THREE SHOTS--AT LAST!
When Bill Blaze found Harry Winkle lying prone upon the ground, though
he looked in every direction with a rapid glance, yet he gave no sign
that the sight was unexpected, and when Winkle raised to his feet
and staggered off after muttering a couple broken sentences, instead
of attempting to stop him, or wasting time in questions, he rapidly
extracted from those sentences the very pith of their meaning, and as
rapidly decided how he should act.
That Edith Van Payne had gone forward and further on her headlong
journey he readily understood; and that no aid of his could avert the
danger of a catastrophe at the mouth of the cañon. Unless she succeeded
in checking the speed of Whirlwind, before he could succeed in reaching
her, her troubles would doubtless be over. That she had done this he
hoped, and almost believed. The words of Winkle, however, suggested a
new complication.
Charles Endicott was doubtless in the neighborhood, and had fired the
shot which he had heard. Having once made out this much he could easily
trace the course of events.
When Endicott fired he watched long enough to see Winkle go down,
and then dashed across toward the plateau upon which Crooked Cañon
debouched. If Edith was safe, she was probably in his hands. Judging
from the past he could easily guess what sort of a reception Winkle
would meet with if, in his present bewildered state, he came wandering
near.
All this Blaze took in by almost one sweep of thought and his
resolution was taken, as it were by instinct. He gave but a single
glance upward to confirm his opinion of the practicability of the
ascent, and then threw himself into the work he fancied he saw before
him. Up the steep and jagged side of the cañon he rushed, and then
forward directly over the jutting promontory around which Crooked
Cañon swept to its point of debouchure. With reckless carelessness he
crashed through the bushes and underbrush, intent only on reaching the
point for which he was aiming. When he had traversed half the distance
he came upon a man standing, leaning against a tree. This man was
Rothven. The instinct of the trapper befriended him, since it removed
the finger, so hastily thrown there, from a trigger that was seldom
pulled in vain. Eben's appearance was not aggressive. On the contrary
there was a listlessness about him that told rather of careless waiting
than anxious expectancy. Only he was looking in the direction in which
the trapper was going. When Endicott had passed him he had somehow
comprehended not only what had happened but also what might occur; and
preferred not to come on the carpet prematurely. In fact, he cared
little to appear at all. The glimpse of Blaze, whom he really did not
notice until that worthy had passed him, rather startled him. From his
appearance he judged it was one of Martin's men. Then, a feeling of
curiosity obtained the mastery over him, and he followed on to see what
was in that strange race. He had not taken many paces when he heard the
voice of Endicott: "Ho, there, Eben!" and he came in sight of Blaze
just as a wild and piercing scream, uttered by a woman's voice, rung in
his ears.
He saw Blaze stop suddenly and peer through a rift in the foliage.
What the trapper saw must have been exciting, since his eyes dilated,
his whole form quivered. That was just for a second; in a second more
he stood like a statue, his left foot forward, his left arm extended,
his right arm up, his finger on the trigger of the rifle that covered
Charles Endicott's heart.
* * * * *
Edith Van Payne had obtained such a place in her uncle's heart that
Martin sometimes fancied he must have a dual nature. He forgot that
having lapsed from civilization to barbarism, from the circles of
refinement to the uncouthness of ultra-frontier life, and having so
fully settled to that position as to feel as though 'to the manor
born,' that nevertheless, chameleon-like, change of diet might bring
him back to some semblance of his old color. He had been going his
way while Edith went hers, and the affinity between the two seemed
to be but slight. Once or twice he had looked at her queerly, and
thought that, perchance, there was a spice of poetical nonsense, of
unadulterated and unselfish feeling, yet lingering around him. As often
he had cast the thought aside after a moment's revolution. Now, for a
day or two, he had had an opportunity to gauge himself, and found that
this wilful, wild-eyed niece of his had become, during the gradual
developing months of their acquaintance, more dear to him than he could
ever have imagined--even away back in younger days that floated by over
quieter waters. And, mixed with all this, was the wild, hard pride that
close behind him he brought strength and skill and sagacity in no mean
force; called out in a moment's warning to follow, to aid, to rescue.
