THE DARKNESS BEFORE DAWN
It was a moment of intensity such as rarely fails to leave a landmark
in the lives of those concerned. For Murray McTavish it was as though
every fear that had ever haunted him from the rivalry of John Kars had
suddenly been translated into concrete form. For Jessie the hero of
all her dreams had magically responded to her unspoken appeal for
succor. John Kars felt something approaching elation at the unerring
instinct which had prompted his visit to the Fort on the instant of
arrival. Bill Brudenell looked on as usual with eyes calm in their
passionless wisdom. To him fortune's wheel was distinctly revolving in
their favor.
Passing the window both he and Kars had caught and read the girl's half
terrified glance. Both of them had seen Murray standing before her,
and realized something of the passionate urgency of manner he was
laboring under. Their interpretation of the scene remained each to
himself. No word passed between them. Only had Kars' gait increased
as he hurried round towards the door.
Now Kars' tone gave his friend and supporter infinite satisfaction.
Bill even felt he had miscalculated the primal instincts which governed
this man. He knew he was exercising a powerful restraint. And it
pleased as well as astonished him.
"Why, say, you folks, I'm glad to have found you right away," Kars
said, with perfect cordiality. "We just pulled in on the trail, and
came right along up while Charley fixes things. We weren't sure of
getting Murray this time of year."
Murray was completely master of himself. He was smiling his usual
greeting while John Kars shook hands with Jessie. Nor was his smile
any the less that his rival's words were for Jessie rather than for
him. He watched the new look born in the girl's eyes at sight of Kars
without a sign of emotion. And though it roused in him a fury of
jealousy his response only seemed to gain in cordiality. He laughed.
"You're kind of lucky, too," he said. "I only got in from Leaping
Horse two days back, and I'm pulling out north right away."
It was Bill who answered him. Jessie had picked up her oilskin, and
Kars was assisting her into it.
"You only got in two days back?" Bill's brows were raised
questioningly. "You didn't drive as hard in the trail as folks guess."
His shrewd eyes were twinkling as he watched the shadow of annoyance
pass swiftly across the trader's face. But Murray excused himself, and
his excuse seemed to afford Dr. Bill a certain amusement.
"The trail was fierce," he said, with a shrug. "The devil himself
couldn't have got a hustle on."
"No. We came the same trail."
Kars seemed oblivious to what was passing between the two men. He
seemed to have no concern for any one but Jessie.
"You going right down home now?" he asked.
His eyes were smiling gently into the girl's upturned face, for all
that his mind was full of the tragic news he had yet to convey.
He was so big as he stood there fastening the coat about her neck. His
rugged face was a picture of strength as he searched out the fastening
of the collar and secured it. His fur-lined pea-jacket, stained and
worn, his loose, travel-stained trousers tucked into his heavy knee
boots. These things aggravated his great bulk, and made him a very
giant of the world it was his whim to roam.
The girl's moment of fear had entirely passed. There could be no
shadow for her where he was. Nor had the rapid beatings of her heart
anything to do with the scene through which she had just passed. It
was the touch of his great hands that stirred her with a thrill
exquisite beyond words.
"Why, yes," she answered readily. "I've got school at the Mission. I
came up to get Murray's plans he needed to fix. He's going north, as
he said, and guessed I ought to help mother right here while he's away.
You see, we haven't got Alec now."
"No."
The smile passed out of Kars' eyes. The girl's final words shocked him
momentarily out of his self-command. There was one other at least who
held his breath for what was to follow that curt negative. But Bill
Brudenell need have had no fear.
"But you'll be through after a while," Kars went on with a swift return
to his usual manner. "I'll be along down to pay my respects to your
mother. Meanwhile Bill and I need a yarn with Murray here. We're
stopping a while."
While he was speaking he accompanied the girl to the door and watched
her till she had passed the angle of the building in the direction of
the gates of the stockade. Then he turned back to the trader, who was
once more seated at his desk.
His whole manner had undergone a complete change. There was no smile
in his eyes now. There was a stern setting of his strong jaws. He
glanced swiftly at Bill, who had moved to the window. Then his eyes
came back to the mechanical smile on Murray's face.
