IN WHICH THE TRUTH BEGINS TO BARE ITSELF
It was nearly noon of the next day when Helen awoke to find that
McNamara had ridden in from the Creek and stopped for breakfast with
the Judge. He had asked for her, but on hearing the tale of the night's
adventure would not allow her to be disturbed. Later, he and the Judge
had gone away together.
Although her judgment approved the step she had contemplated the night
before, still the girl now felt a strange reluctance to meet McNamara.
It is true that she knew no ill of him, except that implied in the
accusations of certain embittered men; and she was aware that every
strong and aggressive character makes enemies in direct proportionate
the qualities which lend him greatness. Nevertheless, she was aware of
an inner conflict that she had not foreseen. This man who so
confidently believed that she would marry him did not dominate her
consciousness.
She had ridden much of late, taking long, solitary gallops beside the
shimmering sea that she loved so well, or up the winding valleys into
the foot-hills where echoed the roar of swift waters or glinted the
flash of shovel blades. This morning her horse was lame, so she
determined to walk. In her early rambles she had looked timidly askance
at the rough men she met till she discovered their genuine respect and
courtesy. The most unkempt among them were often college-bred,
although, for that matter, the roughest of the miners showed abundant
consideration for a woman. So she was glad to allow the men to talk to
her with the fine freedom inspired by the new country and its wide
spaces. The wilderness breeds a chivalry all its own.
Thus there seemed to be no danger abroad, though they had told the girl
of mad dogs which roamed the city, explaining that the hot weather
affects powerfully the thick-coated, shaggy "malamoots." This is the
land of the dog, and whereas in winter his lot is to labor and shiver
and starve, in summer he loafs, fights, grows fat, and runs mad with
the heat.
Helen walked far and, returning, chose an unfamiliar course through the
outskirts of the town to avoid meeting any of the women she knew,
because of that vivid memory of the night before. As she walked swiftly
along she thought that she heard faint cries far behind her. Looking
up, she noted that it was a lonely, barren quarter and that the only
figure in sight was a woman some distance away. A few paces farther on
the shouts recurred--more plainly this time, and a gunshot sounded.
Glancing back, she saw several men running, one bearing a smoking
revolver, and heard, nearer still, the snarling hubbub of fighting
dogs. In a flash the girl's curiosity became horror, for, as she
watched, one of the dogs made a sudden dash through the now subdued
group of animals and ran swiftly along the planking on which she stood.
It was a handsome specimen of the Eskimo malamoot--tall, gray, and
coated like a wolf, with the speed, strength, and cunning of its
cousin. Its head hung low and swung from side to side as it trotted,
the motion flecking foam and slaver. The creature had scattered the
pack, and now, swift, menacing, relentless, was coming towards Helen.
There was no shelter near, no fence, no house, save the distant one
towards which the other woman was making her way. The men, too far away
to protect her, shouted hoarse warnings.
Helen did not scream nor hesitate--she turned and ran, terror-stricken,
towards the distant cottage. She was blind with fright and felt an
utter certainty that the dog would attack her before she could reach
safety. Yes--there was the quick patter of his pads close up behind
her; her knees weakened; the sheltering door was yet some yards away.
But a horse, tethered near the walk, reared and snorted as the flying
pair drew near. The mad creature swerved, leaped at the horse's legs,
and snapped in fury. Badly frightened at this attack, the horse lunged
at his halter, broke it, and galloped away; but the delay had served
for Helen, weak and faint, to reach the door. She wrenched at the knob.
It was locked. As she turned hopelessly away, she saw that the other
woman was directly behind her, and was, in her turn, awaiting the mad
animal's onslaught, but calmly, a tiny revolver in her hand.
"Shoot!" screamed Helen. "Why don't you shoot?" The little gun spoke,
and the dog spun around, snarling and yelping. The woman fired several
times more before it lay still, and then remarked, calmly, as she
"broke" the weapon and ejected the shells:
"The calibre is too small to be good for much."
Helen sank down upon the steps.
"How well you shoot!" she gasped. Her eyes were on the gray bundle
whose death agonies had thrust it almost to her feet. The men had run
up and were talking excitedly, but after a word with them the woman
turned to Helen.
"You must come in for a moment and recover yourself," she said, and led
her inside.
It was a cosey room in which the girl found herself--more than
that--luxurious. There was a piano with scattered music, and many of
the pretty, feminine things that Helen had not seen since leaving home.
The hostess had stepped behind some curtains for an instant and was
talking to her from the next room.