He wondered if Edith believed that he was on the trail; he queried if
she knew how stout arms grasping trusting weapons were ready to strike
in for her at the first opportunity. Somehow, he never doubted of her
present safety from any serious harm, or despaired of her ultimate
rescue. Strongly self-reliant, he had seen success too often follow his
undertakings, to feel faint at heart now.
Two things troubled him immensely. That he should have been deceived
at the outset of the pursuit by Indian strategy, and the defection of
Endicott and his men. He accounted at first thought for the latter, by
the supposition that Endicott's men had seen through the stratagem,
and keeping the knowledge to themselves, the party had flown off at a
tangent, leaving him, Martin, to follow the false trail. When they met
again, if meet they should, he would have a small account to settle
with Mr. Charles Endicott.
That meeting was destined to take place rather sooner than he
anticipated. By chance he struck the trail made by five men, and, on
consultation, was satisfied that it was made by the deserters. He
questioned, then, within himself, whether Endicott was not in league
with the Indians. Such alliances had been formed before then; and he
knew that, if it should be practicable, Endicott would stop at nothing
to carry out his end. However that might be, he believed that if he
followed that trail, he would most likely come upon traces of Edith.
And so, believing this, he desisted from his intention of pushing on to
the further end of Straight Cañon, and turned off to one side. After a
time, he came to where they had halted the previous night. Here the
party had divided, three men going to the north, while the remaining
two had turned aside, westward.
Again he followed Endicott, though he sent out a detachment of trusty
men in the wake of Lariat Dan. He rode on quietly; he halted suddenly.
He saw a sight that brought him from his horse in an instant--Edith
Van Payne was struggling in the arms of Charles Endicott. He saw her
throw the man off and rush forward; as she leaped over the brink of the
precipice, his rifle lay ready for the base of Endicott's brain, and,
as her shrill scream echoed and reëchoed through gulch and cañon, his
finger tightened on the trigger.
* * * * *
Pompey came slowly back from an unsuccessful search for traces of
Edith. Without being seen he had reconnoitered Endicott's camp, and
satisfied himself that she was not there. As far as the simple question
of Edith Van Payne's rescue, unattached to any other idea, went, it is
likely that, he felt very little interest. But he had an interest in
whatever concerned his employer and friend, Harry Winkle, and so could
bring a second-handed enthusiasm to the pursuit. While he was watching
Endicott's camp, he saw Lariat Dan leave it in company with Grizzly
Dan and Mike Motler. He recognized all three of those worthies, and at
one time had a half-formed notion of revealing himself to them, and
attempting to sound them in search of information. When he saw that
they turned their faces northward, and started as if on a quest, he
altered his mind. Understanding that they were in the employ of the
deadly enemy of Harry Winkle, he did not think it advisable to let
his presence be known, unless to secure some positive advantage; and
he could see none at this present. So he remained concealed among the
cedars on the _butte_, and let the three go their way. Perhaps an hour
later, as he was listlessly returning to find Winkle, the bushes on his
left parted, and a man stepped out, and ranged up by his side. A glance
told him it was Mike Motler, whom he supposed miles away.
Motler was a quiet, almost surly sort of man, who went his own way and
carried his own pelts. His employer, when he had one, seldom heard
him speak; but he generally did as he was ordered without useless
questions. Therefore he was a valuable man. Sometimes, though, he
had an opinion of his own, and acted on it. Wherein he was slightly
unreliable. As he pulled trigger quick, and always shot plum-center, he
was an unpleasant man to have a difficulty with.
This Motler nodded to Pompey, as though they were going into camp
together after a separation of only a couple of hours instead of as
many years. Pompey understanding him pretty well, did the same, and
casually remarked:
"Whar's Dan?"