"Alec's out," he said. "He was shot up in the dance hall at the
Elysian Fields. It happened the night of the day you pulled out. He
ran foul of a 'gunman' who'd been set on his trail. He did the
'gunman' up. But he was done up, too. It's one of the things made us
come along up to you right away."
John Kars made his announcement without an unnecessary word, without
seeking for a moment to lessen any effect which the news might have on
this man. He felt there was no need for any nicety.
The effect of his announcement was hardly such as he might have
expected. There was a sort of amazed incredulity in Murray's dark eyes
and his words came haltingly.
"Shot up? But--but--you're fooling. You--you must be. God!
You--must be!"
Kars shrugged.
"I tell you Alec is dead. Shot up." There was a hard ring in his
voice that robbed his words of any doubt.
"God!" Then came a low, almost muttered expression of pity. "The poor
darn women-folk."
The last vestige of Murray's mechanical smile had gone. An expression
of deep horror had deadened the curious light in his eyes. He sat
nerveless in his chair, and his bulk seemed to have become flabby with
loss of vitality. Bill was watching the scene from the window.
"Yes. It's going to be terrible--for them."
Kars spoke with a force which helped disguise his real emotions. By a
great effort Murray pulled himself together.
"It's--it's Shaunbaum," he said. Then he went on as though to himself:
"It's over--that woman. And I warned him. Gee, I warned him for all I
knew! Josh Wiseman was right. Oh, the crazy kid!"
Kars, looking on, remembered that this man had lied when he had said
that he had urged Alec to quit his follies. He remembered that he had
given Alec money, his money, to help him the further to wallow in the
muck of Leaping Horse. He remembered these things as he gazed upon an
outward display of grief, and listened to words of regrets which
otherwise must have carried complete conviction.
He saw no necessity to add anything. And in a moment Murray had
started into an attitude of fierce resentment, and crashed his fleshy
fist down upon the pages of the ledger before him.
"I warned him," he cried fiercely, his burning eyes fixed on the
emotionless face of his rival. "God! I warned him. I had it from
Josh Wiseman the 'gunmen' were around. Shaunbaum's 'gunmen.' Say,
Kars," he went on, reaching out with his clenched fist for emphasis,
"that boy was in my hotel to tell me he was quitting the city on a big
play for a great stake. And I tell you it was like a weight lifted
right off my shoulders. I saw him getting shut of Shaunbaum and that
woman. I told him I was glad, and I told him Josh Wiseman's yarn. I
told him they reckoned Shaunbaum meant doing him up some way. An' he
laffed. Just laffed, and--guessed he was glad. And now--they've got
him. It's broke me all up. But the women. Jessie! His mother! Say,
it's going to break their hearts all to pieces."
Kars stirred in his chair.
"We figgered that way," he said coldly. "That's why we came around to
you first. I'm going to tell the women-folk. And when I've told 'em I
guess you'll need to stop around a while. That's if you reckon this
place is to---- Say, they'll need time--plenty. It's up to you to
help them by keeping your hand on the tiller of things right here."
Murray leaned back in his chair. His forcefulness had died out under
Kars' cold counsel.
"Yes, it's up to me," he said with a sort of desperate regret.
Presently he looked up. A light of apprehension had grown in his dark
eyes.
"You said _you'd_ tell them?" he demanded eagerly. "Say, I couldn't do
it. I haven't the grit."
"I'm going to tell them."
There was no relaxing of manner in Kars.
A deep relief replaced Murray's genuine dread. And presently his
fleshy chin sank upon his broad bosom in an attitude of profound
dejection. His eyes were hidden. His emotion seemed too deep for
further words. Bill, watching, beheld every sign. Nothing escaped him.
For some moments the silence remained. Then, at last, it was Murray
who broke it. He raised his eyes to the cold regard of the man he had
so cordially come to hate.
"Shaunbaum isn't going to get away with it?" he questioned. "The
p'lice? They've got a cinch on him?"
"Shaunbaum won't get away with it."
"They've--arrested him?"
Kars shook his head.
"No. Shaunbaum didn't shoot him. The boy did the 'gunman' up. You
see, it was the outcome of a brawl. There's no one to arrest--yet."
"Who did shoot him up? The other 'gunman'? Josh spoke of two. Can't
he be got? He could give Shaunbaum away--maybe."
