FATHER MARSTON PROPHESIES
Sulky, morose, sluggish as a saurian, Dutch lay in his cell and waited
for deliverance. The weeks passed. The Dodsons sent him word to say
nothing, that when the time came they would set him free.
He suspected them as he suspected everybody. If they failed him he meant
to betray them. But the time had not come for that yet.
As he grew weary of confinement his restlessness found vent in a plan of
escape. From his boot he worked the tin piece used as a stiffener for
the leg. With this as a tool and a piece of a broken bed slat as
material he began to shape a wooden pistol. He worked only when he knew
he would be alone. The shavings that came in thin slivers from the pine
he hid in the mattress upon which he slept. When the weapon was finished
he rubbed it with lamp black till it took in a measure the colour of
steel.
It was in the man’s temperament to be patient as an Apache when he found
it to his advantage. He waited for his chance and found it when the
jailer made his round one evening to see that all was secure.
The moonlight was shining through the barred window on the bed in
checkered squares of light. Dutch was pacing up and down his cell when
the guard appeared. He moved forward to the door.
“Gimme a chew, Hank,” he said ingratiatingly.
The killer was a sullen and vindictive prisoner. The jailer had tried to
placate him, for now that Scot McClintock was getting better it would be
only a question of time till Dutch would again be loose on the world.
“Sure, Sam.”
The jailer dived into his right hip pocket, found a plug of tobacco, and
handed it through the grating to his prisoner.
Dutch caught the man’s wrist and twisted it down against the iron bar of
the lattice. Simultaneously a pistol barrel gleamed through the opening.
“Gimme yore six-shooter. . . . Now unlock the door. Let out a squawk an’
I’ll pump lead into you.”
The jailer obeyed orders. Dutch hustled him into the cell, then tied and
gagged him. He took the keys, went downstairs, unlocked the outer door,
and walked into the night a free man.
He stood for a moment at the door, hesitating. Which way should he go?
The first thing was to get a horse at some stable. That would be easy
enough. All he had to do was to go in and ask for it. But should he go
back to Piodie, try Virginia City, or cut across the Sierras to
California and say good-bye to Nevada?
Before he had made up his mind which road to take his thoughts were
deflected into another channel. A young woman passed on the other side
of the street. He recognized her immediately. The light, resilient step,
the gallant poise of the slender body identified their owner as Victoria
Lowell. He was sure of it even before the moonlight fell full upon her
profile.
His eyes lit with a cunning tigerish malice. Softly he padded down the
street after her. There was in his mind no clear idea of what he meant
to do. But he was a born bully. She was alone. He could torment her to
his heart’s content.
He moved faster, came abreast of her after she had turned into a dark
side street. His step kept pace with hers. She looked up to see who her
companion was.
A gasp of surprise broke from her throat.
His grin was a leer, hideous and menacing. “How are you, m’dear? Didn’t
expect to meet up with old Sam, did you? But tickled—plumb tickled to
death to see him.”
Involuntarily she quickened her step. His arm shot out and his great
hand closed on her wrist. A shriek welled up inside her, but she
smothered it unvoiced. The shudder that ran through her body she could
not control.
He purred on: “Came to meet old Sam soon as he got out. Had to see him
right away, didn’t you? Couldn’t wait a minute.”
With a twist of her forearm she tried to break away. His rough fingers
crushed deeper into her soft flesh.
“You in a hurry, sweetheart?” he went on, and his heavy body shook with
unholy mirth. “Afraid of old Sam’s winnin’ ways? Don’t like to trust
yore feelin’s with them, I reckon.”
“Let me go,” she ordered, and her voice shook.
Instantly his mood changed. He thrust his hairy gorilla-like head close
to hers. “When I get good an’ ready, missie. Think you can boss Sam
Dutch, do you? Think I’ve forgot how you shot me onct when I took you in
outa the storm? Think I care for yore cry-baby ways? You’ll do jest like
I say.”
“I’m going home. Don’t you dare stop me.” She could not make her
quavering voice quite as confident as she would have liked.
“Home. So you’re going home?” His slow thoughts struck another tangent.
“Good enough. I’ll trail along an’ see you get there safe, missie. Like
to say ‘How-d’ye-do’ to Colonel McClintock whilst I’m there.” His teeth
uncovered in a snarl of rage.
Vicky’s fears for herself fled, swallowed up in the horror of a picture
struck to life by her imagination. She saw Scot lying helpless on his
bed with this ruffian gloating over him. A flash of memory carried her
back to another scene. This time it was Hugh who lay at the ruffian’s
mercy—Hugh spent and all but senseless, his muscles paralyzed by the
cold of the blizzard that raged outside.
A week before this Scot had been moved from the hotel to a small private
house put at the family’s disposal by friends who were temporarily in
California. He and Mollie would be alone. She dared not lead the killer
to the house. What ought she to do?
The killer now knew what was the first thing he meant to do. He would go
and finish the job he had left undone some weeks earlier.
“Home it is, m’dear. Hot foot it. I got no time to waste. Where do you
live?”
Her thoughts flew. Since he did not know where the house was she could
mark time at least. They were close to a corner. She turned to the
right.
“This way,” she said, and led him away from the house where Scot was
lying in bed.
