The Breakaway
The hour that followed was a busy one. Betty was whisked away by Phil
to Mrs. Clunie's for a good, substantial home-made dinner and a
general overhaul. Sol rushed home for his new, check suit, then off to
the registrar's for the marriage license accompanied by Jim. Phil next
unearthed the valiant Smiler from the basement of a Chinese restaurant
in Wynd Alley where he was busy sampling the current day's bill of
fare, gratis. Phil hauled him off to the barber's for a wash and a
haircut, then to the O.K. Supply Store for new clothes, over and
under, which set the poor dumb little rascal wondering as to what sin
he had committed to warrant the infliction.
The Reverend Anthony Stormer--the venerable old Lutheran pastor--was
next informed of the expected arrivals; and, by the time Jim came
along upholding Sol in a state of nervous prostration, all was in
readiness for the ceremony.
Ten minutes later, Mrs. Clunie arrived escorting Betty Jornsen;
pretty, buxom and beaming, and as full of confidence as Smiler was of
Chinese noodles.
Smiler could not understand then what the ceremony was all about, nor
did he seem to gain any further enlightenment on the matter at any
later date.
It was all over within two hours of Betty's arrival in Vernock.
Sol was for sending Betty to her new home till supper time, intending
himself to go back to the smithy with Phil and get down to the heavy
work that lay there awaiting completion. But Phil and Jim would have
none of it. And when Betty and Mrs. Clunie backed them up, there was
nothing left for Sol to do but to obey; so, with three or four
hand-bags--half of them borrowed--they were bundled into the Kelowna
stage, and nothing more was heard of them for two weeks.
Smiler attended to his own needs as he had had to do often before, and
he was back in the basement of the Chinese restaurant in Wynd Alley,
finishing his dinner sampling,--with his new rig-out rolled up in a
bundle under his arm and garbed in his much beloved rags and tatters.
That was the first of a dozen occasions upon which Smiler was dressed
up by various well-meaning members of the community and it was the
first of twelve occasions that Smiler resented the interference and
went back, at the earliest opportunity, to his old, familiar and
well-ventilated draperies.
The next fourteen days were desperate ones for Phil. From the moment
he got back to the smithy, repair work piled in on him. Reapers and
binders gave way in various parts and had to be put to rights at once,
for it was nearing the end of the harvest season and the cold weather
was already creeping along. Every horse in the Valley seemed suddenly
to require reshoeing; wagon springs broke; buggy tires came off or
wore out as they had never done before; morning, noon and night Phil
slaved trying to cope with the emergency. There was no help that he
could call in, and he would not for worlds have sent word to Sol to
end his holiday a moment sooner that might be.
He snatched his meals when and where he could, while everyone
clamoured for the immediate execution of his requirements. Finally
Phil got up so early and he worked so late, that he made his bed for
the time being on a bundle of straw covered with sacking, in a corner
beside the forge.
He was young and strong, and he knew his work. He loved the rush of it
and he gloried in the doing of things that other men would have
groaned at. Above all, he was glad to think that he was now considered
of some value in a work-a-day community.
It did not occur to him that day and night labour, even for a little
time, had a terribly wearing effect on the physique; that he was
losing weight with every twenty-four hours of it and that his cheeks
grew paler and a little more gaunt every day of that week or so of
extra push.
He chased Jim from the smithy as a worthless time-waster--whenever
that worthy showed face--and Jim, for the nonce, had to find
companionship and entertainment in his world of Penny Dreadful
creation and his Love Knot Untanglements.
One glorious gleam of sunshine burst in on Phil's world of toil and
set his muscles dancing and his heart singing in merry time to the
ring of his hammer on the anvil. A perfumed note, bearing an
invitation to him from Eileen Pederstone to attend a reception on the
sixth evening of the month following, at her new home on the hill, was
the dainty messenger of joy.
And what cared Phil if Brenchfield should be there? He had held his
own before;--he could do it again. What counted all this hard work?--a
puff of wind;--he was going to Eileen Pederstone's. What matter it how
the world wagged?--a tolling bell;--he would dance again with the
dainty, little vision with the merry brown eyes, the twinkling feet
and the ready tongue. Ho!--life was good; life was great! Life was
heaven itself!