"Lookin' fer tame rabbits in a coyote's hole. A-bu'stin' himself to
find what ain't thar."
"Whar then?"
"Dunno. Mabbe in heaven. He'd better stay thar. Somethin' rotten on
the board an' I've bunched my hand. I kin pass the brick an' lose my
ante; durned ef I want to see his blind."
Motler made this speech in detachments, and with a preoccupied air.
Pompey listened and walked on. Motler suddenly startled him by the
query:
"Whar yer goin'?"
"Nowhar much--camp I guess."
"Ef yer want to gamble, put yer money on a funeral. I feel it in my
bones."
"Whose funeral am dat den? I hain't heerd o' no corpse."
"Never you mind. Ther corpus 'll be laid out by the time mourners hes
arrove."
The African was not cowardly, but he certainly was a little
superstitious. The moody tone of Motler sounded almost prophetic,
and he wondered whether it could possibly be his own funeral that
was meant. He had seen men rubbed out in unexpected ways and at
short notice. He revolved this, in his mind, a few moments, and
even questioned whether it would not be best to turn aside and let
his unsought companion attend the obsequies by himself. Perhaps he
might have done so had the meeting occurred a little sooner; but the
catastrophe came quicker than he expected.
First he heard sounds beyond the intervening vail of foliage, and
obtained a confused impression that there was that transpiring which
needed his attention. Personal fears were flung to the winds, as Mike
Motler, quickening his gait, whispered:
"Didn't I tell yer! Wait an' ye'll hear the bell a-ringin. I'm a-holden
the rope now."
An ominous peal that bell would give when its rope was pulled! Motler
was holding in his hands a twelve-pound rifle!
What occurred after the wall of branches, that finally intervened, was
parted, Pompey could never fully comprehend. At least he remembered the
shout of a man, a confused struggle, the screams of a woman; then the
death-bell at his side tolled once.
* * * * *
Love and fear combined with hate to lend wings to Harry Winkle.
His brain cleared and clouded again; but, with the clearing came
strength; that remained. He flew down the cañon with a speed that was
prodigious. Yet Edith had had a start that would have rendered his
efforts unavailing if she had gone straight and unchecked forward. The
thought that such would be the case, combining with the burning hate
which Endicott's late attempt on his life had aroused, brought back the
confusion, and he passed over a few hundred yards of ground without
sight or hearing. A regiment of soldiers, a tribe of Indians, might
have passed him unheeded. When he came around the last crook in Crooked
Cañon, and the straight vista which led to the sheer precipice opened
up before him, he came back to life, real and earnest, again. He took
in the picture before him--the woman he loved struggling in the arms
of the man he hated. He would have shot Endicott on the spot could he
have done so without danger to Edith; he brought his rifle to a ready.
While he looked, running as he looked, she broke away from the man,
gave a great bound, and he heard her despairing cry echoed by the ring
of firearms. He did not stop, though, to see who had fired, at whom, or
with what effect. When two great master-passions clash, one of them is,
for the time at least, ground to the wall. When love and hate became
antagonistic in his breast, hate was swept aside like a feather in the
wind.
To the right ran the narrow, winding, rugged path by which Blaze had
led him up into Crooked Cañon. Down this he darted with his teeth
clenched, and his hands, now unincumbered by the useless rifle he had
cast aside, extended. He did not even give a cry or utter a moan,
but there was a fear of a horror in his eye that seemed wilder than
any half-crazed light that had ever shone there in the time of his
previous agonies. To the right and left of him the jagged rocks heaved
up in great billows, horribly suggestive. He wished himself back in
the roaring surf of the previous years. When, half-way down, he came
to a ledge that led away and around toward the precipice, visible and
accessible by a crevice in the side of the gulch he was descending, he
could bear the suspense no more. No need to pause and think if its path
was dangerous when once there had taken possession of him the thought
that by following it he could sooner catch sight of Edith Van Payne or
her mortal remains. Through, out, along, all quiveringly expectant, and
ears open for a cry or a groan, sped Winkle.
