AT THE sound of the harsh voices so close upon her Barbara Harding was
galvanized into instant action. Springing to Byrne's side she whipped
Theriere's revolver from his belt, where it reposed about the fallen
mucker's hips, and with it turned like a tigress upon the youth.
“Quick!” she cried. “Tell them to go back--that I shall kill you if they
come closer.”
The boy shrank back in terror before the fiery eyes and menacing
attitude of the white girl, and then with the terror that animated him
ringing plainly in his voice he screamed to his henchmen to halt.
Relieved for a moment at least from immediate danger Barbara Harding
turned her attention toward the two unconscious men at her feet. From
appearances it seemed that either might breathe his last at any moment,
and as she looked at Theriere a wave of compassion swept over her, and
the tears welled to her eyes; yet it was to the mucker that she first
ministered--why, she could not for the life of her have explained.
She dashed cold water from the spring upon his face. She bathed his
wrists, and washed his wounds, tearing strips from her skirt to bandage
the horrid gash upon his breast in an effort to stanch the flow of
lifeblood that welled forth with the man's every breath.
And at last she was rewarded by seeing the flow of blood quelled and
signs of returning consciousness appear. The mucker opened his eyes.
Close above him bent the radiant vision of Barbara Harding's face. Upon
his fevered forehead he felt the soothing strokes of her cool, soft
hand. He closed his eyes again to battle with the effeminate realization
that he enjoyed this strange, new sensation--the sensation of being
ministered to by a gentle woman--and, perish the thought, by a
gentlewoman!
With an effort he raised himself to one elbow, scowling at her.
“Gwan,” he said; “I ain't no boob dude. Cut out de mush. Lemme be. Beat
it!”
Hurt, more than she would have cared to admit, Barbara Harding
turned away from her ungrateful and ungracious patient, to repeat
her ministrations to the Frenchman. The mucker read in her expression
something of the wound his words had inflicted, and he lay thinking
upon the matter for some time, watching her deft, white fingers as they
worked over the scarce breathing Theriere.
He saw her wash the blood and dirt from the ghastly wound in the man's
chest, and as he watched he realized what a world of courage it must
require for a woman of her stamp to do gruesome work of this sort. Never
before would such a thought have occurred to him. Neither would he
have cared at all for the pain his recent words to the girl might
have inflicted. Instead he would have felt keen enjoyment of her
discomfiture.
And now another strange new emotion took possession of him. It was none
other than a desire to atone in some way for his words. What wonderful
transformation was taking place in the heart of the Kelly gangster?
“Say!” he blurted out suddenly.
Barbara Harding turned questioning eyes toward him. In them was the
cold, haughty aloofness again that had marked her cognizance of him upon
the Halfmoon--the look that had made his hate of her burn most fiercely.
It took the mucker's breath away to witness it, and it made the speech
he had contemplated more difficult than ever--nay, almost impossible.
He coughed nervously, and the old dark, lowering scowl returned to his
brow.
“Did you speak?” asked Miss Harding, icily.
Billy Byrne cleared his throat, and then there blurted from his lips
not the speech that he had intended, but a sudden, hateful rush of words
which seemed to emanate from another personality, from one whom Billy
Byrne once had been.
“Ain't dat boob croaked yet?” he growled.
The shock of that brutal question brought Barbara Harding to her feet.
In horror she looked down at the man who had spoken thus of a brave and
noble comrade in the face of death itself. Her eyes blazed angrily as
hot, bitter words rushed to her lips, and then of a sudden she thought
of Byrne's self-sacrificing heroism in returning to Theriere's side in
the face of the advancing samurai--of the cool courage he had displayed
as he carried the unconscious man back to the jungle--of the
devotion, almost superhuman, that had sustained him as he struggled,
uncomplaining, up the steep mountain path with the burden of the
Frenchman's body the while his own lifeblood left a crimson trail behind
him.
Such deeds and these words were incompatible in the same individual.
There could be but one explanation--Byrne must be two men, with as
totally different characters as though they had possessed separate
bodies. And who may say that her hypothesis was not correct--at least
it seemed that Billy Byrne was undergoing a metamorphosis, and at
the instant there was still a question as to which personality should
eventually dominate.
Byrne turned away from the reproach which replaced the horror in
the girl's eyes, and with a tired sigh let his head fall upon his
outstretched arm. The girl watched him for a moment, a puzzled
expression upon her face, and then returned to work above Theriere.