Come on! Fill the smithy and the yard with your horses, and I'll shoe
all of them! Block the roads and the by-ways with your wagons and
buggies;--what care I for toil? Heap your broken reapers and binders a
mountain high, and I'll stand on top of them before nightfall, with my
hammer held defiantly to the heavens and shout "Excelsior, the work is
done." The Fairy Princess has stopped in her procession; she looks my
way; she smiles: her galloping courier brings a perfumed favour; she
beckons me. Ah, surely! what a Paradise, after all, is this we live
in!
In a sweet little world of dreams--in which even a blacksmith may live
at times--Phil battled with his tasks and overcame them one by one.
And it was little he cared about the week's growth of beard that sat
on his gaunt face, or for the sweat that ran over his forehead and
splashed to his great, bared chest. Pride did not chide him for hands
that were horny and begrimed, nor for arms that were red and scarred
from the bite of flying sparks.
But it was thus that the lady of his dreams found him, as she wafted
in from a gallop over the ranges, with a shoe in her hand and leading
a horse that wore only three.
A smile was on her happy face, her cheeks were aglow and her eyes were
dancing in childish delight.
Little wonder then that Phil's heart stopped, then raced with all the
mad fury of a runaway; little wonder his face grew pale and his eyes
gleamed as he moved back against the wall beside his furnace.
And Eileen's merry smile faded away like the heat of an Indian
Summer's day before the cool of the approaching night. She stared with
widening eyes at the figure before her, for she saw, not the young,
sturdy, country blacksmith, but a picture of the past, a fugitive
from the police, a gaunt tired man, spent and almost beaten, seeking
sanctuary.
And on this occasion, she did not take time to consider how much the
man before her still craved for sanctuary.
Her lips parted in fear. Her hand went to her heart and she stepped
slowly backward toward the door.
"Oh,--oh,--oh!" was all she uttered.
She dropped the horseshoe at her feet, and, pressing her hands to her
eyes as if to shut out a sight that was unwelcome, she ran the
remaining distance to the door, pulled herself into her saddle and
rode quickly away.
She did not come back, as some might have done, to view the havoc she
had wrought. She did not know even that she had wrought havoc; but
three hours later, faithful, dumb, little Smiler found the man he so
much adored lying on a pile of horseshoes, breathing scarcely at all,
and strangely huddled.
That was the day that big, happy Sol Hanson came back to bear his
share of the load--and, for the week that followed, he had to bear all
of it, for Phil's overtaxed brain refused to awaken for seventy-two
hours and his overworked body declined to limber up for seventy-two
hours more.
On the morning of Phil's return to the smithy, at a moment when Sol's
back was turned, the little perfumed note--which had brought the
message from Fairyland--was dropped on the glowing furnace fire and
thrust with an iron deep into the red coals.
With it, Phil fancied he was thrusting the little fairy dream, and he
felt ever so glad of it. But he did not know, foolish man, that the
fires have never been kindled that can burn dreams from Fairyland;
that nothing can keep them from whispering back, at unexpected
moments, and beckoning to the dreamer through the flames; ay, even
through the cold, grey, dead ashes, when these are all that remain of
the dancing passion-fires that have revelled and rioted themselves to
exhaustion and oblivion.
On the evening of the reception at John Royce Pederstone's, Phil
failed to land home from work at his usual time, and, as the hour drew
near when they should be leaving, Jim Langford worried himself not a
little, for he knew that Phil had received an invitation--the same as
he had done--and he had noticed also how happy his friend had seemed
over it. Of course, of the recognition at the smithy between Eileen
and Phil he knew nothing, and even if he had known he would not have
understood, for, so far, he had not even guessed at Phil's previous
history nor at the connection there was between Phil and Graham
Brenchfield.
Before going up to Pederstone's, Jim called at the smithy, but found
the place closed up for the night. He hurried along to Sol Hanson's
little home, but the lovebirds there could tell him no more than that
Phil had quit work at the accustomed hour, that Smiler was also a
truant; which made it possible that the two had gone off together on
some boyish adventure. There was nothing left for Jim to do after that
but to go to Royce Pederstone's alone, in the hope that Phil would be
there or would show up later.
Everyone in Vernock of any importance was at the reception, in the
company of his wife or sweetheart; but there was no sign of Phil. And
the hours wore quickly on without his appearing.
Eileen--bright, blushing, buoyant and busy--found time to corner Jim.
