CHAPTER XVIII—THE BEAST AGAIN

Carrington was conscious of the error his unrestrained passion had

driven him to committing. Yet he had not been sincere when he had

declared to Martha that he wouldn’t bother the girl again. For after

leading the two horses to Dawes and arranging for their care, he

hunted up Danforth. It was nearly midnight when Danforth reached

Carrington’s rooms in the Castle, and Carrington was in a sullen mood.

“I want two or three men who will do what they are told and keep their

mouths shut,” he told Danforth. “Get them—quick—and send them to the

Huggins house—mine, now—and have them stay there. Nobody is to leave

the house—not even to come to town. Understand? Not even Parsons.

Hustle! There is no train out of here tonight? No? Well, that’s all

right. Get going!”

Danforth had noticed Carrington’s sullenness, and the strained

excitement of his manner, and there was in Danforth’s mind an

inclination to warn Carrington about including the woman in the scheme

to subjugate Dawes—for he knew Carrington of old; but a certain light

in the big man’s eyes warned Danforth and he shut his half-opened lips

and departed on his errand.

In an hour he returned, telling Carrington that his orders had been

obeyed.

Danforth seated himself in a chair near one of the front windows and

waited, for he knew Carrington still had something to say to him—the

man’s eyes told him, for they were alight with a cold, speculative

gleam as they rested on Danforth.

At last, after a silence that lasted long, Carrington said, shortly:

“What do you know about Taylor?”

“What I told you before—the first day. And that isn’t much.”

“I had a talk with Parsons the other day—about Larry Harlan,” said

Carrington. “It seems that Larry Harlan worked for Taylor—for two or

three years. I didn’t question Parsons closely about the connection

between Taylor and Harlan, but it seems to me that Parsons mentioned a

mine. What about it? Do you know anything about it?”

Danforth related what he knew regarding the incident of the mine—the

story told by Taylor when he returned after Larry Harlan’s death—and

Carrington’s eyes gleamed with interest.

“Do you think he told a straight story?” he asked.

He watched Danforth intently.

“Hell, yes!” declared the other. “He’s too square to lie!”

Five minutes later Carrington said good-night to Danforth. But

Carrington did not immediately go to bed; he sat for a long time in a

chair near the window looking out at the buildings of Dawes.

In the courtroom early the next morning he leaned over Judge

Littlefield’s desk, smiling.

“Did you ever hear of Quinton Taylor being connected with a mining

venture?”

“Well, rather.”

“Where?”

“At Nogel—in the Sangre de Christo Mountains.”

“How far is that?”

“About ten miles—due west.”

“What do you know about the mine?”

“Very little. Taylor and a man named Lawrence Harlan registered the

claim here. I heard that Harlan died—was killed in an accident. Soon

afterward, Taylor sold the mine—to a man named Thornton—for a

consideration, not mentioned.” The judge looked sharply at Carrington.

“Why this inquiry?” he asked; “do you think there is anything wrong

about the transaction?”

“There is no determining that until an investigation is made.”

Carrington laughed as he left the judge.

Later he got on his horse and rode to the big house. On the front

porch, seated in a chair, smoking, he saw one of the men Danforth had

sent in obedience to his order; at the rear of the house was another;

and, lounging carelessly on the grass near the edge of the butte

fringing the big valley, he saw still another—men who seemed to find

their work agreeable, for they grinned at Carrington when he rode up.

Carrington dismounted and entered the house—by one of the rear

doors—which he had wrecked the night before. He went in boldly,

grinning, for he anticipated that by this time Marion Harlan would

have reached that stage of intimidation where she would no longer

resist him.

At first he was only mildly disturbed at the appearance of the

interior; for nothing had been done to bring order out of the chaos he

had created the night before, and the condition of the furniture, and

the atmosphere of gloomy emptiness that greeted him indicated nothing.

The terror under which the girl had labored during the night might

still be gripping her.

He had no suspicion that the girl had left the house until after he

had looked into all the rooms but the one occupied by Parsons. Then a

conviction that she _had_ fled seized him; he scowled and leaped to

the door of Parsons’ room, pounding heavily upon it.

Parsons did not answer his knock, and an instant later, when

Carrington forced the door and stepped into the room, he saw Parsons

standing near a window, pallid and shaking.

With a bound Carrington reached Parsons’ side and gripped the man by

the collar of his coat.

“Where’s Miss Harlan?” he demanded. He noted that Parsons swayed in

his grasp, and he peered at the other with a malignant joy. He had

always hated Parsons, tolerating him because of Parsons’ money.

“She’s gone,” whispered Parsons tremulously. “I—I tried to stop her,

knowing you wouldn’t want it, but—she went away—anyway.”

“Where?” Carrington’s fingers were gripping Parsons’ shoulder near the

throat with a bitter, viselike strength that made the man cringe and

groan from the pain of it.

“Don’t, Jim; for God’s sake, don’t! You’re hurting me! I—I couldn’t

help it; I couldn’t stop her!”

The abject, terrified appeal in his eyes; the fawning, doglike

subjection of his manner, enraged Carrington. He shook the little man

with a force that racked the other from head to heel.

“Where did she go—damn you!”

“To the Arrow.”

Aroused to desperation by the flaming fury that blazed in Carrington’s

eyes, Parsons tried to wrench himself free, tugging desperately, and

whining: “Don’t, Jim!” For he knew that he was to be punished for his

dereliction.

He shrieked when Carrington struck him; a sound which died in his

throat as the blow landed. Carrington left him lie where he fell, and

went out to the men, interrogating the one he had seen on the front

porch.

From that person he learned that no one had left the house since the

men had come; so that Carrington knew Marion must have departed soon

after he had left the night before—or some time during the time of his

departure and the arrival of the men.

Ten minutes after emerging from the house he went in again. Parsons

was sitting on the floor of his room, swaying weakly back and forth,

whining tonelessly, his lips loose and drooling blood.

For an instant Carrington stood over him, looking down at him with a

merciless, tigerlike grin. Then he stooped, gripped Parsons by the

shoulders, and, lifting him bodily, threw him across the bed. Parsons

did not resist, but lay, his arms flung wide, watching the big man

fearfully.

“Don’t hit me again, Jim!” he pleaded. “Jim, I’ve never done anything

to you!”

“Bah!” Carrington leaned over the other, grinning malevolently.

“You’ve double-crossed me, Elam,” he said silkily. “You’re through.

Get out of here before I kill you! I want to; and if you are here in

five minutes, I shall kill you! Go to the Arrow—with your niece. Tell

her what you know about me—if you haven’t done so already. And tell

her that I am coming for her—and for Taylor, too! Now, get out!”

In less than five minutes, while Carrington was at the front of the

house talking with the three men, Parsons tottered from a rear door,

staggered weakly into some dense shrubbery that skirted the far side

of the house, and made his slow way toward the big slope down which

Marion and Martha had gone some hours before.

Retribution had descended swiftly upon Parsons; it seemed to him he

was out of it, crushed and beaten. But no thread of philosophy weaved

its way through the fabric of the man’s complete misery and

humiliation, and no reflection that he had merely reaped what he had

sown glimmered in his consciousness. He was merely conscious that he

had been beaten and robbed by the man who had always been his

confederate, and as he reeled down the big slope on his way to the

Arrow he whined and moaned in a toneless voice of vengeance—and more

vengeance.