Mounting his horse, Al Thompson rode rapidly along the ridge of the
mountain, with hot breath of hate steaming from his extended nostrils.
His soul cried out loudly for revenge, and he meant to fulfill its
desires though he brought all his friends into the quarrel. He meant to
murder the man who so grossly insulted him and belittled him in the
presence of the girl who was more to him than his own life, more to him
now than she had ever been before. As the road grew less rugged he
stiffened his pace, beating his horse over the flanks with his hat,
until he finally broke into a dead run. On he went with the breath of
fury still flying from his dilated nostrils, infuriated the more by the
low hanging limbs, until he reached the stream at the base of the
mountain, crossed over and turned up the main road, putting his horse to
his best, when he came in sight of a cabin, the very sight of which
seemed to lend strength to his tired body. He let out a terrible yell
and fired his pistol into the air to attract the inmates of the cabin,
who, upon hearing him and the pistol shots, rushed out feeling that a
terrible calamity was about to befall them. When they appeared in the
doorway Thompson cried out in an old, familiar way: "Git ready. Ther old
rock on ther mountain top--midnight. The cap'n says be thar shore."
"Who's ther victim?" cried one.
"Ther newcomer," answered Thompson.
"What?"
"Shore."
Thompson was off again in a dead run before more questions could be
asked. These cabineers had heard the call from the same voice before,
and in the same manner, therefore did not hesitate to prepare. Thompson
reached another cabin, and went through the same maneuver, and a third,
the resultant effect being the same in every instance. He was quite
satisfied. His lying tongue had done its work and the outcome did not
worry him in the least. His heart and soul joined in crying for revenge,
and it should come at any cost to others.
When the appointed hour of the night had come on, he, waiting until the
last moment, would ride up, driving right through the waiting crowd,
yell like a Comanche, and they would follow willingly. His plans were
working well, his lying heart was satisfied. He snarled like a wolf
which had found a piece of fresh meat.
The night was dark. Heavy black clouds obscured the vision of the stars.
A clouded canopy overhung the entire world, the fierce lightning flashed
and shook its fiery tints over the sleeping mountain. The thunder peals
burst forth in loud report, the echo resounding down deep into the quiet
valley below. Save for the flashing lightning and the pealing thunder
all else was quiet. What a fearful night for a fearful deed! What a
night for the use of a black-hearted scoundrel! What a time for deeds
born of a charred heart!
Jack Wade made no effort to sleep; he did not retire to the bunk in the
little room with Tom Judson. Old Peter did not wish to retire. It was in
his nature to see the alpha and omega of such deeds, he wanted to see it
all. Nora could not close her eyes in sleep, although prevailed upon to
do so. No, Jack Wade's own burdened heart pervaded the quiet atmosphere
about Peter Judson's home, and no one cared to seek rest. Even good old
dog Rover discovered in the funeral-like few about him that something
was about to go wrong, and went about from one to the other whining,
looking questioningly into their faces. Wade walked up and down, to and
fro, like a lion in a cage or a madman in confinement, so intense was
his anger because he couldn't prevent that which Judson had predicted
was sure to follow. He believed now that Peter Judson spoke the truth,
there was no reason, as he could figure, for his speaking anything else.
He believed Judson had warned him from his heart, because he wished to
save his life. Why should this old reprobate of a murderer desire that
he should live at all? He would not have warned other men, for he had
done so at his own peril. The consequences even now might lead to his
own death. The old man, who had been closely scrutinizing Wade's
troubled face, opened his mouth to speak.
"Ye needn't take it so hard, boy," he said. "Ye kin build another cabin
like that in a few days, after ye git ther logs an' lumber out, that ye
kin, shore."
As old Peter was speaking there came even then, down from toward the
mountain way, the wild yell of the Comanche.
"Listen," said Peter, blowing out his light. "Thar ye air now. Don't say
a word nur make any noise. Let 'em go on by, a-thinkin' we air asleep,
an' ye'll see a putty sight soon. The fiends! the fiends! They're bent
on a-killin' of ye right now, Wade, an' gloatin' in their hearts cause
ye air mout nigh dead, so they think."