"What has happened to Mr. Ralston? I--I thought he would be sure to be
here."
Jim thought her tone was just a little strained and that her colour
went somewhat suddenly.
"I haven't the slightest idea! He didn't show up to-night at home; yet
he has been aching for this little affair since he received your
invitation."
"Oh, I--I hardly think so, Jim. He is not the man to ache much over
this kind of thing. You don't suppose anything serious could have
happened?" she asked with a show of anxiety.
"I don't. But I'm sure only something serious would keep him away.
However,--what's the good of worrying!--Phil can look out for himself
pretty good."
"Yes,--I daresay!" she said absently, staring at the dancers as they
glided round in the next room.
Jim put his hand on her arm and moved her round to him.
"Eileen,--what is it that is troubling you? You are not so terribly
interested in Phil as all that,--are you?"
She roused herself.
"Me? Oh dear no! Not any more than I am in Sol Hanson, in Mr. Todd,
in--in Jim Langford," she bantered. "Why should I? I know him only in
the most casual of casual ways."
"Have you seen him since he was invited here?" Jim asked bluntly.
"Ye-yes!--just for a moment in the smithy the day he took sick. I
thought,--oh Jim!--I thought possibly he might have misunderstood
something--something that happened there at that time,--but--ah
well!--anyway, it doesn't matter now.
"He does not say very much at any time, does he, Jim? He's a queer
fellow."
"Ay!" said Jim drily, "and you're a queer little fellow yourself,
Eileen,--eh!"
"Do you know anything of him before he came to Vernock?" she inquired
suddenly, with a change of tone.
"Practically nothing! He has kept that a sealed book, and it is none
of my affairs; but I do know that since he came here he has been the
real stuff, and that is good enough for Jim Langford."
She smiled.
"Oh you men! You stand by your pals to the very last ditch; while a
woman will desert her woman friend at the first one.
"Never mind! Let us forget Mr. Ralston meantime.
"Did you hear the news, Jim?--the great news! Daddy,--my own daddy has
been offered the portfolio of Minister of Agriculture on the new
Cabinet. He will be the Honourable John Royce Pederstone. And this his
first session in Parliament too! Isn't it great?"
"Je--hosephat!" Jim jumped up. "And I never heard a thing."
"I don't wonder at that, Jim. Dad only got the wire an hour ago making
the definite offer."
"By jingo!--I must go and give him my congratulations. Here's the
Mayor looking for you, Eileen. I'll leave you to him. I must find your
dad."
And while the reception at John Royce Pederstone's was at its height,
Phil Ralston was trudging the hills alone, coming over the ranges from
Lumby, a village which lay several miles distant, where he had gone by
stage direct from the smithy. He walked in the melancholy enjoyment of
his own thoughts. It did him good--and he knew it--to get off in this
way when things were not going to his liking. It gave him an
opportunity to review himself in the cold blood of retrospect, without
interference; and it gave him time quietly to review the conduct of
others about him; a chance to decide whether he was right or wrong in
the position he had assumed; a chance to plan his future course from
what had already taken place.
It was a crisp, frosty night, with a deep blue velvet dome of
cloudless sky overhead, with star-diamonds that flashed and twinkled
with ever varying colours, until a crescent moon, shaped like the whip
of an orange, rose up over the hills to the east, cold, luminous and
silvery, and paled the lesser twinkling lights into insignificance and
ultimate obscurity.
As Phil topped the last hill overlooking Vernock, his head was high
and so were his spirits, for he had made up his mind that come what
might he would pursue his way calmly and earnestly to the end as he
thought fit, and, if Eileen Pederstone cared to betray his secret, he
would meet that difficulty as he had met others.
He looked down into the town before him, but its usual fairy-like
aspect was absent, for the town fathers were beginning to get frugal
and did not use their electricity on the main streets when the moon
was up or when the snow was lying. Only the smaller lights of the
dwelling houses gave out any signs of life.
He dropped gradually down, then across an orchard and on to the main
highway leading to Vernock.
As he was passing the town jail, his attention was attracted by an
unusual commotion there. Voices were gabbling noisily and quite a
crowd was gathered at the main entrance. He hurried over. The first
man he ran against was Langford, who accosted Phil in a rush of Doric,
which at once informed him that something serious must be wrong.
"Where ha'e ye been, man? I've been pryin' for ye everywhere."
