed it down. When
it was gone he lapped his jaws and looked at the man with a shade of
friendliness. It was poor cat-food, that smoked fat; but it was food,
and the half-wild creature would eat almost anything. In fact, he was
ready to devour more of the same.
But he got no more. The man placed on the floor a cupful of water, then
shoved his backless chair against the rear wall and settled himself for
the vigil. The gloaming now was rapidly thickening into darkness, and
there was nothing to do but await events.
For some time he sat quiet, hearing only the solemn chant of
deep-voiced crickets, the muffled conversation of katydids, the almost
inaudible padding of the cat’s feet on the boards. Now and then he
vaguely made out the lean form of the animal pausing near him. Then it
moved and vanished into the gloom, uneasily inspecting every inch of
the strange quarters. Nothing else passed within his range of vision;
nothing stepped around up-stairs; nothing rustled in the bedroom.
An hour droned past, and another crept on its way. The silent man’s
lids began to droop. His recently formed habit of going to bed early
was asserting itself. So were the drowsiness and languor induced
by the bygone heat. The steady chirp of the crickets, too, and the
dull darkness--they were floating him gradually away on an ebb of
consciousness. He shook himself awake, shifted his position, leaned
forward, away from the wall. With renewed alertness he probed the
gloom. Nothing was there.
Little by little another hour snailed along. Little by little the
watcher slumped farther forward. His gun remained steady across his
knees, his eyes stayed open; but his elbows were resting now on his
thighs, and his gaze was a somnolent squint, centered on nothing.
His body was half asleep, his mind more than half asleep; for it was
dreaming, seeing things gone by and places far away, and other things
much nearer--but not in this house: some things, indeed, which had not
yet come about and might never come. And still nothing occurred to
disturb his reverie.
Physical discomfort, not ghostly alarms, roused him again. The chair
was hard, his position was growing cramped, his muscles demanded better
comfort. Scanning the room again, he noted with surprise that he could
see much more plainly. The windows, too, were light, and through them
he could make out the darksome bulk of the trees. The Traps gulf was
wanly illumined by a late-rising moon.
Stiffly he arose to stretch himself. Something turned gleaming eyes at
him. It was Spit, very quiet now, crouched comfortably on the floor,
watching two doors--the open one into the bedroom and the closed one at
the foot of the stairs. Man and cat eyed each other a moment. Then the
man in turn looked toward a door--the entrance to his own room, beyond
which waited his blankets and easy couch of bough-tips.
After all, why not? He could sit against the wall there, rest his legs
and back, and still keep awake. Better take the cat in there, too; then
he wouldn’t start clawing up toward the bacon-shelf or making other
disturbance. Might as well be comfortable. As soon as he heard the
ha’nt begin to tramp around he could slip out and see whatever might
be seen. All right, he would do it.
By patient persistence, he inveigled the suspicious but curious Spit
into the rear room. Entering it himself, he had an afterthought: he
reached to the attic door, turned its knob, swung it open, leaving free
access for the stair-bumping spook. Then he went into his room and
almost closed the door, leaving it only a little ajar to obviate the
fumbling and noise of knob-turning when the time to leap out should
come. Making sure that Spit still was there, he relaxed against the
wall, gun ready beside him. And----
In less than twenty minutes all good intentions and cats and ha’nts
were obliterated from his mind by the velvety hand of Sleep.
What time it was when he awoke he never knew. But awake he did, to find
himself lurching upward, every nerve tense, his gun clutched in his
right hand.
The door was open wider now--open nearly a foot. In the room beyond lay
slanting moonlight.
Out there, something was struggling.
Something was making a low, ghastly, inhuman noise.