MOTHER BORTON
The noise of the struggle below continued. Yells and curses rose from
the maddened men. Three shots were fired in quick succession, and a cry
of “Oh, my Lord!” penetrated through the closed door with the sound of
one sorely hurt.
I lingered for a little, listening to the tumult. I was in a strange and
dangerous position. Enemies were behind me. There were friends, too, but
I knew no way to tell one from the other, and my ignorance had nearly
brought me to my death. I hesitated to move, but I could not remain in
the open hall; and as the sounds of disturbance from below subsided, I
felt my way along the wall and moved cautiously forward.
I had progressed perhaps twenty steps when a door, against which my hand
pressed, yielded at the touch and swung slowly open. I strove to stop
it, for the first opening showed a dim light within. But the panel gave
no hold for my fingers, and my efforts to close the door only swung it
open the faster. I drew back a little into the shadow, for I hesitated
to dash past the sight of any who might occupy the room.
“Come in!” called a harsh voice.
I hesitated. Behind, the road led to the eating-room with its known
dangers. A dash along the hall for the front door meant the raising of
an alarm, and probably a bullet as a discourager of burglary. Should I
escape this, I could be certain of a warm reception from the enemies on
watch outside. Prudence lay in facing the one rather than risking the
many. I accepted the invitation and walked into the room.
“I was expecting you,” said the harsh voice composedly. “Good evening.”
“Good evening,” I returned gravely, swallowing my amazement as best I
could.
By the table before me sat Mother Borton, contemplating me as calmly
as though this meeting were the most commonplace thing in the world. A
candle furnished a dim, flickering light that gave to her hard wicked
countenance a diabolic leer that struck a chill to my blood.
“Excuse me,” I said, “I have lost my way, I fear.”
“Not at all,” said Mother Borton. “You are in the right place.”
“I was afraid I had intruded,” I said apologetically.
“I expected you,” she repeated. “Shut the door.”
I glanced about the room. There was no sign of another person to be
seen, and no other door. I obeyed her.
“You might as well sit down,” she said with some petulance. “There's
nothing up here to hurt you.” There was so much meaning in her tone of
the things that would hurt me on the floor below that I hastened to show
my confidence in her, and drew up a chair to the table.
“At your service,” I said, leaning before her with as much an appearance
of jaunty self-possession as I could muster.
“Who are you, and what are you doing here?” she asked grimly.
What should I answer? Could I tell her the truth? “Who are you?” she
repeated impatiently, gazing on me. “You are not Wilton. Tell me. Who
are you?”
The face, hard as it was, seamed with the record of a rough and evil
life, as it appeared, had yet a kindly look as it was turned on me.
“My name is Dudley,--Giles Dudley.”
“Where is Wilton?”
“Dead.”
“Dead? Did you kill him?” The half-kindly look disappeared from her
eyes, and the hard lines settled into an expression of malevolent
repulsiveness.
“He was my best friend,” I said sadly; and then I described the leading
events of the tragedy I had witnessed.
The old woman listened closely, and with hardly the movement of a
muscle, to the tale I told.
“And you think he left his job to you?” she said with a sneer.
“I have taken it up as well as I can. To be frank with you, Mrs. Borton,
I know nothing about his job. I'm going along on blind chance, and
trying to keep a whole skin.”
The old woman looked at me in amazement.
“Poor boy!” she exclaimed half-pityingly, half-admiringly. “You put your
hands to a job you know nothing about, when Henry Wilton couldn't carry
it with all his wits about him.”
“I didn't do it,” said I sullenly. “It has done itself. Everybody
insists that I'm Wilton. If I'm to have my throat slit for him I
might as well try to do his work. I wish to Heaven I knew what it was,
though.”
Mother Borton leaned her head on her hand, and gazed on me thoughtfully
for a full minute.
“Young man,” said she impressively, “take my advice. There's a train for
the East in the mornin'. Just git on board, and never you stop short of
Chicago.”
“I'm not running away,” said I bitterly. “I've got a score to settle
with the man who killed Henry Wilton. When that score is settled, I'll
go to Chicago or anywhere else. Until that's done, I stay where I can
settle it.”
Mother Borton caught up the candle and moved it back and forth before my
face. In her eyes there was a gleam of savage pleasure.
“By God, he's in earnest!” she said to herself, with a strange laugh.
“Tell me again of the man you saw in the alley.”
I described Doddridge Knapp.
“And you are going to get even with _him_?” she said with a chuckle that
had no mirth in it.
“Yes,” said I shortly.
“Why, if you should touch him the people of the city would tear you to
pieces.”