"Walking!" answered Phil shortly. "What's the matter?"
"Matter! De'il tak' it,--I thocht the whole toon kent by this time. I
thocht maybe ye were efter them."
"Well, I'll be hanged!" exclaimed Phil as the truth dawned on him.
"Ay,--ye may weel say it! What did I tell ye? Didna I say they'd never
face trial? The eight o' them broke awa' three or four hours ago. It
was real nicely planned.
"Ye see the airshaft there! It runs richt into the top o' the wall and
ventilates the prison where the men sleep. There was ootside
collusion, of coorse. Standin' on a horse, I guess they threw a rope
into the airshaft from the ootside and it slid richt doon to the
passageway, inside. They say one of the prisoners was a good hand at
pickin' locks and that he did them a' wi' a hairpin. Maybe he did. But
they got oot o' their cells anyway, climbed the rope one at a time,
crawled up the airshaft and out. Just look at that airshaft--it would
hold a half a dozen men at a time nearly. They might as well have left
an open door for them as have that contraption,--no wire protection
over the ends, nothing but hinged lids that anyone can raise at any
time."
"And they're gone?" asked Phil helplessly.
"Gone,--ay! good and gone! Like as no' they're 'ower the border' by
this time, like 'a' the blue bonnets' in the song.
"They had horses waitin' for them."
"But, land sakes, Jim!--where the deuce were the jailers, the police,
all this time?" asked Phil.
Jim laughed.
"Where did ye expect them to be? Chief Palmer was at Royce Pederstone's
reception. Howden--well, it seems Howden had a date on with one of
the Kenora waitresses. Ryans, the jailer, says everything was quiet. He
happened to open an unused cell, where he kept his brooms and things,
and, when he was inside somebody slammed the door on him and locked
him in. A trump-up from beginning to ending, and too thin to keep a
draught out even. Phil, it sure would make one's stomach turn;
politics, justice, protection, the whole thing would seem to be a
farce from start to finish, and we are parties to it ourselves,
aiding and abetting it; too weak or else too lazy to issue even a mild
protest."
"And what is being done now? Who put you on to it?"
"Oh,--that youngster Smiler, as usual. He knows everything that goes
on. The wee deevil came up to Pederstone's. They wouldn't let him in,
but he shot through the door and made for me. Brenchfield was standing
by and saw the dumb show, and understood it quicker than I did, for he
was off like a greyhound, and so was Palmer.
"Before I got down here, he had his own pursuit gang working and they
were away, hot-foot, after the runaways,--perhaps."
"Well,--I guess that ends it," lamented Phil.
"I guess it just does," agreed Jim. "Palmer leading the chase, and
Brenchfield at his ear telling him how to do it before he set out.
Gee, man!--I wish we had been in it, though. There would have been
hell apopping for somebody, for I'm just in the mood."
"But didn't Brenchfield go, too?"
"Not so far as I know! He was here, got them started after much
pow-powing with Palmer; then someone came for him and he went off
again in a hurry. One of the gang, no doubt! Damn them!"
"Oh, oh, oh,--Jim Langford!" interrupted a well-known, melodious voice
at Jim's elbow.
Jim and Phil turned quickly to the speaker.
It was Eileen Pederstone, wrapped up snugly in a warm, fur coat.
Apparently she was alone.
"Great Scot, lassie!--what are you doing here?"
"Good evening, gentlemen!" she said politely.
Phil returned her salutation, with a very uneasy feeling inside.
"Little ladies should be sleeping in their beds," put in Jim in a tone
of admonition.
"I wouldn't mind if I were now," she returned. "I just couldn't resist
coming down here when I heard of the breakaway from jail, and so many
of the men felt they had to rush off from our place.
"I coaxed daddy to bring me down. I lost him somewhere in the crowd
half an hour ago."
"Ugh-huh!--and what else?" inquired Jim.
"Well, I am positively sick of having my dad for a member of
parliament. I never seem to have him to myself for five minutes on
end. I don't know where he has gone to, I'm tired and,--and I'm
looking for some big, strong man to see me home up the hill. Would you
mind, Jim?"
"No, indeed, Eileen! I would be glad to do so,--but unfortunately I
have promised Thompson, the Government Agent, to stay here in charge
till he gets back. But Phil here will see you home, and be delighted
to do so. Eh, Phil?"