The Frenchman's respiration was scarcely appreciable, yet after a time
he opened his eyes and looked up wearily. At sight of the girl he smiled
wanly, and tried to speak, but a fit of coughing flecked his lips with
bloody foam, and again he closed his eyes. Fainter and fainter came
his breathing, until it was with difficulty that the girl detected any
movement of his breast whatever. She thought that he was dying, and she
was afraid. Wistfully she looked toward the mucker. The man still lay
with his head buried in his arm, but whether he were wrapped in thought,
in slumber, or in death the girl could not tell. At the final thought
she went white with terror.
Slowly she approached the man, and leaning over placed her hand upon his
shoulder.
“Mr. Byrne!” she whispered.
The mucker turned his face toward her. It looked tired and haggard.
“Wot is it?” he asked, and his tone was softer than she had ever heard
it.
“I think Mr. Theriere is dying,” she said, “and I--I-- Oh, I am so
afraid.”
The man flushed to the roots of his hair. All that he could think of
were the ugly words he had spoken a short time before--and now Theriere
was dying! Byrne would have laughed had anyone suggested that he
entertained any other sentiment than hatred toward the second officer of
the Halfmoon--that is he would have twenty-four hours before; but now,
quite unexpectedly, he realized that he didn't want Theriere to die, and
then it dawned upon him that a new sentiment had been born within him--a
sentiment to which he had been a stranger all his hard life--friendship.
He felt friendship for Theriere! It was unthinkable, and yet the mucker
knew that it was so. Painfully he crawled over to the Frenchman's side.
“Theriere!” he whispered in the man's ear.
The officer turned his head wearily.
“Do youse know me, old pal?” asked the mucker, and Barbara Harding knew
from the man's voice that there were tears in his eyes; but what she did
not know was that they welled there in response to the words the mucker
had just spoken--the nearest approach to words of endearment that ever
had passed his lips.
Theriere reached up and took Byrne's hand. It was evident that he too
had noted the unusual quality of the mucker's voice.
“Yes, old man,” he said very faintly, and then “water, please.”
Barbara Harding brought him a drink, holding his head against her knee
while he drank. The cool liquid seemed to give him new strength for
presently he spoke, quite strongly.
“I'm going, Byrne,” he said; “but before I go I want to tell you that of
all the brave men I ever have known I have learned within the past few
days to believe that you are the bravest. A week ago I thought you were
a coward--I ask your forgiveness.”
“Ferget it,” whispered Byrne, “fer a week ago I guess I was a coward.
Dere seems to be more'n one kind o' nerve--I'm jest a-learnin' of the
right kind, I guess.”
“And, Byrne,” continued Theriere, “don't forget what I asked of you
before we tossed up to see which should enter Oda Yorimoto's house.”
“I'll not ferget,” said Billy.
“Good-bye, Byrne,” whispered Theriere. “Take good care of Miss Harding.”
“Good-bye, old pal,” said the mucker. His voice broke, and two big tears
rolled down the cheeks of “de toughest guy on de Wes' Side.”
Barbara Harding stepped to Theriere's side.
“Good-bye, my friend,” she said. “God will reward you for your
friendship, your bravery, and your devotion. There must be a special
honor roll in heaven for such noble men as you.” Theriere smiled sadly.
“Byrne will tell you all,” he said, “except who I am--he does not know
that.”
“Is there any message, my friend,” asked the girl, “that you would like
to have me deliver?”
Theriere remained silent for a moment as though thinking.
“My name,” he said, “is Henri Theriere. I am the Count de Cadenet of
France. There is no message, Miss Harding, other than you see fit
to deliver to my relatives. They lived in Paris the last I heard of
them--my brother, Jacques, was a deputy.”
His voice had become so low and weak that the girl could scarce
distinguish his words. He gasped once or twice, and then tried to speak
again. Barbara leaned closer, her ear almost against his lips.
“Good-bye--dear.” The words were almost inaudible, and then the body
stiffened with a little convulsive tremor, and Henri Theriere, Count de
Cadenet, passed over into the keeping of his noble ancestors.
“He's gone!” whispered the girl, dry-eyed but suffering. She had not
loved this man, she realized, but she had learned to think of him as her
one true friend in their little world of scoundrels and murderers. She
had cared for him very much--it was entirely possible that some day
she might have come to return his evident affection for her. She knew
nothing of the seamy side of his hard life. She had guessed nothing of
the scoundrelly duplicity that had marked his first advances toward her.
