CHAPTER XVI—A MAN BECOMES A BRUTE

During the days that Parsons had passed nursing his resentment,

Carrington had been busy. Despite the bruises that marked his face

(which, by the way, a clever barber had disguised until they were

hardly visible) Carrington appeared in public as though nothing had

happened.

The fight at the courthouse had aroused the big man to the point of

volcanic action. The lust for power that had seized him; the

implacable resolution to rule, to win, to have his own way in all

things; his passionate hatred of Taylor; his determination to destroy

anyone who got in his path—these were the forces that drove him.

Taylor had brought matters to a sudden and unexpected crisis.

Carrington had planned to begin his campaign differently, to insinuate

himself into the political life of Dawes; and he had gone to the

courthouse intending to keep in the background, but Taylor had forced

him into the open.

Therefore, Carrington had no choice, and he instantly accepted

Taylor’s challenge. After reentering the courthouse, following the

departure of Taylor, Carrington had insisted that Judge Littlefield

have Taylor taken into custody on a contempt of court charge.

Littlefield had flatly refused, and the resulting argument had been

what Neil Norton had overheard. But Littlefield had not yielded to

Carrington’s insistence.

“That would be ridiculous, after what has happened,” the judge

declared. “The whole country would be laughing at us. More, you can

see that public sentiment is with Taylor. And he forced me to publicly

admit that you were to blame. I simply won’t do it!”

“All right,” grinned Carrington, darkly; “I’ll find another way to get

him!”

And so for the instant Carrington dismissed Taylor from his thoughts,

devoting his attention to the task of organizing his forces for the

campaign he was to make against the town.

He held many conferences with Danforth and with three of five men who

had been elected to the new city council—that political body having

also been provided under the new charter. Three of the

members—Cartwright, Ellis, and Warden—were Danforth men, cogs of that

secret machine which for more than a year Danforth had been perfecting

at Carrington’s orders.

Some officials were appointed by Mayor Danforth—at Carrington’s

direction; a chief of police, a municipal judge, a town clerk, a

treasurer—and a host of other office-holders inevitable to a system of

government which permits the practice.

Carrington dominated every conference; he made it plain that he was to

rule Dawes—that Danforth and all the others were subject to his

orders.

Only one day was required to perfect Carrington’s organization, and on

Thursday evening, with everything running smoothly, Carrington

appeared in the palm-decorated foyer of the Castle, a smugly

complacent smile on his face. For he had won the first battle in the

war he was to wage. To be sure, he had been worsted in a physical

encounter with Taylor, as the bruises still on his face indicated, but

he intended to repay Taylor for that thrashing—and his lips went into

an ugly pout when his thoughts dwelt upon the man.

He had almost forgotten Parsons; he did not think of the other until

about eight o’clock in the evening, when, with Danforth in the barroom

of the Castle, Danforth mentioned his name. Then Carrington remembered

that he had not seen Parsons since he had throttled the man. He

ordered another drink, not permitting Danforth to see his eyes, which

were glowing with a flame that would have betrayed him.

“This is good-night,” he said to Danforth as he raised his glass.

“I’ve got to see Parsons tonight.”

Yet it was not Parsons who was uppermost in his mind when he left the

Castle, mounted on his horse; the face of Marion Harlan was in the

mental picture he drew as he rode toward the Huggins house, and there

ran in his brain a reckless thought—which had been uttered to Parsons

at the instant before his fingers had closed around the latter’s

throat a few days before:

“I was born a thousand years too late, Parsons! I am a robber baron

brought down to date—modernized. I believe that in me flows the blood

of a pirate, a savage, or an ancient king. I have all the instincts of

a tribal chief whose principles are to rule or ruin! I’ll have no law

out here but my own desires!”

And tonight Carrington’s desires were for the girl who had accompanied

him to Dawes; the girl who had stirred his passions as no woman had

ever stirred them, and who—now that he had seized the town’s

government—was to be as much his vassal as Parsons, Danforth—or any of

them. He grinned as he rode toward the Huggins house—a grin that grew

to a laugh as he rode up the drive toward the house; low, vibrant,

hideous with its threat of unrestrained passion.