"Why--why, certainly! Only too pleased!" said Phil, although he could
have punched Jim's head for putting him in such a predicament. He half
hoped that Eileen Pederstone would find an excuse, but instead, she
accepted the proffered service without demur.
They started off immediately. Neither spoke for a hundred yards or so,
for a constraint seemed to be holding both back; the one did not know
of anything fitting to say, and the other had so much to say that she
was at a loss to know how or where to begin.
Womanlike, Eileen was first to break the silence.
"I was sorry, Mr. Ralston, that you were too busy to come to our place
to-night--or, I should say, last night, for it is morning now."
"I wasn't exactly too busy," returned Phil frankly. "I walked the
hills for the good of my health, and I enjoyed myself splendidly."
"Oh!--I thought--I thought you would be sure to come, if only for
daddy's sake,--unless something serious would prevent you," said the
young lady slowly.
It was dark and impossible for either one to see the other clearly, so
they had to be guided by the voice alone.
"Yes,--I guess probably I should have come, but----"
Eileen interrupted him.
"Mr. Ralston,--don't let us fence any more. That's what everybody does
nowadays. It isn't honest. Can't we be honest?"
"Of course we can, Miss Pederstone! I am glad you put it so plainly.
Now, if you had been in my shoes,--would you have come?"
"Oh, please don't put it that way. We have gone through too much for
that. We know too much of each other for argument."
"You mean, you know too much about me," corrected Phil, a little
bitterly.
"Yes!--and, believe me or not as you will, I never thought, I never
guessed--until--until I saw you that afternoon in the smithy,
tired-out, begrimed, your hair awry and your clothes loose about
you--I never dreamed that you--that you--that----"
"That I was the escaped convict you befriended!"
Eileen put her hand on his arm.
"Mr. Ralston,--why do you have to be so callous; why are you so severe
with yourself?"
There was a touch of irony in the short laugh Phil gave.
"One can't afford to be otherwise with one's self," he retorted. "It
is a privilege one is permitted to take."
"It is a privilege you have no right to take and--and I am so sorry if
I hurt your feelings that afternoon. I did not think for a second how
you might misconstrue my behaviour, although--although I could see it
all afterwards. Won't you please understand me? I was so surprised, so
taken aback,--the picture returned to me so suddenly--that I could not
think properly. I just had to run out into the open and away, in order
to pull myself together."
Phil walked along by her side, up the hill, without answering.
"Won't you believe me?" she pleaded.
"I can never forget that you were kind to me when I needed it most."
"Then you believe me," she reiterated, "and you will believe that I
shall never, never, never tell anyone your secret?"
The moon sailed out behind the clouds, and Phil looked down and saw a
pale, earnest face searching his.
"Yes!--I do believe you," he answered. "I could not do anything else
now."
"Thanks ever so much!" Eileen smiled.
And with that smile, the ache that had been at Phil's heart for some
days took wings and flew away to the Land of Delusion from whence it
came.
"May I ask just one little question before we bury that small bit of
the past?" Eileen asked.
"Yes!--what is it?"
"Does anyone else up here know that you are the same person who--who
was recaptured that night?"
"Yes!--one other knows."
"Jim Langford?"
"No, not Jim--although I think I may have to tell him some day. It is
awkward at times."
"Your secret would be safe with him."
"I know it would."
"If it isn't Jim who knows, it can be only one other," she reasoned,
"Mayor Brenchfield."
"Yes!"
"Is he likely to betray you?"
"He would if he felt free to do it;--but as things stand, he
daren't."
"Oh!"
That simple little word which can mean so many things, was Eileen's
answer.
She sighed, then she brightened up again.
"Well!--that has been got rid of, anyway."
On climbing the steepest part of the hill road, she questioned Phil
once more.
"Do you intend making blacksmithing your life's business?"
"Why? Isn't it a good calling?"
"Oh, yes! My dad was a blacksmith for the most of his life. But I
think you are intended for something different, something bigger than
that. You have had more education, for one thing, than my dear old
daddy had."
Phil laughed.
"That is quite flattering--but your dad has my education beaten a
thousand miles by his experience and shrewdness. I guess I shall have
to keep to blacksmithing until I get some money ahead and until that
'something different' that you speak of, turns up."
"I should dearly love to see you and Jim in partnership. You would
make a great team, for you never quarrel."