He shuffled beside her, still holding fast to her wrist. His presence
was repugnant to her. The touch of his flesh made hers creep.
“You’re hurting me. Why don’t you let me go? I’ll not run away,” she
promised.
“I know you’ll not—if you don’t git a chance, sweetie.” His fangs
showed again in an evil grin. “If I hurt you some it ain’t a
circumstance to the way you hurt me onct. I ain’t aimin’ to let you play
me no tricks like you done then.”
They came to a house, set a little back from the road in a young
orchard. Victoria opened the gate and they walked in. Her brain had
registered an inspiration. Straight to the porch she went.
Dutch warned her. “Remember. No tricks, missie. You lead right into the
room where he is an’ don’t say a word. Un’erstand?”
“Yes. You’ll promise not to hurt him?”
“My business. I got an account to settle with both them McClintocks.”
“At any rate, you won’t hurt anybody else in the house,” she said
faintly. “You’ve got to promise that.”
“Suits me. I ain’t intendin’ to run wild.”
“Swear it,” she insisted.
He swore it.
Vicky, still with his hateful fingers about her wrist, opened the door
and walked into the house. At her touch a second door swung. Before
Dutch could recover from the surprise of what he saw, he had moved
forward with the girl into a room.
A man was sitting at a desk writing. He looked up, astonished at this
interruption. The man was Father Marston.
“He wants me to take him to Scot,” Vicky said simply.
Her explanation sufficed. Dutch, a many times killer, stood before him
with a drawn revolver in his hand.
The minister rose. “So you brought him here instead. Well done, Vicky.”
The desperado ripped out a violent oath. “Make a fool of Sam Dutch, will
you?”
His fingers moved up to the fleshy part of the girl’s forearm and
tightened. She could not keep back a cry of pain.
Marston stepped forward. He had served through the war as a chaplain and
the spirit of a soldier was in him.
“Hands off, Dutch!”
The teeth of the bad man ground together audibly. “You sittin’ in,
Parson?” he asked in a thick, furious voice.
“Yes. Take your hands off her.”
The gaunt gray-eyed preacher faced the killer’s rage and overmatched it.
He had both moral courage and the physical to back it.
“Where’s Scot McClintock?” demanded Dutch.
“We’ll take that up when you’ve turned Miss Lowell loose.”
“By God, you’re not runnin’ this.”
“Get your hand away.”
The bully felt that he either had to kill this man or do as he said. He
dare not shoot him down. Father Marston was too well beloved in Nevada.
His was one of those staunch souls which commanded an immense respect.
Back of him now the gunman felt the whole weight of civilized opinion in
the state. It was a spiritual power too potent to be ignored.
The fingers loosened from Vicky’s arm and fell away.
“Where’s McClintock at?” the man with the revolver asked again hoarsely.
“First tell me this. What are you doing here? Why aren’t you in prison
where you belong?”
“Because I broke out. Tha’s why.”
“Then I’ll give you a piece of advice. Get out of town. Now. Quick as
you can hit the road.”
“I’m askin’ you where McClintock’s at, Parson.”
Again the eyes of the two battled.
“Sam Dutch, your name stands in this country for murder, treachery,
drunkenness, and all other evils known to man. You’re as black-hearted a
villain as ever I knew. If you’ve got one redeeming trait I don’t know
what it is. Now, listen. You’re going to get out of town now. Right
away. You’re not going to murder Scot McClintock. You’ll walk with me
straight to Doc Benton’s stable. You’ll arrange with him for a horse.
And you’ll drop into the saddle and light a shuck out of Carson.” The
voice of the preacher rang harsh. It carried conviction, but Dutch
wanted to know what was back of this edict.
“Who says I’ll do all that?” he sneered.
“I say it. If you don’t I’ll rouse the town and hang you in front of the
jail. That’s a promise made before God, Dutch. I’ll keep it, so help
me.”
The killer’s mind dodged in and out cunningly and could find no way of
escape. He dared not kill Marston. He dared not let him go out and rouse
the town against him. Though he was armed and Marston was without a
weapon, it was he who was defenceless and the preacher who held him
covered.
The bad man threw up his hands. “All right. You got me, Parson. I’ll
light a shuck, but God help you if I ever get you right. I’ll sure fix
you so you’ll never do me another meanness.”
The preacher stood before him straight as a sycamore.
“My life is in God’s hand, Sam Dutch. You strut across the stage of
life, poor braggart, and think yourself mighty powerful. You’re no more
than a straw in the wind. His eye is on you, man. You can’t lift a
finger without His permission. And in His scripture He has said a word
about you. ‘Whoso sheddeth man’s blood, by man shall his blood be shed.’
And again, ‘All they that take the sword shall perish with the sword.’
That’s His plain promise, Dutch. I tell you that your hour is close.
It’s at hand. Repent and flee from the wrath to come.”
Marston had the orator’s gift of impressive speech. As he faced the
killer, hand lifted in a gesture of prophecy, eyes flashing the fire of
his conviction, Vicky felt a shiver run over her. The preacher was, so
she felt for the moment, a messenger of destiny pronouncing doom upon a
lost soul. In the light of what so swiftly followed she was to recall
many times his burning and passionate prediction.
Dutch sneered, to cover the chill that passed through him. “The bullet
ain’t moulded yet that can kill Sam Dutch,” he bragged.