And so, after the weary, maddening years of separation, alone,
suspended, as it were, between earth and heaven, on a narrow footing
that seemed all too precarious for life and living mortals, met at the
last Harry Winkle and Edith Van Payne!
When from Charles Endicott's arms Edith had rushed to a leap she feared
as fatal, there came to her the stupor of falling scarce broken by
the crash through the top of the kindly intervening cedar. Bruised
and hard shaken, she lay coiled up at the foot of the tree, ready,
at a half-conscious movement, to fall still further, even to eternal
nothingness, when there crawled toward her a man, through what perils
he was passing, or how he was avoiding them he knew not. He only knew
that his soul's other half was hanging over certain death, with no
other eye than his to see her danger, and no other arm than his to
rescue her.
At last! From off the knee of the cedar he drew her, up onto the wider
footing of the yet-narrow ledge. Kneeling, with his back against the
wall of solid rock, he held in his arms his own long-lost darling! Away
above him Martin, Blaze and the others stood, at the brink, peering
downward. He heard their shouts like the remembrance of a noise in
a dream. The sound of a gentle sigh escaping from her lips drowned
all other voices. He clutched her closer, looked at her wan, white
cheeks, and, as her wild eyes opened, covered her mouth with kisses.
He thought, too, that her lips moved to meet his. For a moment or two
longer she lay in his arms cold, nerveless, colorless, almost lifeless.
Yet she was the woman he loved!
Consciousness began slowly to return. She hid her face on his breast
at its first dawning and slowly gathered strength. When at last she
heard the loud beating of his heart she looked up, for the first time
forgetting the danger from which she had fled, and the danger from
which she had been saved. She saw a face, firm-set, yet beaming,
resolution yet happiness penciled thereon. With a scream she made an
almost fatal attempt to throw herself from his embrace.
The steel-set arm wound itself tighter around her waist, with steady
strength drawing her again closely to its owner's breast.
"Harry! You here! Let me go! Let me go to death; but let me go!"
"Not so, my darling. Here, on my breast you rest. Fate's last bolt has
been shot, and I laugh now at the empty quiver. Mine you are, now and
forever."
"Never, never! Let me go! I say again--I have said and sworn!"
"And so have I--listen while I swear again."
His face grew darker, his brow wrinkled ominously, while a hard red
light shone in his eyes.
"I have sworn that nothing should come between us--nothing, be it
mortal or immortal--honor or dishonor--death or perdition. And now I
swear--here on the brink of death, where a false step or unguarded
movement is utter ruin--that if follies and fancies are to sunder us
again, if there is no hope for us together here, then the only thing
left is a sudden death for both. You know me well, you ought to believe
me completely: now I swear that you stain my soul with a double murder.
Mine in life rather, else before another hundred beats of the heart
that loves you--you know how wildly--these arms unclasp; but beyond
the shadow. Together we henceforth live, or here we two together die!
Choose!"
There was a yearning look of a hungry soul in his eyes. He quivered
and grew white with suppressed love and horror; but his voice did not
falter, and the red heat of a desperate resolve was round him. As he
spoke he raised himself to a standing position, and, holding the woman
more closely than ever, braced himself for a deadly spring.
She then for a moment was silent; her white face grew whiter; her teeth
were set hard and words of violence came surging up to her tongue's
end. She strove to utter them; but the whiter, firmer set, more
desperate face and the great, struggling soul before her drove them
back. There was war in the woman, and the man watching that wild face
thought she would die before him.
Then the stronger will conquered; the haggard and strong look broke up;
a gleam of submission and unutterable love rolled across her face. She
dropped her cheek back upon his shoulder, till her lips almost touched
his ear, her arms twined about his neck, and she whispered:
"Harry, my poor darling, we will live for each other!"
THE END
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