"That is the third mad dog I have seen this month. Hydrophobia is
becoming a habit in this neighborhood." She returned, bearing a tiny
silver tray with decanter and glasses.
"You're all unstrung, but this brandy will help you--if you don't
object to a swallow of it. Then come right in here and lie down for a
moment and you'll be all right." She spoke with such genuine kindness
and sympathy that Helen flashed a grateful glance at her. She was tall,
slender, and with a peculiar undulating suggestion in her movements, as
though she had been bred to the clinging folds of silken garments.
Helen watched the charm of her smile, the friendly solicitude of her
expression, and felt her heart warm towards this one kind woman in Nome.
"You're very good," she answered; "but I'm all right now. I was badly
frightened. It was wonderful, your saving me." She followed the other's
graceful motion as she placed her burden on the table, and in doing so
gazed squarely at a photograph of Roy Glenister.
"Oh--!" Helen exclaimed, then paused as it flashed over her who this
girl was. She looked at her quickly. Yes, probably men would consider
the woman beautiful, with that smile. The revelation came with a shock,
and she arose, trying to mask her confusion.
"Thank you so much for your kindness. I'm quite myself now and I must
go."
Her change of face could not escape the quick perceptions of one
schooled by experience in the slights of her sex. Times without number
Cherry Malotte had marked that subtle, scornful change in other women,
and reviled herself for heeding it. But in some way this girl's manner
hurt her worst of all. She betrayed no sign, however, save a widening
of the eyes and a certain fixity of smile as she answered:
"I wish you would stay until you are rested, Miss--" She paused with
out-stretched hand.
"Chester. My name is Helen Chester. I'm Judge Stillman's niece,"
hurried the other, in embarrassment.
Cherry Malotte withdrew her proffered hand and her face grew hard and
hateful.
"Oh! So you are Miss Chester--and I--saved you!" She laughed harshly.
Helen strove for calmness. "I'm sorry you feel that way," she said,
coolly. "I appreciate your service to me." She moved towards the door.
"Wait a moment. I want to talk to you." Then, as Helen paid no heed,
the woman burst out, bitterly: "Oh, don't be afraid! I know you are
committing an unpardonable sin by talking to me, but no one will see
you, and in your code the crime lies in being discovered. Therefore,
you're quite safe. That's what makes me an outcast--I was found out. I
want you to know, however, that, bad as I am, I'm better than you, for
I'm loyal to those that like me, and I don't betray my friends."
"I don't pretend to understand you," said Helen, coldly.
"Oh yes, you do! Don't assume such innocence. Of course it's your role,
but you can't play it with me." She stepped in front of her visitor,
placing her back against the door, while her face was bitter and
mocking. "The little service I did you just now entitles me to a
privilege, I suppose, and I'm going to take advantage of it to tell you
how badly your mask fits. Dreadfully rude of me, isn't it? You're in
with a fine lot of crooks, and I admire the way you've done your share
of the dirty work, but when you assume these scandalized, supervirtuous
airs it offends me."
"Let me out!"
"I've done bad things," Cherry continued, unheedingly, "but I was
forced into them, usually, and I never, deliberately, tried to wreck a
man's life just for his money."
"What do you mean by saying that I have betrayed my friends and wrecked
anybody's life?" Helen demanded, hotly.
"Bah! I had you sized up at the start, but Roy couldn't see it. Then
Struve told me what I hadn't guessed. A bottle of wine, a woman, and
that fool will tell all he knows. It's a great game McNamara's playing
and he did well to get you in on it, for you're clever, your nerve is
good, and your make-up is great for the part. I ought to know, for I've
turned a few tricks myself. You'll pardon this little burst of
feeling--professional pique. I'm jealous of your ability, that's all.
However, now that you realize we're in the same class, don't look down
on me hereafter." She opened the door and bowed her guest out with
elaborate mockery.
Helen was too bewildered and humiliated to make much out of this
vicious and incoherent attack except the fact that Cherry Malotte
accused her of a part in this conspiracy which every one seemed to
believe existed. Here again was that hint of corruption which she
encountered on all sides. This might be merely a woman's jealousy--and
yet she said Struve had told her all about it--that a bottle of wine
and a pretty face would make the lawyer disclose everything. She could
believe it from what she knew and had heard of him. The feeling that
she was groping in the dark, that she was wrapped in a mysterious woof
of secrecy, came over her again as it had so often of late. If Struve
talked to that other woman, why wouldn't he talk to her? She paused,
changing her direction towards Front Street, revolving rapidly in her
mind as she went her course of action. Cherry Malotte believed her to
be an actress. Very well--she would prove her judgment right.
