WAS THIS THE END OF MURKY?
When the still struggling Grandall was dragged inside by Murky and hurled
through the burning bedroom door into the flames beyond, the latter had
one resource left, though it is doubtful if he would have thought of that
but for one fact. In the brief struggle they had stumbled over another
suit-case than the one Grandall had heaved to the water's edge.
Murky recalled that when he had at first entered he had seen two bags. One
was the bag containing the money. Another, a trifle smaller, was the
one brought by Grandall containing articles for his personal use while
in the woods. In the fight Grandall had grabbed the smaller, whether
by mistake or not will never be known. But in such a death-and-life
struggle as went on, with Murky indisputably the best man, such a mistake
was likely, more than likely, to have been made by the despairing,
frightened thief then being overpowered by a more ferocious, desperate
rogue.
In less than a second Murky knew that there lay the treasure for which
he had run such a terrible risk, and also that his only competitor was
gone. Little would the fire leave of Grandall for after-recognition, when
the ruins were searched. The heat was unbearable; Murky's clothing was
already ablaze in spots. On the stand was a can of water, left by the now
dead man.
In a twinkling he poured it over himself, seized the suit-case already
scorched, and dashed for an open closet door. In this closet was a
displaced trap door. Murky knew that under this was the hallway leading
to the cellar stairs. In the cellar might be present safety--if he
could make it. The clubhouse had caught from the roof. Probably the cellar
was not yet reached. All this in less than no time, as he darted to the
closet, kicked aside the trap which Grandall had overlooked, and jumped
boldly down to the floor he had glimpsed beneath.
Murky was strong, tough, and such a leap was easily made. Already the
lower rear rooms were blazing, and he had barely time to rush through the
advancing flames to reach the stair door. Jerking it open, he stumbled
through, hurrying down into the obscurity below. It was not so dark as
usual, for the wide flare of the burning house above lighted up the cellar
dimly, also showing to Murky the gleam of a cellar window off to one side,
the last side to be encroached upon by the fire.
There were smoke and sparks outside, while sundry sparkles overhead told
him that the floors might shrivel into flames at any minute. In fact
crumbs of blazing embers already were filtering down. In the light thus
afforded, he saw some tow-bagging piled on one of the boxes that littered
the cellar floor. At the same time a jingling thud announced that some
of the coin had fallen from the scorched suit-case.
At once he seized the bagging, picked up the chamois-bag of coin and
wrapped it round the leather case, including the escaped coin. With a
rock from the crumbling wall he broke what remained of the window and
crawled through.
Fortunately for him he was on the opposite side from the balcony where
the amazed group on the raft and skiff were still watching, although they,
too, were on the point of quitting.
Which way should he go? The rain was beginning to fall though the woods
were still burning. But, close by, a small lagoon began. It was a part of
the water that separated the point on which the clubhouse was built,
making it an eligible site for the purposes of the Longknives when they
erected the house. It offered Murky a chance and he jumped at it as a
drowning man will dash for a straw. The water was shallow, yet deep enough
to keep off much of the heat as he waded along, crouching, half creeping,
his treasure now over his shoulder as he hurried to where the lagoon
widened towards the open lake.
Here he waited while the rain poured down drenchingly, gradually putting
out the fires that here had not the fierceness that had driven them in
from the westward. As soon as it was possible he stepped ashore, walking
as he thought towards the east and south. He was still trying to make
sure of his course and the rain was still coming down when he heard the
rattling of wagon wheels off to his right.
"Blame _me_!" he ejaculated. "What the--the--what can that be?"
Twilight was near, the air dim with falling rain, when a rough wagon,
drawn by two horses driven by one man whom he thought he knew, came in
sight. Before Murky could get out of view behind the sooty, smoking logs,
he himself was seen. Link Fraley had been urging his horses faster.
Before he could slow down the scowling face he had seen was gone, as Link
himself had told the others.
He felt sure that he knew that face, but being unacquainted with the
events at the clubhouse, already described, he was in too great haste to
reach the lake to stop and further investigate. So Link passed on while
Murky, now sure that he was headed wrongly, turned away.
In order to make greater haste he took the money, bills and all, from the
dilapidated bag, thrust it all inside the tow sack, and turning at last
to the course he had mistakenly thought he was following, he disappeared
within those slimy, sooty depths of the fire-ruined forest.
He plodded on, wondering at times if he was going right. Later in the
night it became cloudy and there were symptoms of more rain. Strange to
say, he did not reach any farms or houses or other signs of the railroad
which he felt sure must run in this direction. That is, if he had kept the
course previously laid out by himself.
As may be imagined, the going was not easy. The earth, at times strangely
swampy, grew more and more difficult to pursue. He wiped the sweat from
his head and neck more than once.
"Blame me!" he ejaculated. "Why don't I git somewhere? Looks like I've
travelled long enough and fur enough!"
When it began to rain again he was compelled to take off his one remaining
coat to wrap round the tow sack of money to keep it, at least, partially
dry.
"The bulk of this money is paper," he reflected. "Paper won't stand too
much wetting; not even gov'ment paper such as money is made of. Blame me!
Wish I had a rubber blanket!"
Crossing a log over a slough just before daylight, feeling his way
slowly, yet not daring to stop until he reached some sign of railroad
or clearing, or at least a house or barn, his foot slipped on a log
and down he went into a black pool of mud-encrusted water.
"Ugh--ow-w-w-wh!"
Would his feet _never_ strike bottom? Yes--at last. But the water was up
to his shoulders: the bag, coat and all was partly in the slime that
wrapped him coldly, icily about. Though the night was summery, the chill
of that involuntary bath was unpleasant. More than unpleasant; it was
exhausting, even terrifying. He tried to wade out, but the mire deepened.
He turned and tried to find the log again, but in the darkness all sense
of direction seemed to have left him.
At last, when even Murky's resolution was about to give way to despair,
his outstretched hand touched a limb. Convulsively he grasped it, both
arms going out in eager hope to grasp something tangible amid that inky,
nauseous blackness. As he did so a cry broke from him, for he felt the
bag slipping from his shoulder. He clutched it desperately.
"Oh! Ugh-h! My Gawd!" The cry broke into stranglings as his head went
under. A furious struggle then began, for Murky was not one to give up his
hold on life, or plunder, or anything valuable to him, without fighting.
Somehow he grasped at the unseen limb. It broke just as his weight began
to hang thereon. More splashings, strugglings. He found another limb, all
dead, sooty, yet wet from the now pouring rain.
This one seemed to hold. Inch by inch Murky drew one leg, then the other
from the sucking mud below, but as fast as one leg was released the
other stuck fast again. It was like working in a treadmill, only far
more perilous, fatiguing, and terrible. Would he ever get out--rescue
himself?
After all, love of life was more powerful than money or aught else.