"Is that the secret of successful business partnership?"
"I think it is an important one of them."
"I daresay you are right," said Phil. "But what are we to do?"
"What do others do? Look at the men without brains, without even
business ability, who have made money--heaps of it--buying and
selling land right in this Valley, in this town, and who started in
without a dollar. Why,--I could name them by the score;--Fraser &
Somerville; McWilliams; Peter Brixton; McIntyre & Anderson, and even
that good-for-nothing, Rattlesnake Dalton;--why, the town swarms
with them. If they can do it, what could not two smart men, honest,
with up-to-date business methods, do? Property has been changing
owners hand-over-fist lately and I know it is merely the beginning.
Next year property will move faster than ever; money for investment
is pouring in; the people are flocking westward; values are rising;
the ranches are producing more than ever; prices are improving;
irrigation schemes are afoot;--why, it simply cannot be held back.
Dad, Mayor Brenchfield, Ben Todd,--they are all anticipating it."
Phil almost gasped at Eileen's enthusiasm.
"They are the monied land-owners, the vested interests," he put in.
"It suits them to anticipate."
"And, believe me, they will realise," retorted Eileen.
"Almost thou persuadest me to be a real estate agent," he bantered.
"Well,--one thing I do know; no man ever got very far ahead working
for the other fellow. If a man isn't worth more to himself than he is
to someone else, you can bet that someone else is not going to employ
him."
"You talk as if you had worked it all out, Miss Pederstone."
"I have, too!" she went on. "If you are holding down a job at a fair
price, it ought to be a sufficient indication to you that you should
be at it on your own account."
Eileen's ardour set a spark aglow in Phil, but, manlike, he was prone
to ignore it and even to argue against her conclusions.
"You must pardon me if I have said too much," apologised Eileen at
last, "only, only I have tried to speak for your own good, and Jim's,
for there is so much good in Jim that just wants elbow room;--and
besides, knowing what I know, I should like so much to see _you_ make
good."
"I haven't any fear at all of the ultimate 'making good,'" replied
Phil. "I have always known that it would come sooner or later. It has
never been merely a hope with me, it has been an inward knowledge
since I was quite a little chap."
"Why then, that knowledge, backed by your every endeavour, cannot fail
to realise great success for you. It is fear of failure that kills so
many successful ventures before their birth. Without fear--which is at
best a cowardly bugaboo, the world would be heaven."
"Well,--heaven is where the devil isn't," said Phil, "so fear must be
the very devil himself."
"Fear is the only devil I know," asserted Eileen.
"I am afraid I have the misfortune to be acquainted with quite a lot
of other little devils," he laughed.
They crossed the road together, along the west-end of Mayor
Brenchfield's local ranch and town house, which was divided from the
new Royce Pederstone property by the big house and grounds which that
eccentric Englishman, Percival DeRue Hannington, had bought for
himself and now occupied in lordly bachelordom.
Several of Brenchfield's stables and out-houses were situated quite
close to the roadway.
In passing, Phil observed a faint light in one of these, which swung
as if in the hands of someone moving about.
As they continued along, he fancied he heard the sound of voices, one
of which rose and fell as if in anger.
His momentary curiosity caused him to stop conversing and to listen
more intently.
One of the voices rose again; there was the distinct sound of the
crack of a whip, followed by a high-pitched throaty articulation as of
an animal in pain. It sounded so helpless and piteous, that Eileen
drew herself up nervously and shuddered. She gripped at Phil's arm.
Ever suspicious where Brenchfield or any of his followers were
concerned, and quickly roused to anger at the slightest abuse shown to
any of the lower creation, Phil acted on the impulse of the moment.
"Please stay here for a second, Eil--Miss Pederstone. I am going over
to see what is doing there."
He turned, vaulted the fence, and bending low he crept cautiously over
to the barn. At the window, he rose slowly upright and peered inside.
The horror of what he saw there remained focussed on his mind ever
afterwards; and always when he turned to that picture in the album of
his memory, his gorge rose and a murderlust that could hardly be
stifled filled his entire being.
He darted to the door of the barn. It was unfastened. He flung it open
and rushed inside, throwing himself with mad fury on Brenchfield, who
had his coat off and his sleeves rolled up. He had a long whip in his
hand, poised high in the air, and was about to continue his devilish
cruelty.