She found Struve busy in his private office, but he leaped to his feet
on her entrance and came forward, offering her a chair.
"Good-morning, Miss Helen. You have a fine color, considering the night
you passed. The Judge told me all about the affair; and let me state
that you're the pluckiest girl I know."
She smiled grimly at the thought of what made her cheeks glow, and
languidly loosened the buttons of her jacket.
"I suppose you're very busy, you lawyer man?" she inquired.
"Yes--but not too busy to attend to anything you want."
"Oh, I didn't come on business," she said, lightly. "I was out walking
and merely sauntered in."
"Well, I appreciate that all the more," he said, in an altered tone,
twisting his chair about. "I'm more than delighted." She judged she was
getting on well from the way his professionalism had dropped off.
"Yes, I get tired of talking to uncle and Mr. McNamara. They treat me
as though I were a little girl."
"When do you take the fatal step?"
"What step do you mean?"
"Your marriage. When does it occur? You needn't hesitate," he added.
"McNamara told we about it a month ago."
He felt his throat gingerly at the thought, but his eyes brightened
when she answered, lightly:
"I think you are mistaken. He must have been joking."
For some time she led him on adroitly, talking of many things, in a way
to make him wonder at her new and flippant humor. He had never dreamed
she could be like this, so tantalizingly close to familiarity, and yet
so maddeningly aloof and distant. He grew bolder in his speech.
"How are things going with us?" she questioned, as his warmth grew
pronounced. "Uncle won't talk and Mr. McNamara is as close-mouthed as
can be, lately."
He looked at her quickly. "In what respect?"
She summoned up her courage and walked past the ragged edge of
uncertainty.
"Now, don't you try to keep me in short dresses, too. It's getting
wearisome. I've done my part and I want to know what the rest of you
are doing." She was prepared for any answer.
"What do you want to know?" he asked, cautiously.
"Everything. Don't you think I can hear what people are saying?"
"Oh, that's it! Well, don't you pay any attention to what people say."
She recognized her mistake and continued, hurriedly:
"Why shouldn't I? Aren't we all in this together? I object to being
used and then discarded. I think I'm entitled to know how the scheme is
working. Don't you think I can keep my mouth shut?"
"Of course," he laughed, trying to change the subject of their talk;
but she arose and leaned against the desk near him, vowing that she
would not leave the office without piercing some part of this mystery.
His manner strengthened her suspicion that there WAS something behind
it all. This dissipated, brilliant creature knew the situation
thoroughly; and yet, though swayed by her efforts, he remained chained
by caution. She leaned forward and smiled at him.
"You're just like the others, aren't you? You won't give me any
satisfaction at all."
"Give, give, give," said Struve, cynically. "That's always the woman's
cry. Give me this--give me that. Selfish sex! Why don't you offer
something in return? Men are traders, women usurers. You are curious,
hence miserable. I can help you, therefore I should, do it for a smile.
You ask me to break my promises and risk my honor on your caprice.
Well, that's woman-like, and I'll do it. I'll put myself in your power,
but I won't do it gratis. No, we'll trade."
"It isn't curiosity," she denied, indignantly. "It is my due."
"No; you've heard the common talk and grown suspicious, that's all. You
think I know something that will throw a new light or a new shadow on
everything you have in the world, and you're worked up to such a
condition that you can't take your own people's word; and, on the other
hand, you can't go to strangers, so you come to me. Suppose I told you
I had the papers you brought to me last spring in that safe and that
they told the whole story--whether your uncle is unimpeachable or
whether he deserved hanging by that mob. What would you do, eh? What
would you give to see them? Well, they're there and ready to speak for
themselves. If you're a woman you won't rest till you've seen them.
Will you trade?"
"Yes, yes! Give them to me," she cried, eagerly, at which a wave of
crimson rushed up to his eyes and he rose abruptly from his chair. He
made towards her, but she retreated to the wall, pale and wide-eyed.
"Can't you see," she flung at him, "that I MUST know?"
He paused. "Of course I can, but I want a kiss to bind the bargain--to
apply on account." He reached for her hand with his own hot one, but
she pushed him away and slipped past him towards the door.
"Suit yourself," said he, "but if I'm not mistaken, you'll never rest
till you've seen those papers. I've studied you, and I'll place a bet
that you can't marry McNamara nor look your uncle in the eye till you
know the truth. You might do either if you KNEW them to be crooks, but
you couldn't if you only suspected it--that's the woman. When you get
ready, come back; I'll show you proof, because I don't claim to be
anything but what I am--Wilton Struve, bargainer of some mean ability.