"That's so. Guess that's most how it stands. Maybe it was the other
'gunman.'"
Murray's satisfaction was obvious. He nodded.
"Sure. It's Shaunbaum's play. There's no question. Everybody got it
ahead. It wouldn't be his way to see another feller snatch his dame
without a mighty hard kick. It's Shaunbaum--sure."
He bestirred himself. All his old energy seemed to spring suddenly
into renewed life. Again came that forceful gesture of the fist which
Bill watched with so much interest, and the binding of the ledger
creaked under its force.
"By God! I hope they get him and hang him by his rotten vulture neck!
He's run his vile play too long. He's a disease--a deadly, stinking,
foul disease. Maybe it was a 'gunman' did the shooting. But I'd bet
my life it was Shaunbaum behind him. And to think these poor lone
women-folk, hundreds of miles away from him, should be the victims.
See here, Kars, I'm no sort of full-fledged angel. I don't set myself
up as any old bokay of virtue. There's things count more with me, and
one of 'em's dollars. I'm out after all I can get of 'em. But I'd
give half of all I possess to see a rawhide tight around Shaunbaum's
neck so it wouldn't give an inch. I haven't always seen eye to eye
with young Alec. Maybe our temperaments were sort of contrary. But
this thing's got me bad. Before God, there's not a thing I wouldn't do
to save these poor women-folk hurt. They're right on their lonesome
now. Do you get all that means to women-folk? There isn't a soul
between them and the world. You ask me to stand by. You ask me to
keep my hand on the tiller of things. I don't need the asking--by any
one. I was Allan's partner, and Allan's friend. It's my duty and my
right to get in between these poor folk and a world that would show
them small enough mercy. And I don't hand my right to any man living.
I got to thank you coming along to me. But it don't need you, or any
other man, to ask me to get busy for the sake of these folk. You can
reckon on me looking after things right here, Kars. I'm ready to do
all I know. And God help any one who'd rob them of a cent. Allan left
his work only half done. It was for them. And I'm going to carry it
through. The way he'd have had it."
The rain had ceased. A watery sunshine had broken through the heavy
clouds which were reluctantly yielding before a bleak wintry wind. It
was the low poised sun of afternoon in the early year, and its warmth
was as ineffectual as its beam of light. But it shone through the
still tightly sealed double windows of Ailsa Mowbray's parlor, a
promise which, at the moment, possessed neither meaning nor appeal.
The widowed mother was standing near the wood stove which radiated a
welcome warmth, and still roared its winter song through its open
dampers. John Kars was leaning against the centre table. His serious
eyes were on the ruddy light shining under the damper of the stove.
His strong hands were gripping the woodwork of the table behind him.
His grip was something in the nature of a clutching support. His fixed
gaze was as though he had no desire to shift it to the face of the
woman on whom he had come to inflict the most cruel agony a woman may
endure.
"You have come to talk to me of Alec? Yes? What of him?" Ailsa
Mowbray's eyes, so steady, so handsome, eyes that claimed so much
likeness to Jessie's, were eager. Then, in a moment, a note of anxiety
found expression. "He--is well?"
The man's own suffering at that moment was lacerating. All that was in
him was stirred to its deepest note. It was as though he were about to
strike this woman down, a helpless, defenceless soul, and all his
manhood revolted. He could have wept tears of bitterness, such as he
had never dreamed could have been wrung from him.
"No."
"What--has happened? Quick! Tell me!"
The awful apprehension behind the mother's demand found no real outward
sign. She stood firmly--unwaveringly. Only was there a sudden
suppressed alarm in her voice.
Kars stirred. The jacket buttoned across his broad chest seemed to
stifle him. A mad longing possessed him to reach out and break
something. The pleasant warmth of the room had suddenly become
unbearable. He could no longer breathe in the atmosphere. He raised
his eyes to the mother's face for one moment. The next they sought
again the ruddy line of the stove.
"He--is dead."
"Dead? Oh, no! Not that! Oh--God help me!"
Kars had no recollection of a mother's love. He had no recollection of
anything but the hard blows in a cruel struggle for existence, beside a
man whose courage was invincible, but in whom the tender emotions at no
time found the smallest display. But all that which he had inherited
from the iron man who had founded his fortunes had failed to rob him of
any of the gentler humanity which his unremembered mother must have
bestowed upon him. His whole being shrank under the untold agony of
this mother's denial and ultimate appeal.
