The past week, culminating on the night in I which I sit and write with
barred door and shuttered windows, has been a hard and dangerous one for
me. Three times have I escaped death so narrowly it would seem
Providence had a hand in the game. On no occasion was the would-be
assassin visible, but I knew well chance had not aimed these well
directed blows at my life. I can't understand Buck's tactics. They are
hidden, merciless, savage in their deadly intention. I had not thought
he would stoop to this. I had eliminated this contingency when
considering my plan of action. It was incredible, but no doubt lingers
in my heart to-night. Buck Steele is trying to murder me secretly, and
in such a way that it would seem the result of an accident. His plots
suggest the cunning of an unsettled mind, but, while it certainly is
strained under the force of his mad passion, I do not believe Buck's
brain is unbalanced. He wants me out of the way, but at the same time he
wants to avoid any odium, and be free to live his life here at Hebron.
He knows that if he kills me openly it will mean, at the least, exile. I
have thought long and often over the problem, and I am sure I have come
upon the right solution. That he does not compel a meeting which could
result in a fair fight, from which no especial blame would revert to him
should he prove the victor, is simply because he is afraid to undergo
the risk--to accept the possibility of being killed instead of killing.
I do not mean by this that he is a coward, but his desire for Celeste
has so wrought upon him that he is casting aside all chances for defeat,
though his sense of honor and fair play, if he had any, goes with them.
He has become a scheming machine, and a most formidable one, I must
confess. Now I will make a brief record of what has taken place the last
seven days.
Saturday night, at bedtime, I debated the question of closing the Lodge,
following the discovery of the final, crimson warning. I hesitated to
confess to myself that I had begun to feel fear, but something had waked
within me that whispered I must be careful from that hour. I don't think
I would have known this feeling had my enemy been open and fair in his
movements. But it is human nature to dread the invisible terror which
lurks in the dark, and I knew that I was doing the sensible thing when I
barred my door and dropped the shutter of the window next my cot. I made
this shutter secure by a long hook which fitted into a large staple.
Before I blew out the lamp, I looked at the other window for a long
time. At last I decided that Buck could not squeeze his bulk through the
opening, and went to bed.
I fell asleep quickly, although my mind was not at ease. This mental
condition must have led to my waking about midnight, which was an
unprecedented thing. I lay and listened. I heard something, and it was
not the wind; for, though a breeze was soughing in the pines without,
the sound of footsteps was distinctly audible. They paused at the door,
passed on to the closed window, paused again, then went around to the
open window. Quietly I slid my hand under my pillow and drew out my
revolver. Luckily, I lay facing the small opening. Otherwise I would
have feared to turn, on account of the noise the act would have
involved. The square aperture was barely discernible, and I judged from
this the night was cloudy. Fixing my gaze on the window with the utmost
intensity, I raised my weapon and waited, determining at the same time
not to fire until I saw that my life was in danger. A formless shape
blotted the square of less dense gloom, and for a time there was
silence. I think the prowler was trying to locate me, and I breathed
softly, making no sound. The wait was interminable to me, though in
reality I suppose it was not over a minute. Then the shape at the window
swayed from side to side, noiselessly, sank down, to reappear at once. I
heard a rustling, a muffled tattoo like a dry bean pod makes in an
autumn gust, and while my mind was yet filled with wonder as to what was
going to happen, the shape twisted grotesquely and I heard a slithering
as of one body over another. The next instant something cold and crawly
struck my upheld wrist, slid across it, and dropped with a fleshy thud
on the floor. Horror gripped me then. Horror supreme and terrible. I
could have shrieked had my voice not been shut in my breast. I trembled
from head to foot, and icy waves swept me all over. What was that? What
could it have been but----At that moment one of the most appalling and
nerve-racking sounds arose that ever turned a mortal's blood to water,
and his brave courage into craven cowardice. It was the hair-raising
warning of an angered rattlesnake! With a snarling cry of sheer terror I
sprang up in bed and fired at the window--three times before I could
control my forefinger, which was acting automatically. The act was
spontaneous. I did not shoot with the desire to hit anybody. None of the
bullets passed through the window, as I discovered the next morning.