The Mayor swung round and, before Phil got to him, the downward stroke
of the whip caught the latter across the head and shoulders. He
staggered for the fraction of a second, then closed with his
adversary, catching the right arm that held the whip and, turning it
smartly over his shoulder in a trick Jim Langford had taught him, had
Brenchfield groaning with the pain of the strain on his elbow. He
relaxed his fingers and the whip dropped to the strawed floor.
Phil released his hold, whirled round and shot his right fist full in
the face of his opponent. His left hand followed, sending Brenchfield
backward. Recovering quickly, the Mayor came back at Phil, cursing
roundly. But strong and heavy as he was, he was no match now for the
sturdy, young blacksmith before him. And it was not very many minutes
before he knew it.
They fought around the stable like wild cats. Time and again
Brenchfield got in on Phil, but for every time he did Phil got in on
him half a dozen. The heavier man's breath began to give out. His face
was cut and bleeding and his vision was becoming more and more faulty
as time went on.
"Skookum!" he cried furiously. "What the hell's the matter with you?
Brain this fool with the lantern, can't you?"
But his henchman, Skookum, had already perceived how the fight was
going and his discretion proved much greater than his valour. He
dropped the lantern and darted out at the door. As good luck
would have it, the lantern fell right-end up and, after wobbling
precariously on its rim, sat upright in the corner, blinked, then
continued to shed a fitful light over the scene.
Phil, with anger unabated, darted in on Brenchfield, smashing at him
right and left. The latter tottered. Phil sprang in and clutched at
his throat. Both went forcibly to the ground, with Brenchfield
undermost. Phil gripped and squeezed and shook with almost ferocious
brutality, until the Mayor's struggles became less and less violent,
and finally ceased. And after that, Phil's grip did not relax, for
that murderlust, which he had read of and heard of but had never
before understood, was on him.
Had it not been for a quiet, pleading voice and a little hand that
slipped over his and along his fingers, pushing its way between his
and the soft throat of his adversary, the sunlight would have gone out
of his life for all time.
"Please, Phil,--please!" she cried. "Don't! Phil--you would not kill
him! You must not,--for my sake, for my sake! He isn't worth it. Phil,
Phil,--let him go!"
And the murderlust--as it had done so often before at the gentle but
all powerful pleading of God's women--shrank back, dwindled down, then
faded into its native oblivion.
Phil's fingers relaxed and he rose slowly, working his hands
convulsively, then pushing his wet hair back from his forehead, as he
looked first down at the gasping figure of his hated adversary and
then in open-eyed amazement at Eileen.
"Thanks!" he said, very quietly.
"Why did you do that?" she said. "What has he done?"
For answer, Phil caught her by the arm and turned her about-face.
A bundle of rags was trussed against the post of one of the stalls.
Phil lifted the lantern from the ground and held it up.
"Oh!--oh, dear God!" she wailed piteously, running forward with hands
outstretched. "Quick, Phil!--loose the ropes. The hound!--oh, the
miserable, foul hound!" she continued.
Phil drew a pocket knife and slashed the ropes that held poor, little,
half-unconscious Smiler.
They set the boy gently in a corner; and slowly, in response to
crooning words and loving hands that stroked his dirty, wet brow, he
came to; and what a great smile he had for Eileen as she laid her
tear-stained cheek against the cold, twisted face.
Phil turned as Brenchfield was slowly rising on his arm. He went over
and picked up the whip.
"What are you going to do?" anxiously cried Eileen.
"Just three!" said Phil, "for the three he gave that poor, helpless
little devil. Say 'No' and I won't."
It was a challenge.
For answer, Eileen hid her face among Smiler's rags. And three times,
with all the force of a young blacksmith's arm behind it, that whip
rose and fell across the shoulders of Vernock's Mayor, ere it was
broken with a snap and tossed by Phil among the straw.
A little later and Smiler was on his feet, little the worse.
Eileen led him outside.
Phil and Brenchfield were then alone.
"Damn you, for an interloping jail-breaker! I'll fix you for this
before you're much older," growled the Mayor.
"Damn all you like," answered Phil, "but one word of any kind from you
of what has happened here to-night and you are the man who will be
trying to break jail. Keep your mouth shut, and we are square on what
has happened. Say as much as a word and--well,--it's up to you."
"Oh, you go to hell!" exclaimed Brenchfield.