Now he spoke rapidly. The yearning to spare this woman, who had
already suffered so much, urged him. To prolong the telling he felt
would be cruelty unthinkable. He felt brevity to be the only way to
spare her.
"He was shot by a tough," he said. "It was at the Elysian Fields. He
was dancing, and there was a quarrel. If blame there was for Alec it
was just his youth, I guess. Just sit, and I'll hand it you--all."
He moved from the table. He came to the mother's side. His strong
hand rested on her shoulder, and somehow she obeyed his touch and sank
into the chair behind her. It was the chair from which she had watched
her little world grow up about her, the chair in which she had pondered
on the first great tragedy of her life.
Her lips were unmoving. Her eyes terrible in their stony calm. They
mechanically regarded the man before her with so little understanding
that he wondered if he should proceed.
Presently, however, he was left no choice.
"Go on," she said, and her hands clasped themselves in her lap with a
nerve force suggesting the physical clinging which remained her only
support.
And at her bidding the man talked. He told his story in naked outline,
smothering the details of her boy's delinquencies, and sparing her
everything which could wound her mother's pride and devotion. His
purpose was clearly defined. The wound he had to inflict was well-nigh
mortal, but no word or act of his should aggravate it. His story was a
consummate effort of loyalty to the dead and mercy to the living.
Even in the telling he wondered if those wide-gazing, stricken eyes
were reading somewhere in the depths of his soul the real secrets he
was striving so ardently to withhold. He could not tell. His
knowledge of women was limited, so limited. He hoped that he had
succeeded.
At the conclusion of his pitiful story he waited. His purpose was to
leave the woman to her grief, believing that time, and her wonderful
courage, would help her. But it was difficult, and all that was in him
bade him stay, and out of his own great courage seek to help her.
He stirred. The moment was dreadful in its hopelessness.
"Jessie will be along," he said.
The mother looked up with a start.
"Yes," she said. "She's all I have left. Oh, God, it will break her
young heart."
There was no thought of self in that supreme moment. The mother was
above and beyond her own sufferings, even when the crushing grief was
beating her down with the full force of merciless blows. Her thought
for the suffering of her one remaining child was supreme.
The man's hands gripped till his nails almost cut the hard flesh of his
palms. He had no answer for her words. It was beyond his power to
answer such words.
He turned with a movement suggesting precipitate flight. But his going
was arrested by the voice he knew and loved so well.
"What--what--will break her young heart?"
Jessie was standing just within the room, and the door was closed
behind her. Her eyes were on the drawn face of her mother, but,
somehow, it seemed to Kars that her words were addressed to him.
In the agony of his feelings he was about to answer. Perhaps
recklessly. For somehow the dreadful nature of his errand was telling
on a temper unused to such a task. But once again the fortitude of the
elder woman displayed itself, and he was saved from himself.
"I'll tell you, Jessie, when--he's gone." And the handsome, tragic
eyes looked squarely into the man's.
For a moment the full significance of the mother's words remained
obscure to the man. Then the courage, the strength of them made
themselves plain. He realized that this grief-stricken woman was
invincible. Nothing--just nothing could break her indomitable spirit.
In the midst of all her suffering she desired to spare him, to spare
her one remaining child.
There could be no reply to such a woman. Nor could he answer the
girl--now. He came towards her. Resting one great hand on the oilskin
covering her shoulders, he looked down into her questioning, troubled
eyes with infinite tenderness.
"Jessie, there's things I can say to you I can't say even to your
mother. I want to say them now, with her looking on. I can't put all
I feel into words. Those things don't come easy to me. You see, I've
never had anything beyond my own concerns to look after, ever before in
my life. Other folks never kind of seemed to figger with me. Maybe
I'm selfish. It seems that way. But now--why, now that's all changed.
Things I always guessed mattered don't matter any longer. And why?
Why? Because there's just two women in the world got right into my
heart, and everything else has had to make way for them. Do you get
me, child? Maybe you don't. Well, it's just that all I am or ever
hope to be is for you. It don't matter the miles between us, or the
season. When I get your call I'll answer--right away."