When they come to inscribe my headstone I hope they can carve thereon
with truth, 'He got value received.'"
"You're a panther," she said, loathingly.
"Graceful and elegant brute, that," he laughed. "Affectionate and full
of play, but with sharp teeth and sharper claws. To follow out the
idea, which pleases me, I believe the creature owes no loyalty to its
fellows and hunts alone. Now, when you've followed this conspiracy out
and placed the blame where it belongs, won't you come and tell me about
it? That door leads into an outer hall which opens into the street. No
one will see you come or go."
As she hurried away she wondered dazedly why she had stayed to listen
so long. What a monster he was! His meaning was plain, had always been
so from the first day he laid eyes upon her, and he was utterly
conscienceless. She had known all this; and yet, in her proud, youthful
confidence, and in her need, every hour more desperate and urgent, to
know the truth, she had dared risk herself with him. Withal, the man
was shrewd and observant and had divined her mental condition with
remarkable sagacity. She had failed with him; but the girl now knew
that she could never rest till she found an answer to her questions.
She MUST kill this suspicion that ate into her so. She thought tenderly
of her uncle's goodness to her, clung with despairing faith to the last
of her kin. The blood ties of the Chesters were close and she felt in
dire need of that lost brother who was somewhere in this mysterious
land--need of some one in whom ran the strain that bound her to the
weak old man up yonder. There was McNamara; but how could he help her,
how much did she know of him, this man who was now within the darkest
shadow of her new suspicions?
Feeling almost intolerably friendless and alone, weakened both by her
recent fright and by her encounter with Struve, Helen considered as
calmly as her emotions would allow and decided that this was no day in
which pride should figure. There were facts which it was imperative she
should know, and immediately; therefore, a few minutes later, she
knocked at the door of Cherry Malotte. When the girl appeared, Helen
was astonished to see that she had been crying. Tears burn hottest and
leave plainest trace in eyes where they come most seldom. The younger
girl could not guess the tumult of emotion the other had undergone
during her absence, the utter depths of self-abasement she had
fathomed, for the sight of Helen and her fresh young beauty had roused
in the adventuress a very tempest of bitterness and jealousy. Whether
Helen Chester were guilty or innocent, how could Glenister hesitate
between them? Cherry had asked herself. Now she stared at her visitor
inhospitably and without sign.
"Will you let me come in?" Helen asked her. "I have something to say to
you."
When they were inside, Cherry Malotte stood and gazed at her visitor
with inscrutable eyes and stony face.
"It isn't easy for me to come back," Helen began, "but I felt that I
had to. If you can help me, I hope you will. You said that you knew a
great wrong was being done. I have suspected it, but I didn't know, and
I've been afraid to doubt my own people. You said I had a part in
it--that I'd betrayed my friends. Wait a moment," she hurried on, at
the other's cynical smile. "Won't you tell me what you know and what
you think my part has been? I've heard and seen things that make me
think--oh, they make me afraid to think, and yet I can't find the
TRUTH! You see, in a struggle like this, people will make all sorts of
allegations, but do they KNOW, have they any proof, that my uncle has
done wrong?"
"Is that all?"
"No. You said Struve told you the whole scheme. I went to him and tried
to cajole the story out of him, but--" She shivered at the memory.
"What success did you have?" inquired the listener, oddly curious for
all her cold dislike.
"Don't ask me. I hate to think of it."
Cherry laughed cruelly. "So, failing there, you came back to me, back
for another favor from the waif. Well, Miss Helen Chester, I don't
believe a word you've said and I'll tell you nothing. Go back to the
uncle and the rawboned lover who sent you, and inform them that I'll
speak when the time comes. They think I know too much, do they?--so
they've sent you to spy? Well, I'll make a compact. You play your game
and I'll play mine. Leave Glenister alone and I'll not tell on
McNamara. Is it a bargain?"
"No, no, no! Can't you SEE? That's not it. All I want is the truth of
this thing."
"Then go back to Struve and get it. He'll tell you; I won't. Drive your
bargain with him--you're able. You've fooled better men--now, see what
you can do with him."
Helen left, realizing the futility of further effort, though she felt
that this woman did not really doubt her, but was scourged by jealousy
till she deliberately chose this attitude.
Reaching her own house, she wrote two brief notes and called in her Jap
boy from the kitchen.