The night had been too beautiful for Marion Harlan to remain indoors,

and so, after darkness had swathed the big valley back of the house,

she had slipped out, noting that her uncle had gone again to the chair

on the front porch. She had walked with Parsons along the butte above

the valley, but she wanted to be alone now, to view the beauties

without danger of interruption. Above all, she wanted to think.

For the news that Parsons had communicated to her had affected her

strangely; she felt that her uncle’s revelations of Carrington’s

character amounted to a vindication of her own secret opinion of the

man.

He had been a volcanic wooer, and she had distrusted him all along.

She had never permitted that distrust to appear on the surface,

however, out of respect for her uncle—for she had always thought he

and Carrington were firm friends. She saw now, though, that she had

always suspected Carrington of being just what her uncle’s revelation

had proved him to be—a ruthless, selfish, domineering brute of a man,

who would have no mercy upon any person who got in his way.

Reflecting upon his actions during the days she had known him in

Westwood—and upon his glances when sometimes she had caught him

looking at her, and at other times when his gaze—bold, and flaming

with naked passion—had been fixed upon her, she shuddered, comparing

him with Quinton Taylor, quiet, polite, and considerate.

Loyally, she hated Carrington now for the things he had done to

Parsons. She mentally vowed that the next time she saw Carrington she

would tell him exactly what she thought of him, regardless of the

effect her frank opinion might have on her uncle’s fortunes.

But still she had not come to the edge of the butte for the purpose of

devoting her entire thoughts to Carrington; there was another face

that obtruded insistently in the mental pictures she drew—Quinton

Taylor’s. And she found a grass knoll at the edge of the butte,

twisted around so that she could look over the edge of the butte and

into the big basin that slumbered somberly in the mysterious darkness,

staring intently until she discovered a pin-point of light gleaming

out of it. That light, she knew, came from one of the windows of the

Arrow ranchhouse, and she watched it long, wondering what Taylor would

be doing about now.

For she was keeping no secrets from herself tonight. She knew that she

liked Taylor better than she had ever liked any man of her

acquaintance.

At first she had told herself that her liking for the man had been

aroused merely because he had been good to her father. But she knew

now that she liked Taylor for himself. There was no mistaking the

nameless longing that had taken possession of her; the insistent and

yearning desire to be near him; the regret that had affected her when

she had left the Arrow at the end of her last visit. Taylor would

never know how near she had come to accepting his invitation to share

the Arrow with him. Had it not been for propriety—the same propriety

which had inseparably linked itself with all her actions—which she

must observe punctiliously despite the fact that girls of her

acquaintance had violated it openly without hurt or damage to their

reputations; had it not been that she must bend to its mandates,

because of the shadow that had always lurked near her, she would have

gone to live at the Arrow.

For she knew that she could have stayed at the Arrow without danger.

Taylor was a gentleman—she knew—and Taylor would never offend her in

the manner the world affected to dread—and suspect. But she could not

do the things other girls could do—that was why she had refused

Taylor’s invitation.

She had thought she had conquered her aversion for the big house—the

aversion that had been aroused because of the story Martha had told

her regarding its former inhabitants, but that aversion recurred to

her with disquieting insistence as she sat there on the edge of the

butte.

It seemed to her that the serpent of immorality which had dragged its

trail across hers so many times was never to leave her, and she found

herself wondering about the house and about Carrington and her uncle.

Carrington had bought the horse for her—Billy; and she had accepted it

after some consideration. But what if Carrington had bought the house?

That would mean—why, the people of Dawes, if they discovered it—if

Carrington had bought it—might place their own interpretation upon the

fact that she was living in it. And the interpretation of the people

of Dawes would be no more charitable than that of the people of

Westwood! They would think——

She got up quickly, her face pale, and started toward the house,

determined to ask her uncle.

Walking swiftly toward the front porch, where she had seen Parsons go,

she remembered that Parsons had told her he had arranged for the

house, but that might not mean that he had personally bought it.

She meant to find out, and if Carrington owned the house, she would

not stay in it another night—not even tonight.

She was walking fast when she reached the edge of the porch—almost

running; and when she got to the nearest corner, she saw that the

porch was quite vacant; Parsons must have gone in.

She stood for an instant at the porch-edge, a beam of silvery

moonlight streaming upon her through a break in the trees overhead,

convinced that Parsons had gone to bed; and convinced, likewise, that,

were she to disturb him now to ask the question that was in her mind,

he would laugh at her.