Following the reports was the sound of some one running, accompanied by
a second whirring rattle. Could that thing see in the dark? Was it
preparing to leap upon me? When the rattling ceased this time I knew it
would spring. Dashing the cover from me I threw myself toward the foot
of the bed, a clammy perspiration bursting out upon me as I did so. I
reached the floor. As I stretched a shaking hand toward the spot where I
knew the table was, to my ears came the evil sound of the impact of the
reptile's body against the edge of the cot, and its subsequent fall to
the planks beneath. In the stark stillness followed the sibilant sliding
of fold over fold as the monster coiled afresh--whispers of a hideous
doom. My palsied fingers touched the table, and presently I was on top
of it, crouching among my books and manuscripts, feeling feebly for the
lamp and the matches. Before I could make a light it sprang again, again
failed to surmount the cot, and dropped back. Four matches broke in my
clumsy grip, but the fifth struck. I got the lamp alight before I
turned. The sight was awesome enough, but far better the visible menace
than the death-dealing thing which moved in darkness. It was coiled
there, just at the edge of my bed. Great, thick, fleshy, splotched folds
interwoven into a sinister spiral, from the center of which arose the
rattle-capped tail, now vibrating with the rapidity of an alarm bell. In
front was reared the repulsive head; flat, gem-eyed. When I looked upon
this world-old emblem of treachery and guile, my normal being became
reestablished with a suddenness almost amounting to a wrench. Now that I
saw, and knew; now that my brain could comprehend the exact situation,
and handle it, I became a man once more. But I would offer no apology
for my conduct the few preceding minutes. If it appears contemptible, it
must remain so. But I was never nearer dead from plain, simple fright
than I was during that time.
I grew calm almost at once. The snake was dazed by the light, and made
no third assault, though still retaining his fighting posture, and
sending out that indescribable alarm now and then. I had dropped my
revolver when I threw myself from the cot, and now saw the weapon lying
among the bedclothes near the foot. I was master of myself again.
Quietly stepping down, I secured the revolver, and ten seconds later it
was all over. Then I opened the door and flung the carcass outside, came
in and barricaded the entrance again. No longer did I hesitate about the
open window, but went and fastened it in the same manner I had the
other. My foot struck some object. It was a pasteboard shoe box of
extraordinary size. I picked it up and walked nearer the lamp. One end
was slit down at the corners so that when the top was lifted it would
fall, as on a hinge.
I placed the box on the table, took a stiff drink of whisky, found my
pipe, and lit up. I needed bracing, for when I grasped the full
significance of this foul and devilish attack, a physical nausea came.
The liquor brought a reaction, and I sat down in my nightshirt, puffing
vigorously and regarding the big shoe box in a fascinated way. There
were rattlesnakes about--plenty of them. I had heard them and seen them
on my many journeys through the wilderness, but I had always given them
undisputed possession of the especial territory they happened to be
occupying when we met. Buck had caught one; a patriarch from his size.
The capture was not difficult. These reptiles' lidless eyes have a very
short range of vision. A careful man with a forked stick can scotch one
whenever he wishes. The transfer to a box was also simple. All of this
he had done, and had then come in the middle of the night with the fell
intent of dropping that thing on me, asleep. I don't think I have ever
heard or read of a project equally as dastardly and devoid of all
feeling. It was something the very devil would shudder to confess.
The second attempt to remove me in an apparently natural manner came
Tuesday.
Sunday and Monday I kept to the plateau. I did not believe the smith had
reached that point of desperation where he would shoot me down openly,
and it was out of the question for me to remain a prisoner in the Lodge.
I had no doubt that I was watched, although I neither saw nor heard
anything to confirm this suspicion.
I measured the rattler before burying it, and found it five feet long
and four and a half inches thick at the largest part. It was of mammoth
proportions for the Kentucky knobs, where they seldom exceeded three
feet in length. I was glad when the noisome thing was out of sight.
Tuesday morning the thought came to me that perhaps Buck had fallen in
the clutches of the law. I was aware of a sensation of relief at the
probability, and the fact that two days and nights had passed without
any untoward manifestation would appear to render the idea altogether
reasonable. Bart Crawley, furious and revengeful, had started hotfoot
for the county seat Saturday to issue a warrant. It was the duty of the
sheriff or a deputy to serve it at once, and take the offender into
custody. I resolved to go to Hebron and find out. I knew I was taking a
great risk, for the road was lonely and secluded, and there was the
thick forest to traverse before reaching Lizard Point. No man could wish
for better surroundings in which to commit a hidden crime. And, however
watchful I might be, I would stand no chance whatever with my life
should an effort be made against it. There was not a rod of ground along
the entire route where an ambush could not have been successfully laid.
The outlook was depressing, but I decided upon the venture anyway, for
could I know the smith was lodged in jail, a grievous burden would be
lifted from my mind.