She thought of him only as a true, brave gentleman, and in that she was
right, for whatever Henri Theriere might have been in the past the last
few days of his life had revealed him in the true colors that birth and
nature had intended him to wear through a brilliant career. In his death
he had atoned for many sins.
And in those last few days he had transferred, all unknown to himself
or the other man, a measure of the gentility and chivalry that were his
birthright, for, unrealizing, Billy Byrne was patterning himself after
the man he had hated and had come to love.
After the girl's announcement the mucker had continued to sit with bowed
head staring at the ground. Afternoon had deepened into evening, and
now the brief twilight of the tropics was upon them--in a few moments it
would be dark.
Presently Byrne looked up. His eyes wandered about the tiny clearing.
Suddenly he staggered to his feet. Barbara Harding sprang up, startled
by the evident alarm in the man's attitude.
“What is it?” she whispered. “What is the matter?”
“De Chink!” he cried. “Where is de Chink?”
And, sure enough, Oda Iseka had disappeared!
The youthful daimio had taken advantage of the preoccupation of his
captors during the last moments of Theriere to gnaw in two the grass
rope which bound him to the mucker, and with hands still fast bound
behind him had slunk into the jungle path that led toward his village.
“They will be upon us again now at any moment,” whispered the girl.
“What can we do?”
“We better duck,” replied the mucker. “I hates to run away from a bunch
of Chinks, but I guess it's up to us to beat it.”
“But poor Mr. Theriere?” asked the girl.
“I'll have to bury him close by,” replied the mucker. “I don't tink I
could pack him very fer tonight--I don't feel jest quite fit agin yet.
You wouldn't mind much if I buried him here, would you?”
“There is no other way, Mr. Byrne,” replied the girl. “You mustn't
think of trying to carry him far. We have done all we can for poor
Mr. Theriere--you have almost given your life for him already--and it
wouldn't do any good to carry his dead body with us.”
“I hates to tink o' dem head-huntin' Chinks gettin' him,” replied Byrne;
“but maybe I kin hide his grave so's dey won't tumble to it.”
“You are in no condition to carry him at all,” said the girl. “I doubt
if you can go far even without any burden.”
The mucker grinned.
“Youse don't know me, miss,” he said, and stooping he lifted the body of
the Frenchman to his broad shoulder, and started up the hillside through
the trackless underbrush.
It would have been an impossible feat for an ordinary man in the pink
of condition, but the mucker, weak from pain and loss of blood, strode
sturdily upward while the marveling girl followed close behind him. A
hundred yards above the spring they came upon a little level spot, and
here with the two swords of Oda Yorimoto which they still carried they
scooped a shallow grave in which they placed all that was mortal of the
Count de Cadenet.
Barbara Harding whispered a short prayer above the new-made grave, while
the mucker stood with bowed head beside her. Then they turned to their
flight again up the wild face of the savage mountain. The moon came up
at last to lighten the way for them, but it was a rough and dangerous
climb at best. In many places they were forced to walk hand in hand for
considerable distances, and twice the mucker had lifted the girl bodily
in his arms to bear her across particularly dangerous or difficult
stretches.
Shortly after midnight they struck a small mountain stream up which they
followed until in a natural cul-de-sac they came upon its source and
found their farther progress barred by precipitous cliffs which rose
above them, sheer and unscalable.
They had entered the little amphitheater through a narrow, rocky pass in
the bottom of which the tiny stream flowed, and now, weak and tired, the
mucker was forced to admit that he could go no farther.
“Who'd o' t'ought dat I was such a sissy?” he exclaimed disgustedly.
“I think that you are very wonderful, Mr. Byrne,” replied the girl. “Few
men could have gone through what you have today and been alive now.”
The mucker made a deprecatory gesture.
“I suppose we gotta make de best of it,” he said. “Anyhow, dis ought to
make a swell joint to defend.”
Weak as he was he searched about for some soft grasses which he threw in
a pile beneath a stunted tree that grew well back in the hollow.
“Here's yer downy,” he said, with an attempt at jocularity. “Now you'd
better hit de hay, fer youse must be dead fagged.”
“Thanks!” replied the girl. “I AM nearly dead.”