The well-known clatter of the horses feet came nearer and nearer. Old
Peter stepped up close to Wade and laid his hand on his shoulder
reassuringly. On the other side of him Wade felt the warm breath of old
Peter's daughter, as she hovered close to him. She was consoling him in
her kind, simple way, and he thanked God in his heart that it was so.
Thus they stood, waiting, while the lightning flashed fiercer and the
thunder peals grew louder.
Slowly the rain began to descend. Then suddenly, in that terrible moment
of anxious quietude, there burst forth through the midnight darkness a
faint ray of light which soon appeared a flame of fire, leaping and
dancing exultantly.
"Thar ye air," exclaimed Judson. "Yer cabin'll be in ashes afore
mornin', jest as I told ye awhile ago."
Silently the watchers watched, knowing full well what was in the heart
of Jack Wade. It was useless to try to hold conversation during that
awful period of suspense. Jack watched his little cabin burn, while the
flames, cracking and roaring, seemed to touch his own heart and set it
aflame also. The growing vengeance softened his feelings.
"Let her burn," he said, "but one soul shall burn in hell for this
night's work."
"Mor'n one," whispered Tom Judson.
The significance of his remarks, however, was lost to Jack Wade, who
thought only of avenging himself now. No thought for anyone entered his
heart.
For some time not a word was spoken, only watching; silently watching.
The flames reached high into the air, lighting up the landscape back
toward the mountain and over in the valley, although the cabin was a
small one. The yells of those revengeful men rent the midnight air while
all that was dear to Jack Wade was fast going down to ashes and utter
ruin.
The horses' feet beat a heavy clattering retreat back up the road. When
they passed Peter Judson's cabin Wade slipped noiselessly out into the
darkness, struck the road and started, on foot, rapidly after the fast
retreating horsemen. He knew it would have been folly under ordinary
circumstances to have tried to catch up with them, but he figured they
would soon strike the roughest part of the hill where horses could not
travel fast, and he might by traveling rapidly catch up with them before
they left the mountain road.
Old Peter Judson did not realize what the young man contemplated until
he was too far gone. When he came to a realization of the truth he swore
a blue streak and started out in search of "ther durn fool," who, for
some unknown reason, he had come to like.
Jack Wade could hear the clattering noise of the horses as they rushed
over the rocky way. Fainter and fainter the noise grew until he could
hear it no more. Undismayed, however, he trudged on, in the hope of soon
finding some trace of those he pursued. The heavy raindrops pelted down
upon him, soaking his clothes until their weight became a burden to his
tired and weary limbs. On he went, regardless of distance, picking his
way by the light of an occasional flash of lightning, which made it more
necessary to grope his way when the lightning failed to give the needed
light, until when the gray streaks of early dawn appeared in the eastern
horizon he found himself many miles away from his burned cabin. Yet he
had discovered no trace of the perpetrators of the foul deed, whom he
had followed for almost half of the night.
Water soaked, tired and worn in body and mind, he remembered that he had
not slept for twenty-four hours, nor had he eaten anything, save a
lunch, for nearly as long. Weak and sore of foot, he sat down on a
little hillock and leaned his head back against a boulder to get a
little much needed rest before attempting to start on his return journey
homeward. As he sat thus the dawn grew brighter, the streaks of light in
the eastern sky painting a few clouds a beautiful red. The mountain
scenery was still wrapped in silent mystery. Soon birds began their
chirping songs from their abode in the thickets, and all wild life was
beginning to stir. Dew-dipped grasses began to raise their heads to the
breaking light in obedience to the will of day, while the great heavy
overhanging clouds were fast dispersing, giving way to the power of the
coming dawn.
The strenuousness of the day and night before had weakened Wade's system
until, when he closed his eyes against the growing beauty about him, he
fell fast asleep; but his weary, laden brain kept moving on. Before him,
in vision, the mighty lightning flashed, the great torrents of rain fell
and engulfed him. Suddenly there burst before his darkened vision a
licking flame of fire, from out of the midst of which came one bearing a
long-bladed knife in either hand. He was snarling like a wolf and
dancing jubilantly over his intended victim. The vision grew until the
knives were being brandished over his head, and he knew that it would be
only a moment until they should descend and his own heart would be cut
in twain. He seemed powerless to prevent. The sight was so fearful that
he became sick at heart and fainted away. His head bumped against a
boulder, and he awoke with a start.