There were no precautions I could take before starting forth. I simply
bore my stout stick in my left hand, and kept my right in the side
pocket of my coat, clasping the handle of my revolver. That was all I
could do. A sense of foolhardiness enveloped me as I strode down from
the plateau along the tree-bordered, vine-grown way. Would a truly well
balanced person thus jeopardize his life? Most likely he would not. But
a certain recklessness of spirit had come upon me, begotten of the
Dryad's cruel absence, my long wait, and the abrupt aggressiveness of
Buck. When a man's temperament becomes surcharged with a sentiment of
this color, you may look for him to do things which had not even
bordered his existence in saner moods. As I proceeded without
molestation, a sort of dogged defiance gained ascendency and my head
went higher, while my face became set in a mask of determination.
I saw no one. I heard nothing but the peaceful sounds of Nature and her
creatures. Surely Buck was in the toils, or he never would have let this
golden opportunity go by unemployed. When I came to the tree-bridge my
apprehensions had vanished; I did not dread the remainder of the
journey. I was conscious of a sharp shock of pain when I looked at the
still empty house where Celeste lived. Had I yielded to the importunity
of the eager voices which began to clamor in my soul at the sight, I
speedily would have become undone. I have not written of the terrific
fight I have had since my sane self conquered that night on the peak,
but the reason for this is that I do not want to appear absolutely silly
in the eyes of those who may read these words. But it took all that was
in me to hold to the hard path of sanity and common sense. My love for
her of the wheat-gold hair--
Quickly I crossed the bridge and turned toward Hebron, setting my teeth
on my lower lip in firm resolve, and walking rapidly.
When I came within view of the hamlet I halted and listened. No ringing
sound floated across to me from the shop; the forge was still. I went
on, more slowly. Everything seemed to support the theory that my enemy
had been arrested. The smithy was open, but empty; the fire was dead. I
pushed forward to the store. Mr. Todler (I had learned his name only the
Saturday before) was not sitting on the porch this morning, and for good
reason. The sun was blazing hot, and fell squarely upon the cracker box
where the storekeeper was wont to rest. It is true he might have removed
the box to the other side of the door, where the sun did not reach, but
this would have involved some effort. I went in. At first I thought the
place vacant, and stood listening to some green flies buzzing and
butting their foolish heads against the window panes--panes so dirty
that they looked like mica. Then I saw Mr. Todler. He was stretched upon
the dry goods counter in a space about seven feet clear, his head
resting upon a thick bolt of unbleached cotton, a newspaper over his
face. Back of him were other bolts of different kinds, piled one upon
another, and on top of the whole lay a tortoise-shell cat, slumbering
peacefully. Mr. Todler was slumbering, too, but not peacefully. The
store was taking care of itself.
Assuming that this singular person went to sleep with the expectation of
being aroused should a customer perchance arrive, I removed the
newspaper, hoping thus to waken him. But the sweet bonds which held him
were not to be loosened so lightly. He snored on, and I found myself
regarding his grimy collar, his frayed, soiled, green-and-yellow
necktie--one of the ready-made kind, where you stick a band through a
hole and it catches on a pin. I grasped his shoulder and shook him, for
the information I sought was of the first importance. He uttered a sound
which was the mingling of a grunt and a groan, and began to bat his
heavy lids slowly.
"Whut yo' want?" he muttered, thick-tongued because of sleep which still
pressed upon him.
"Is Buck Steele in jail?" I asked, quickly, for I saw symptoms which
pointed toward another period of unconsciousness.
"Buck?" he said, faintly, and in a way which led me to believe that he
had not comprehended my question. His eyes had shut again.
"Yes, Buck!" I cried, shaking him a second time, and lifting my voice to
a hard key. "Bart Crawley went for a warrant Saturday. Has the sheriff
got him yet? Answer yes or no, and I won't bother you any more!"
Mr. Todler neither rose nor stirred under my vehement words, but his
eyes came open listlessly, he blinked at me for a few seconds, and
replied:
"He wa'nt tuk w'en I we'n to sleep. Whut's more, he ain't a-goin' to git
tuk--not Buck!"
This lengthy speech must have been exhausting, for Mr. Todler sighed
wearily at its conclusion, turned his head with a grimace, and slowly
dragged the newspaper over his face again.
I did not thank him. The news had been too hard to win, and was too
unsatisfactory.
The man was right. I saw clearly on the instant that Buck would never
submit to incarceration. He had graver business on hand than simply
obeying the law's behest.
I began the return tramp with my spirit cast down and troubled. If Jeff
Angel only would come, and bring the Dryad! I would not--I could not
leave before her home-coming. Though a bloodthirsty blacksmith lurked
behind every tree in the locality, yet would I stay. If the next few
days found her back, I might manage to elude Buck, and get us away
safely. _Us!_ Yes, she should go with me. Although I had made no
declaration, some intuition told me that all would be well could I once
more stand in her presence. Enough had come to my knowledge to merit
this assurance.