So tired was she that she was asleep almost as soon as she had found
a comfortable position in the thick mat of grass, so that she gave no
thought to the strange position in which circumstance had placed her.
The sun was well up the following morning before the girl awakened, and
it was several minutes before she could readjust herself to her strange
surroundings. At first she thought that she was alone, but finally she
discerned a giant figure standing at the opening which led from their
mountain retreat.
It was the mucker, and at sight of him there swept over the girl the
terrible peril of her position--alone in the savage mountains of a
savage island with the murderer of Billy Mallory--the beast that had
kicked the unconscious Theriere in the face--the mucker who had insulted
and threatened to strike her! She shuddered at the thought. And then
she recalled the man's other side, and for the life of her she could not
tell whether to be afraid of him or not--it all depended upon what mood
governed him. It would be best to propitiate him. She called a pleasant
good morning.
Byrne turned. She was shocked at the pallor of his haggard face.
“Good morning,” he said. “How did yeh sleep?”
“Oh, just splendidly, and you?” she replied.
“So-so,” he answered.
She looked at him searchingly as he approached her.
“Why I don't believe that you have slept at all,” she cried.
“I didn't feel very sleepy,” he replied evasively.
“You sat up all night on guard!” she exclaimed. “You know you did.”
“De Chinks might o' been shadowin' us--it wasn't safe to sleep,” he
admitted; “but I'll tear off a few dis mornin' after we find a feed of
some kind.”
“What can we find to eat here?” she asked.
“Dis crick is full o' fish,” he explained, “an' ef youse got a pin I
guess we kin rig up a scheme to hook a couple.”
The girl found a pin that he said would answer very nicely, and with a
shoe lace for a line and a big locust as bait the mucker set forth to
angle in the little mountain torrent. The fish, unwary, and hungry thus
early in the morning proved easy prey, and two casts brought forth two
splendid specimens.
“I could eat a dozen of dem minnows,” announced the mucker, and he cast
again and again, until in twenty minutes he had a goodly mess of plump,
shiny trout on the grass beside him.
With his pocketknife he cleaned and scaled them, and then between two
rocks he built a fire and passing sticks through the bodies of his catch
roasted them all. They had neither salt, nor pepper, nor butter, nor any
other viand than the fish, but it seemed to the girl that never in her
life had she tasted so palatable a meal, nor had it occurred to her
until the odor of the cooking fish filled her nostrils that no food had
passed her lips since the second day before--no wonder that the two ate
ravenously, enjoying every mouthful of their repast.
“An' now,” said Billy Byrne, “I tink I'll poun' my ear fer a few. You
kin keep yer lamps peeled fer de Chinks, an' de first fony noise youse
hears, w'y be sure to wake me up,” and with that he rolled over upon the
grass, asleep almost on the instant.
The girl, to while away the time, explored their rock-bound haven. She
found that it had but a single means of ingress, the narrow pass through
which the brook found outlet. Beyond the entrance she did not venture,
but through it she saw, beneath, a wooded slope, and twice deer passed
quite close to her, stopping at the brook to drink.
It was an ideal spot, one whose beauties appealed to her even under the
harrowing conditions which had forced her to seek its precarious safety.
In another land and with companions of her own kind she could well
imagine the joy of a fortnight spent in such a sylvan paradise.
The thought aroused another--how long would the mucker remain a safe
companion? She seemed to be continually falling from the frying pan into
the fire. So far she had not been burned, but with returning strength,
and the knowledge of their utter isolation could she expect this brutal
thug to place any check upon his natural desires?
Why there were few men of her own station in life with whom she would
have felt safe to spend a fortnight alone upon a savage, uncivilized
island! She glanced at the man where he lay stretched in deep slumber.
What a huge fellow he was! How helpless would she be were he to turn
against her! Yet his very size; yes, and the brutality she feared, were
her only salvation against every other danger than he himself. The man
was physically a natural protector, for he was able to cope with odds
and dangers to which an ordinary man would long since have succumbed. So
she found that she was both safer and less safe because the mucker was
her companion.
As she pondered the question her eyes roved toward the slope beyond the
opening to the amphitheater. With a start she came to her feet, shading
her eyes with her hand and peering intently at something that she
could have sworn moved among the trees far below. No, she could not be
mistaken--it was the figure of a man.
Swiftly she ran to Byrne, shaking him roughly by the shoulder.
“Someone is coming,” she cried, in response to his sleepy query.