She decided she would wait until the morning, and she was about to

return to the edge of the butte, when she realized that it had grown

rather late. She had not noticed how quickly the time had fled.

She turned, intending to enter the house from one of the rear doors

through which she had emerged, when a sound reached her ears—the rapid

drumming of a horse’s hoofs. She wheeled, facing the direction from

which the sound came—and saw Carrington riding toward her, not more

than fifty feet distant.

He saw her at the instant her gaze rested on him—an instant before,

she surmised, for there was a huge grin on his face as she turned to

him.

He was at her side before she could obey a sudden impulse to run—for

she did not wish to talk to him tonight—and in another instant he had

dismounted and was standing close to her.

“All alone, eh?” he laughed. “And enjoying the moon? Do you know that

you made a ravishing picture, standing there with the light shining on

you? I saw you as you started to turn, and I shall remember the

picture all my life! You are more beautiful than ever, girl!”

Carrington was breathing fast. The girl thought he had been riding

hard. But, despite that explanation for the repressed excitement under

which he seemed to be laboring, the girl thought she detected the

presence of restrained passion in his eyes, and she shrank back a

little.

She had often seen passion in his eyes, identical with what glowed in

them now, but she had always felt a certain immunity, a masterfulness

over him that had permitted her to feel that she could repulse him at

will. Now, however, she felt a sudden, cringing dread of him. The

dread, no doubt, was provoked by her uncle’s revelation of the man’s

character; and, for the first time during her acquaintance with

Carrington, she felt a fear of him, and became aware of the

overpowering force and virility of the man.

Her voice was a little tremulous when she answered:

“I was looking for Uncle Elam. He must have gone in.”

His face was not very distinct to her, for he was standing in a shadow

cast by a near-by tree, and she could not see the bruises that marred

the flesh, but it seemed to her that his face had never seemed so

repulsive. And the significance of his grin made her gasp.

“That’s good. I’m glad he did go in; I did not come to see Parsons.”

She had meant to take him to task for what he had done to her uncle,

but there was something in his voice that made thoughts of defending

Parsons seem futile—a need gone in the necessity to conserve her voice

and strength for an imminent crisis.

For Carrington’s voice, thick and vibrant, smote her with a

presentiment of danger to herself. She looked sharply at him, saw that

his face was red and bloated with passion and, taking a backward step,

she said shortly:

“I must go in. I—I promised Martha——”

His voice interrupted her; she felt one of his hands on her arm, the

fingers gripping it tightly.

“No, you don’t,” he said, hoarsely; “I came here to have a talk with

you, and I mean to have it!”

“What do you mean?” she asked. She was rigid and erect, but she could

not keep the quaver out of her voice.

“Playing the innocent, eh?” he mocked, his voice dry and light.

“You’ve played innocent ever since I saw you the first time. It

doesn’t go anymore. You’re going to face the music.” He thrust his

face close to hers and the expression of his eyes thrilled her with

horror.

“What do you suppose I brought you here for?” he demanded. “I’ll tell

you. I bought the house for you. Parsons knows why—Dawes knows

why—everybody knows. You ought to know—you shall know.” He laughed,

sneeringly. “Westwood could tell you, or the woman who lived in the

Huggins house before you came. Martha could tell you—she lived here——”

He heard her draw her breath sharply and he mocked her, gloating:

“Ah, Martha has told you! Well, you’ve got to face the music, I tell

you! I’ve got things going my way here—the way I’ve wanted things to

go since I’ve been old enough to realize what life is. I’ve got the

governor, the mayor, the judges—everything—with me, and I’m going to

rule. I’m going to rule, my way! If you are sensible, you’ll have

things pretty easy; but if you’re going to try to balk me you’re going

to pay—plenty!”

She did not answer, standing rigid in his grasp, her face chalk-white.

He did not notice her pallor, nor how she stood, paralyzed with dread;

and he thought because of her silence that she was going to passively

submit. He thought victory was near, and he was going to be

magnanimous in his moment of triumph.

His grip on her arm relaxed and he leaned forward to whisper:

“That’s the girl. No fuss, no heroics. We’ll get along; we’ll——”

Her right hand struck his face—a full sweep of the arm behind

it—burning, stinging, sending him staggering back a little from its

very unexpectedness. And before he could make a move to recover his

equilibrium she had gone like a flash of light, as elusive as the

moonbeam in which she had stood when he had first come upon her.