“I shall not touch him. I'm no assassin!” I exclaimed indignantly. “The
law shall take him, and I'll see him hanged as high as Haman.”
Mother Borton gave a low gurgling laugh.
“The law! oh, my liver,--the law! How young you are, my boy! Oh, ho,
oh ho!” And again she absorbed her mirthless laugh, and gave me an evil
grin. Then she became grave again, and laid a claw on my sleeve. “Take
my advice now, and git on the train.”
“Not I!” I returned stoutly.
“I'm doing it for your own good,” she said, with as near an approach to
a coaxing tone as she could command. It was long since she had used her
voice for such a purpose and it grated. “For my sake I'd like to see you
go on and wipe out the whole raft of 'em. But I know what'll happen to
ye, honey. I've took a fancy to ye. I don't know why. But there's a look
on your face that carries me back for forty years, and--don't try it,
dearie.”
There were actually tears in the creature's eyes, and her hard, wicked
face softened, and became almost tender and womanly.
“I can't give up,” I said. “The work is put on me. But can't you help
me? I believe you want to. I trust you. Tell me what to do--where I
stand. I'm all in the dark, but I must do my work.” It was the best
appeal I could have made.
“You're right,” she said. “I'm an old fool, and you've got the real
sand. You're the first one except Henry Wilton that's trusted me in
forty years, and you won't be sorry for it, my boy. You owe me one, now.
Where would you have been to-night if I hadn't had the light doused on
ye?”
“Oh, that was your doing, was it? I thought my time had come.”
“Oh, I was sure you'd know what to do. It was your best chance.”
“Then will you help me, now?” The old crone considered, and her face
grew sharp and cunning in its look.
“What can I do?”
“Tell me, in God's name, where I stand. What is this dreadful mystery?
Who is this boy? Why is he hidden, and why do these people want to know
where he is? Who is behind me, and who threatens me with death?”
I burst out with these questions passionately, almost frantically. This
was the first time I had had chance to demand them of another human
being.
Mother Borton gave me a leer.
“I wish I could tell you, my dear, but I don't know.”
“You mean you dare not tell me,” I said boldly. “You have done me a
great service, but if I am to save myself from the dangers that surround
me I must know more. Can't you see that?”
“Yes,” she nodded. “You're in a hard row of stumps, young man.”
“And you can help me.”
“Well, I will,” she said, suddenly softening again. “I took a shine
to you when you came in, an' I says to myself, 'I'll save that young
fellow,' an' I done it. And I'll do more. Mr. Wilton was a fine
gentleman, an' I'd do something, if I could, to git even with those
murderin' gutter-pickers that laid him out on a slab.”
She hesitated, and looked around at the shadows thrown by the flickering
candle.
“Well?” I said impatiently. “Who is the boy, and where is he?”
“Never you mind that, young fellow. Let me tell you what I know. Then
maybe we'll have time to go into the things I don't know.”
It was of no use to urge her. I bowed my assent to her terms.
“I'll name no names,” she said. “My throat can be cut as quick as yours,
and maybe a damned sight quicker.”
Mother Borton had among her failings a weakness for profanity. I have
omitted most of her references to sacred and other subjects of the kind
in transcribing her remarks.
“The ones that has the boy means all right. They're rich. The ones as is
looking for the boy is all wrong. They'll be rich if they gits him.”
“How?”
“Why, I don't know,” said Mother Borton. “I'm tellin' you what Henry
Wilton told me.”
This was maddening. I began to suspect that she knew nothing after all.
“Do you know where he is?” I asked, taking the questioning into my own
hands.
“No,”--sullenly.
“Who is protecting him?”
“I don't know.”
“Who is trying to get him?”
“It's that snake-eyed Tom Terrill that's leading the hunt, along with
Darby Meeker; but they ain't doing it for themselves.”
“Is Doddridge Knapp behind them?”
The old woman looked at me suddenly in wild-eyed alarm.
“S-s-h!” she whispered. “Don't name no names.”
“But I saw--”
She put her hand over my mouth.
“He's in it somewhere, or the devil is, but I don't know where. He's an
awful man. He's everywhere at once. He's--oh Lord! What was that?”
I had become infected with her nervousness, and at a cracking or
creaking sound turned around with half an expectation of seeing
Doddridge Knapp himself coming in the door.
There was no one there--nothing to be seen but the flickering shadows,
and no sound broke the stillness as we listened.
“It's nothing,” I said.
“I reckon I ain't got no call to be scared at any crackings in this old
house,” said Mother Borton with a nervous giggle. “I've hearn 'em long
enough. But that man's name gives me the shivers.”
