When the first acrid warning of scorched timbers came to his nostrils,
Jerry O'Keefe had recognized the desperation of his plight and he laid
out his simple plans in accordance. He meant to stay where he was till
the last endurable moment, hoping against hope for the coming of the
rescuers. When it was no longer possible to remain, he would go out of
the door and sell his life at a price--but he knew he would have to
sell it, and perhaps cheaply, for they would do their killing from
cover.
He struck a match for a survey of the place where he must make his last
stand and his eye fell on the coil of rope. Then, for the first time,
he remembered its use, and vainly wished that the chute could be opened
from within. By the light of other matches, he looked over into the
great bin and what he saw astonished him. There was a moving suction
at the center of the pile--a slow motion and declivity--though this
afternoon the stuff had been heaped into a well-rounded mound. Further
scrutiny verified the amazing results of his first impression. The
hopper was open!
Jerry O'Keefe smiled grimly. His enemies had an ironic sense of humor,
he thought. They meant to give him a choice of deaths, death at the
door by flame and lead or death in the sluice by suffocation. Then an
incredulous exclamation burst from his lips. Was there not a wild and
wholly improbable chance that this opening of an avenue might be
Alexander's work? It seemed unlikely, almost inconceivable, but in
resourcefulness and adroitness of thought nothing was quite
inconceivable of Alexander.
She knew of the rope and its former use--and that meant that the
flowing tide would not have to spell death for him if he waited long
enough and acted wisely enough. Presumably these enemies were not
neighbors, for if they had been they would not be burning their own
grain. If that were granted it might follow that they would not know
of the rope.
Jerry breathed deeply, and a desperate smile came for an instant to his
tight lips.
He was watching the unhurried flow of out-running wheat and gauging, as
was the girl below, the racing progress of the flames. Would there be
time? The door was cut off now by sheets of fire and he had no longer
any alternative. If the hot enemy reached him before the wheat was
out, he must die by it or end matters with his own pistol.
He uncoiled the rope and threw its loose end into the bin, watching
with a fascinated gaze the fashion in which it was dragged inward and
downward.
In the increasing heat of the inferno he had thrown off his coat, and
now his shirt went too. The sweat poured out of his naked chest and
shoulders.
From rafters below him shot wicked tongues of widening flame-- His
breath was labored and his life seemed to wither. There was only a
little grain left now at the bottom of the receptacle but there was
also little strength or endurance left in him. His eyes burned
horribly and he knew that he could no longer support his weight on a
rope by the strength of his arms. He had climbed to the edge of the
bin, and clung there. Then he fainted, and fell inward.
But the moment had arrived when at last the way was clear. The chute,
polished smooth by the flowing kernels, did not even leave a splinter
in his bare flesh, and when he shot down and out he fell on the soft
mound of wheat that had gone before him.
Alexander's straining eyes saw his body flash into sight, and saw that
it seemed lifeless. With a cry that she tried to stifle and could not,
she called upon her last strength, and climbed into the great pen where
he lay insensible.
The murderers had gone away. Their task seemed complete, and they had
no wish to tarry too long after the countryside had been aroused by
that beacon of fire.
But it was much later that neighborhood searchers found Alexander
sitting on a mound of salvaged wheat with the head of an unconscious
man in her lap. It was a man stripped to the waist, sweat-covered and
smoke blackened. The girl was mumbling incoherent things into his
unresponsive ear.
"Ye saved ther wheat fer us anyhow--an' ther doctor says he hain't none
hurted beyond being scorched up some," declared Warwick McGivins that
same night at his own house, and Alexander, limp to collapse with her
long vigil of terror, but with eyes that glowed with triumph--and with
something else--replied, "I've saved somethin' better then a mighty
heap of wheat."
Jerry spoke from the bed, where he lay conscious now, but still very
weak.
"Things looked mighty unsartain--fer a spell."
And the girl answered in a silvery voice that held the thrill of
invincible courage. "Nothin' hain't never goin' ter be unsartain fer
us from now on. Hit teks fire, I reckon, ter weld iron--but----"
The enfeebled man tried to raise himself on his elbow, but she gently
pressed him back.
"Does ye mean hit, Alexander?" he whispered tensely. "Hit hain't jest
because I've been hurted a leetle--an' ye're compassionate fer me?"
"Jerry," she said and her voice became all at once softly tremulous,
"jest es soon as ye're able I wants ye ter tek me in yore arms--an' I
don't never want ye ter let me go ergin!"
"I'll git thet strong right soon," he declared with a fervor that
brought the strength back to his voice--and the sparkle back into his
blood-shot eyes.
Jack Halloway came into his rooms one day in early September and ran
through some mail that lay piled on his table. He was not in a happy
humor. The business here had dragged out to the annoying length of six
weeks and his mind was busy with anxiety centering on the hills. But
as his thoughts ran irritably along, the hand that had lifted an
envelope out of the collection became rigid. It was a very plain
envelope and quite unaccountably it was postmarked from the station
near the mouth of Shoulder-blade creek.
Who, down there, could know his New York address? It could not be
Brent, for this was not Brent's hand.
He ripped the thing open and from the unfolded sheet fell a tiny scrap
of some sort. It seemed to be a small strip of soiled cloth and he let
it lie on the table while he read the note itself.
The first paragraph brought from his lips an exclamation of dismay and
alarm--and he paused a moment to collect himself before finishing.
"Dear Jack," said the letter. "You will wonder how I knew where to
send this letter, but you see I did know.
"Jerry and I were married a week ago and all the neighbors came to our
infare to wish us well. I saw to it that every man there took off his
hat. I am sending you the tag that was on your coat pocket the day I
mended it. It wasn't heedful for you to leave it there, and that's how
I knew where you were apt to be now--instead of Virginia."
The man paused again and his great hand shook with disappointment and
chagrin. Finally he turned the sheet and read the conclusion.
"Seeing that tag gave me warning just in time the night you bragged
that you could make me come into your arms. Next time, Jack, I counsel
you to be honest with the girls you make love to. They like it. Come
and see us when you get back to the mountains. Alexander McGivins.
P.S. I promised my paw to keep my own name when I was wed, and Jerry
doesn't mind."
The letter escaped from nerveless fingers and floated down to the
floor. At last Halloway picked up the small tailor's label and turned
it in his fingers absentmindedly, as though he were not yet quite sure
what he was doing.