When he opened his eyes he saw standing over him in reality Al Thompson,
with hand poised high in the air, ready to descend. In that hand was a
long-bladed knife, sickening to behold.
"Damn ye," said Thompson, between closely clamped teeth, "ye escaped me
somehow last night, but ye won't do it now. Ye mont as well say yer
prayers, an' say 'em quick, fer ye air a goner. I'll tear yer heart out
an' hang it on a pole an' take it back to ther gal."
Thompson raised himself a little higher until he stood on the tips of
his toes, in order that the force of his blow might be felt more
heavily. The knife started on its descending mission of murder.
Wade shuddered, he felt it was his last moment on earth. The
carelessness of falling to sleep bad given his enemy a great advantage.
But no, Fate was to save him. A rifle shot rang out over the mountain
stillness, the knife dropped to the ground, the band that had held it
fell limp to one side. With a cursing snarl and a howl of intense pain
Thompson quickly picked up the knife with his left hand and was about to
plunge it into the drowsy form of Jack Wade. Just at this juncture old
Peter Judson burst through the undergrowth and, in a commanding voice,
cried out: "Drap that knife, Al Thompson, or ye air a dead man right
thar!"
Thompson, looking into the barrel of Peter's rifle, concluded that
chances were against him, and allowed the knife to fall harmless at
Wade's feet.
"Ye'll not be after committin' murder on the mountain to-day," said
Judson.
"So ye're helpin' ther newcomer, Judson, air ye?" asked Thompson
sullenly.
"No, durn ye," replied Peter. "I'm helpin' you, ye fool. I'm seein' fair
play, too. Ye hain't satisfied ter burn up all a feller's cabin, an'
everything else ye kin git at, but ye want ter commit a dogged, dirty
murder right hyar afore my eyes. Ye git, now, Thompson, an' git quick."
Knowing that it would gain him nothing to argue with Judson, Thompson
moved off, holding his crippled hand with the good one. Sending back a
parting shot, he darted out of sight.
"Ye'll regret that act, Peter Judson," he said. Giving each of them a
sullen look, he was gone like a flash.
"Ther dirty wolf!" exclaimed Peter, shaking his fist after the
retreating form of Thompson. Turning to Wade he asked: "What made ye
take sich a fool notion as this, boy?"
Jack replied evasively. "You have saved me, Judson," he said, "and I
reckon my life is in your hands. Do as you like. By my own foolishness I
might have died twice, yea, thrice, in the last twenty-four hours, but
you have saved me."
"What one man does for another is not to be talked about," said Peter.
"Jest ye don't be sich a fool any more. By yer foolishness, as ye call
it, ye have got me in ther same boat 'long side o' ye. I 'low thar'll be
no rest 'bout this hyar mountain till both of us is in our graves, fer
I've waked up ther devil from ther deep o' hell this day shore."
"I'm sorry to have caused you this trouble," said Wade regretfully. "It
may have been better had that snarling wolf----"
"Stop!" interrupted Peter. "Trouble o' this matter is ther kind I like
best. Let 'em tackle us when Tom's got his shootin' irons on an' his
shootin' eye open; he'll pick 'em off as fast as they kin come. Ye mind
what I'm a-tellin' ye, Wade. It's jest as true as what I told ye last
night, only they'll be a little more keerful 'bout ther time they take
ter burn Peter Judson's shanty. Did ye know ye air ten miles away from
home?"
Jack did not know this.
"Well, ye air, an' we'd better be a-gettin' back. Somebody'll bring some
hosses out ter meet us so's we won't have ter walk very far a-goin'
back."
"Must have been a long chase for one like you," said Jack.
"Well," replied Judson, "hit ain't so fer fer me as hit is fer you, I'll
tell ye that, Wade. I kin stand more walkin' right now than any feller
in this kintry. What'n ther world made ye go ter sleep when ye was on
sich a jolt as this?"
Wade turned sharply on Peter. How did he know?
"Don't ax ther question," said Judson, judging of what was on Wade's
mind. "I saw ye a long time afore ye woke up."
They heard the sound of approaching horses farther down the road, and in
a few seconds Tom and Nora Judson hove into view with the mounts.