He cursed gutturally and leaped forward, running with great leaps

toward the rear of the house, where he had seen her vanish. He reached

the door through which she had gone, finding it closed and locked

against him. Stepping back a little, he hurled himself against the

door, sending it crashing from its hinges, so that he tumbled headlong

into the room and sprawled upon the floor. He was up in an instant,

tossing the wreck of the door from him, breathing heavily, cursing

frightfully; for he had completely lost his senses and was in the grip

of an insane rage over the knowledge that she had tricked him.

Parsons heard the crash as the door went from its hinges. He got out

of bed in a tremor of fear and opened the door of his room, peering

into the big room that adjoined the dining-room. From the direction of

the kitchen he caught a thin shaft of light—from the kerosene-lamp

that Martha had placed on a table for Marion’s convenience. A big form

blotted out the light, casting a huge, gigantic shadow; and Parsons

saw the shadow on the ceiling of the room into which he looked.

Huge as the shadow was, Parsons had no difficulty in recognizing it as

belonging to Carrington; and with chattering teeth Parsons quickly

closed his door, locked it, and stood against it, his knees knocking

together.

Martha, too, had heard the crash. She bounded out of bed and ran to

the door of her room, swinging it wide, for instinct told her

something had happened to Marion. Her room was closer to the kitchen,

and she saw Carrington plainly, as he was rising from the débris. And

she was just in time to see Marion slipping through the doorway of her

own room. And by the time Carrington got to his feet, Martha had heard

Marion’s door click shut, heard the lock snap home.

Martha instantly closed the door of her own room, fastened it and ran

to another door that connected her room with Marion’s. She swung that

door open and looked into the girl’s room; heard the girl stifle a

shriek—for the girl thought Carrington was coming upon her from that

direction—and then Martha was at the girl’s side, whispering to

her—excitedly comforting her.

“The damn trash—houndin’ you this way! He ain’ goin’ to hurt you,

honey—not one bit!”

Outside the door they could hear Carrington walking about in the room.

There came to the ears of the two women the scratch of a match, and

then a steady glimmer of light streaked into the room from the bottom

of the door, and they knew Carrington had lighted a lamp. A little

later, while Martha stood, her arms around the girl, who leaned

against the negro woman, very white and still, they heard Carrington

talking with Parsons. They heard Parsons protesting, Carrington

cursing him.

“He ain’ goin’ to git you, honey,” whispered Martha. “That man come

heah the firs’ day, an’ I knowed he’s a rapscallion.” She pointed

upward, to where a trap-door, partly open, appeared in the ceiling of

the room.

“There’s the attic, honey. I’ll boost you, an’ you go up there an’

hide from that wild man. You got to, for that worfless Parsons am

tellin’ him which room you’s in. You hurry—you heah me!”

She helped the girl upward, and stood listening until the trap-door

grated shut. Then she turned and grinned at the door that led into the

big room adjoining the kitchen. Carrington was at it, his shoulder

against it; Martha could hear him cursing.

“Open up, here!” came Carrington’s voice through the door, muffled,

but resonant. “Open the door, damn you, or I’ll tear it down!”

“Tear away, white man!” giggled Martha softly. “They’s a big ’sprise

waitin’ you when you git in heah!”

For an instant following Carrington’s curses and demands there was a

silence. It was broken by a splintering crash, and the negro woman saw

the door split so that the light from the other room streaked through

it. But the door held, momentarily. Then Carrington again lunged

against it and it burst open, pieces of the lock flying across the

room.

This time Carrington did not fall with the door, but reeled through

the opening, erect, big, a vibrant, mirthless laugh on his lips.

The light from the other room streamed in past him, shining full upon

Martha, who stood, her hands on her hips, looking at the man.

Carrington was disconcerted by the presence of Martha when he had

expected to see Marion. He stepped back, cursing.

Martha giggled softly.

“What you doin’ in my room, man; just when I’se goin’ to retiah? You

git out o’ heah—quick! Yo’ heah me? Yo’ ain’t got no business bustin’

my door down!”

“Bah!” Carrington’s voice was malignant with baffled rage. With one

step he was at Martha’s side, his hands on her throat, his muscles

rigid and straining.