"Fred, I want you to hunt up Mr. Glenister and give him this note. If
you can't find him, then look for his partner and give the other to
him." Fred vanished, to return in an hour with the letter for Dextry
still in his hand.
"I don' catch dis feller," he explained. "Young mans say he gone, come
back mebbe one, two, 'leven days."
"Did you deliver the one to Mr. Glenister?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"Was there an answer?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"Well, give it to me."
The note read:
"DEAR MISS CHESTER,--A discussion of a matter so familiar to us both as
the Anvil Creek controversy would be useless. If your inclination is
due to the incidents of last night, pray don't trouble yourself. We
don't want your pity. I am,
"Your servant,
"ROY GLENISTER."
As she read the note, Judge Stillman entered, and it seemed to the girl
that he had aged a year for every hour in the last twelve, or else the
yellow afternoon light limned the sagging hollows and haggard lines of
his face most pitilessly. He showed in voice and manner the nervous
burden under which he labored.
"Alec has told me about your engagement, and it lifts a terrible load
from me. I'm mighty glad you're going to marry him. He's a wonderful
man, and he's the only one who can save us."
"What do you mean by that? What are we in danger of?" she inquired,
avoiding discussion of McNamara's announcement.
"Why, that mob, of course. They'll come back. They said so. But Alec
can handle the commanding officer at the post, and, thanks to him,
we'll have soldiers guarding the house hereafter."
"Why--they won't hurt us--"
"Tut, tut! I know what I'm talking about. We're in worse danger now
than ever, and if we don't break up those Vigilantes there'll be
bloodshed--that's what. They're a menace, and they're trying to force
me off the bench so they can take the law into their own hands again.
That's what I want to see you about. They're planning to kill Alec and
me--so he says--and we've got to act quick to prevent murder. Now, this
young Glenister is one of them, and he knows who the rest are. Do you
think you could get him to talk?"
"I don't think I quite understand you," said the girl, through
whitening lips.
"Oh yes, you do. I want the names of the ring-leaders, so that I can
jail them. You can worm it out of that fellow if you try."
Helen looked at the old man in a horror that at first was dumb. "You
ask this of me?" she demanded, hoarsely, at last.
"Nonsense," he said, irritably. "This isn't any time for silly
scruples. It's life or death for me, maybe, and for Alec, too." He said
the last craftily, but she stormed at him:
"It's infamous! You're asking me to betray the very man who saved us
not twelve hours ago. He risked his life for us."
"It isn't treachery at all, it's protection. If we don't get them,
they'll get us. I wouldn't punish that young fellow, but I want the
others. Come, now, you've got to do it."
But she said "No" firmly, and quietly went to her own room, where,
behind the locked door, she sat for a long time staring with unseeing
eyes, her hands tight clenched in her lap. At last she whispered:
"I'm afraid it's true. I'm afraid it's true."
She remained hidden during the dinner-hour, and pleaded a headache when
McNamara called in the early evening. Although she had not seen him
since he left her the night before, bearing her tacit promise to wed
him, yet how could she meet him now with the conviction growing on her
hourly that he was a master-rogue? She wrestled with the thought that
he and her uncle, her own uncle who stood in the place of a father,
were conspirators. And yet, at memory of the Judge's cold-blooded
request that she should turn traitress, her whole being was revolted.
If he could ask a thing like that, what other heartless, selfish act
might he not be capable of? All the long, solitary evening she kept her
room, but at last, feeling faint, slipped down-stairs in search of
Fred, for she had eaten nothing since her late breakfast.
Voices reached her from the parlor, and as she came to the last step
she froze there in an attitude of listening. The first sentence she
heard through the close-drawn curtains banished all qualms at
eavesdropping. She stood for many breathless minutes drinking in the
plot that came to her plainly from within, then turned, gathered up her
skirts, and tiptoed back to her room. Here she made haste madly,
tearing off her house clothes and donning others.
She pressed her face to the window and noted that the night was like a
close-hung velvet pall, without a star in sight. Nevertheless, she
wound a heavy veil about her hat and face before she extinguished the
light and stepped into the hall. Hearing McNamara's "Good-night" at the
front-door, she retreated again while her uncle slowly mounted the
stairs and paused before her chamber. He called her name softly, but
when she did not answer continued on to his own room. When he was
safely within she descended quietly, went out, and locked the
front-door behind her, placing the key in her bosom. She hurried now,
feeling her way through the thick gloom in a panic, while in her mind
was but one frightened thought: "I'll be too late. I'll be too late."