I turned from the highway and took the knob road going past Lizard
Point. About a half-mile from the pike, the dirt road ran under a cliff
for a number of rods; a sheer limestone precipice fifty or sixty feet
high. It was here, although introspectively engrossed almost to the
point of abstraction, that I suddenly knew a danger threatened me. I was
striding swiftly along, and when the thought came I stopped abruptly.
Two more steps would have stretched me dead. For instantly I heard a low
whistling sound which gathered volume, something whizzed downward before
my face, so close that I felt the air from its passage and jumped back.
A huge stone, large as a half-bushel, struck the soft earth almost at my
feet, rebounded, and rolled over into a patch of fennel ten feet
distant.
I looked up, rage giving me a daring which mocked at risk. Where I stood
I made yet an excellent target, but I did not think of this then. A
harsh laugh drifted down; I saw the thick foliage on the lip of the
precipice become violently agitated, and I fancied I heard the cracking
of dry twigs, as under a heavy, careless step. I could not follow,
though in my heart that moment I had the fierce desire to slay. I had
never known this before. It was awful--but it was also sweet! I could
have killed that creeping coward above me and laughed in joy. Something
became unfettered within me which I never knew I possessed. Something
which for the moment I could not have restrained had the object of my
wrath stood before me. In that instant centuries were bridged, and my
forebears of the stone age had a fitting representative in my being.
This wave of primal, mindless passion which bade me destroy ruthlessly
did not subside at once, and it was only after I had pursued my way for
some time that I experienced the resurgent flow of my normal self.
I did not anticipate a second attack before I reached home. Each of
these cowardly efforts had been planned in advance, and had either
succeeded no one could have pointed at Buck Steele as my slayer. I was
safe for another day, at least, so, gaining a temporary relief from this
fact, I trudged on moodily to the Lodge.
Next day at noon, as I turned from the well with a bucket of water in my
hand, I saw a belted and booted figure coming toward me from the spot
where the road led up. The stranger had an athletic bearing, wore a
cheap straw hat much out of shape, and carried a rifle in the hollow of
his arm. I advanced to meet him, for I guessed his mission at once.
"You're the sheriff of this county?" I asked pleasantly, setting my
bucket down, and shaking hands.
The man took his hat off and drew his shirt sleeve across his streaming
face. The imprint of his hatband showed a red bar across his white
forehead.
"Nope; deputy. Been huntin' a blacksmith fur the las' four days, 'n'
it's worse 'n huntin' four-leaf clover."
He chuckled, as though the task was not as onerous as his words implied,
and hitched his trousers.
"Plenty of room to hide out here," I agreed. "Come over to the house and
have a drink. You seem hot."
"Well, I reck'n. Bad time o' year fur a manhunt."
He walked beside me to a bench, and when he had greedily swallowed three
cups of water I asked him to sit down and rest a while. The invitation
pleased him, and presently we had launched into an animated
conversation. I soon learned that he had been in and about Hebron most
of his time; that he had not even caught a glimpse of his quarry, and
that someone in the hamlet had suggested that he come to see me. A
moment's reflection showed me that I could not make a confidant of the
officer, much as I wished to, for an explanation of Buck's animosity
would be in order. This I could not give without bringing in the name of
a third party, and exposing to a chance acquaintance the cherished
secret in my heart. No, Buck and I must settle this affair alone, and in
silence. So I told the deputy instead that I was present when the mule
was killed, and that it actually was accomplished with a single blow
from the fist. Whereupon, he declared that he was glad to have Bart
Crawley's statement verified, as most of the citizens of Cedarton had
taken it with a grain of salt, but personally he believed it true. Then
he became quite chatty, and proceeded to relate some of the exploits of
Buck's father, a giant who for girth and stature had surpassed his son.
I listened politely to the rambling narrative, taking much comfort in
the simple presence of my caller.
"Th' ol' man finally went crazy," concluded the deputy; "yellin',
whoopin' crazy, 'n' jumped off a bluff in the river one winter night."
"Went crazy?"
My lips repeated the two words involuntarily, and I turned to the man as
though I had not heard aright. The statement formed a portent of dread
to my mind.
"Yep; whoopin' crazy," confirmed the cheery voice. "He got crossed some
way with somebody 'n' worried hisself wild. Ol' people tell me it's a
fam'ly failin'--that mos' of 'em end that way.... This Buck, now, hidin'
out this-a-way. 'Tain't nat'r'l, is it?... I dunno."
He shook his head and gazed out over the wide forest with drawn brows.