“Where’s Marion Harlan?” he demanded. “Tell me, you black devil, or

I’ll choke hell out of you!”

Martha was not frightened; she giggled mockingly.

“That girl bust in heah a minute ago; then she bust out ag’in, runnin’

fit to kill herself. I reckon by this time she’s done throw herself

off the butte—rather than have you git her!”

Carrington shoved Martha from him, so that she staggered and fell; and

with a bound he was through the door that led into Martha’s room.

The negro woman did not move. She sat on the floor, a malicious grin

on her face, listening to Carrington as he raged through the house.

Once, about five minutes after he left, Carrington returned and stuck

his head into the room. Martha still sat where Carrington had thrown

her. She did not care what Carrington did to the house, so long as he

was ignorant of the existence of the trap-door.

And Carrington did not notice the door. For an hour Martha heard him

raging around the house, opening and slamming doors and overturning

furniture. Once when she did not hear him for several minutes, she got

up and went to one of the windows. She saw him, out at the stable,

looking in at the horses.

Then he returned to the house, and Martha resumed her place on the

floor. Later, she heard Carrington enter the house again, and after

that she heard Parsons’ voice, raised in high-terrored protest. Then

there was another silence. Again Martha looked out of a window. This

time she saw Carrington on his horse, riding away.

But for half an hour Martha remained at the window. She feared

Carrington’s departure was a subterfuge, and she was not mistaken. For

a little later Carrington returned, riding swiftly. He slid from his

horse at a little distance from the house and ran toward it. Martha

was in the kitchen when he came in. He did not speak to her as he came

into the room, but passed her and again made a search of the house.

Passing Martha again he gave her a malevolent look, then halted at the

outside door.

The man’s wild rage seemed to have left him; he was calm—polite, even.

“Tell your mistress I am sorry for what has occurred. I am afraid I

was a bit excited. I shall not harm her; I won’t bother her again.”

He stepped through the doorway and, going again to a window and

drawing back the curtain slightly, Martha watched him.

Carrington went to the stable, entered, and emerged again presently,

leading two horses—Parsons’ horse and Billy. He led the animals to

where his own horse stood, climbed into the saddle and rode away, the

two horses following. At the edge of the wood he turned and looked

back. Then the darkness swallowed him.

For another half-hour Martha watched the Dawes trail from a window.

Then she drew a deep breath and went into Marion’s room, standing

under the trap-door.

“I reckon you kin come down now, honey—he’s gone.”

A little later, with Marion standing near her in the room, the light

from the kerosene-lamp streaming upon them through the shattered door,

Martha was speaking rapidly:

“He acted mighty suspicious, honey; an’ he’s up to some dog’s trick,

shuah as you’m alive. You got to git out of heah, honey—mighty quick!

‘Pears he thinks you is hid somewhares around heah, an’ he’s figgerin’

on makin’ you stay heah. An’ if you wants to git away, you’s got to

walk, for he’s took the hosses!” She shook her head, her eyes wide

with a reflection of the complete stupefaction that had descended upon

her. “Laws A’mighty, what a ragin’ devil that man is, honey! I’se seen

men _an’_ men—an’ I knowed a nigger once that was——”

But Martha paused, for Marion was paying no attention to her. The girl

was pulling some articles of wearing apparel from some drawers,

packing them hurriedly into a small handbag, and Martha sprang quickly

to help her, divining what the girl intended to do.

“That’s right, honey; doan you stay heah in this house another minit!

You git out as quick as you kin. You go right over to that Squint

man’s house an’ tell him to protect you. ’Cause you’s goin’ to need

protection, honey—an’ don’t you forgit it!”

The girl’s white face was an eloquent sign of her conception of the

danger that confronted her. But she spoke no word while packing her

handbag. When she was ready she turned to the door, to confront

Martha, who also carried a satchel. Together the two went out of the

house, crossed the level surrounding it, and began to descend the long

slope that led down into the mighty basin in which, some hours before,

the girl had seen the pin-point of light glimmering across the sea of

darkness toward her. And toward that light, as toward a beacon that

promised a haven from a storm, she went, Martha following.

From a window of the house a man watched them—Parsons—in the grip of a

paralyzing terror, his pallid face pressed tightly against the glass

of the window as he watched until he could see them no longer.