“What did he ever do to you?” I asked with some curiosity.
“He never did nothing,” she said, “but I hearn tell dreadful things
that's gone on of nights,--how Doddridge Knapp or his ghost was seen
killing a Chinaman over at North Beach, while Doddridge Knapp or his
ghost,--whichever was the other one,--was speaking at a meeting, at the
Pavilion. And I hearn of his drinkin' blood--”
“Nonsense!” said I; “where did you get such stories?”
“Well, they're told me for true, and by ones I believe,” she said
stoutly. “Oh, there's queer things goes on. Doddridge Knapp or the
devil, it's all one. But it's ill saying things of them that can be
in two places at once.” And the old dame looked nervously about her.
“They've hushed things up in the papers, and fixed the police, but
people have tongues.”
I wondered what mystification had given rise to these absurd reports,
but there was nothing to be gained by pursuing them. The killing of the
Chinaman might have been something to my hand, but if Doddridge Knapp
had such a perfect alibi it was a waste of time to look into it.
“And is this all you know?” I asked in disappointment.
Mother Borton tried to remember some other point.
“I don't see how it's going to keep a knife from between my ribs,” I
complained.
“You keep out of the way of Tom Terrill and his hounds, and you'll be
all right, I reckon.”
“Am I supposed to be the head man in this business?”
“Yes.”
“Who are my men?”
“There's Wilson and Fitzhugh and Porter and Brown,” and she named ten or
a dozen more.
“And what is Dicky?”
“It's a smart man as can put his finger on Dicky Nahl,” said Mother
Borton spitefully.
“Nahl is his name?”
“Yes. And I've seen him hobnob with Henry Wilton, and I've seen him
thick as thieves with Tom Terrill, and which he's thickest with the
devil himself couldn't tell. I call him Slippery Dicky.”
“Why did he bring me here to-night?”
“I hearn there's orders come to change the place--the boy's place, you
know. You was to tell 'em where the new one was to be, I reckon, but Tom
Terrill spoiled things. He's lightning, is Tom Terrill. But I guess he
got it all out of Dicky, though where Dicky got it the Lord only knows.”
This was all that was to be had from Mother Borton. Either she knew
no more, or she was sharp enough to hide a knowledge that might be
dangerous, even fatal, to reveal. She was willing to serve me, and I was
forced to let it pass that she knew no more.
“Well, I'd better be going then,” said I at last. “It's nearly four
o'clock, and everything seems to be quiet hereabouts. I'll find my way
to my room.”
“You'll do no such thing,” said Mother Borton. “They've not given up the
chase yet. Your men have gone home, I reckon, but I'll bet the saloon
that you'd have a surprise before you got to the corner.”
“Not a pleasant prospect,” said I grimly.
“No. You must stay here. The room next to this one is just the thing for
you. See?”
She drew me into the adjoining room, shading the candle as we passed
through the hall that no gleam might fall where it would attract
attention.
“You'll be safe here,” she said. “Now do as I say. Go to sleep and git
some rest. You ain't had much, I guess, since you got to San Francisco.”
The room was cheerless, but in the circumstances the advice appeared
good. I was probably safer here than in the street, and I needed the
rest.
“Good night,” said my strange protectress, “You needn't git up till you
git ready. This is a beautiful room--beautiful. I call it our bridal
chamber, though we don't get no brides down here. There won't be no
sun to bother your eyes in the mornin', for that window don't open up
outside. So there, can't nobody git in unless he comes from inside the
house. There, git to bed. Look out you don't set fire to nothing. And
put out the candle. Now good night, dearie.”
Mother Borton closed the door behind her, and left me to the shadows.
Her departure did not leave me wholly at my ease. I had escaped from my
foes, but I was no closer to being in touch with those who would be my
friends; and before daylight I might be lying here with my throat slit.
At the reflection I hastily bolted the door, and tried the fastenings
of the window. All seemed secure, but the sound of a footstep in the
passageway gave me a start for an instant.
“Only Mother Borton going down stairs,” I thought, with a smile at my
fears.
There was nothing to be gained by sitting up, and the candle was past
its final inch. I felt that I could not sleep, but I would lie down on
the bed and rest my tired limbs, that I might refresh myself for the
demands of the day. I kicked off my boots, put my revolver under my
hand, and lay down.
Heedless of Mother Borton's warning I left the candle to burn to the
socket, and watched the flickering shadows chase each other over walls
and ceiling. The shadows grew larger and blacker, and took fantastic
shapes of men and beasts. And then with a confused impression of deadly
fear and of an effort to escape from peril, a blacker shadow swallowed
up all that had gone before, and carried me with it.