THE HAND OF FATE
Like a panther Nathaniel crouched and watched the man on the steps. His
muscles jerked, his hands were clenched; each instant he seemed about to
spring. But he held himself back until Strang had passed through the
door. Then he slipped along the log wall of the castle, hugging the
shadows, fearing that the king might reappear and see him in time to
close the door. What an opportunity fate had made for him! His fingers
itched to get at Strang's thick bull-like throat. He felt no fear, no
hesitation about the outcome of the struggle with this giant prophet of
God. He did not plan to shoot, for a shot would destroy the secret of
Marion's fate. He would choke the truth from Strang; rob him of life
slowly, gasp by gasp, until in the horror of death the king would reveal
her hiding-place--would tell what he had done with her.
Then he would kill him!
There was the strength of tempered steel in his arms; his body, slender
as an athlete's, quivered to hurl itself into action. Up the steps he
crept so cautiously that he made no sound. In the intensity of his
purpose Nathaniel looked only ahead of him--to the door. He did not see
that another figure was stealing through the gloom behind him as
cautiously, as quietly as himself. He passed through the door and stood
erect. Strang had not seen him. He had not heard him. He was standing
with his huge back toward him, facing the hall that led to the sixth
chamber--and the woman. Nathaniel drew his pistol. He would not shoot,
but Strang might be made to tell the truth with death leveling itself at
his heart. He groped behind him, found the door, and slammed it shut.
There would be no retreat for the king!
And the man who turned toward him at the slamming of that door, turned
slowly, coolly, and gazed into the black muzzle of his pistol looked,
indeed, every inch of him a king. The muscles of his face betrayed no
surprise, no fear. His splendid nerve was unshaken, his eyes unfaltering
as they rose above the pistol to the face behind it. For fifteen seconds
there was a strange terrible silence as the eyes of the two men met. In
that quarter of a minute Nathaniel knew that he had not guessed rightly.
Strang was not afraid. He would not tell him where Marion was. The
insuperable courage of this man maddened Captain Plum and unconsciously
his finger fell upon the trigger of his pistol. He almost shrieked the
words that he meant to speak calmly:
"Where is Marion?"
"She is safe, Captain Plum. She is where the friends who are invading us
from the mainland will have no chance of finding her."
Strang spoke as quietly as though in his own office beside the temple.
Suddenly he raised his voice.
"She is safe, Captain Plum--safe!"
His eyes wavered, and traveled beyond. As accurately as a striking
serpent Nathaniel measured that glance. It had gone to the door. He
heard a movement, felt a draft of air, and in an instant he whirled
about with his pistol pointed to the door. In another instant he had
fired and the huge form of Arbor Croche toppled headlong into the room.
A roar like that of a beast came from behind him and before he could
turn again Strang was upon him. In that moment he felt that all was
lost. Under the weight of the Mormon king he was crushed to the floor;
his pistol slipped from his grasp; two great hands choked a despairing
cry from his throat. He saw the prophet's face over him, distorted with
passion, his huge neck bulging, his eyes flaming like angry garnets. He
struggled to free his pinioned arms, to wrench off the death grip at his
throat, but his efforts were like those of a child against a giant. In a
last terrible attempt he drew up his knees inch by inch under the
weight of his enemy; it was his only chance--his only hope. Even as he
felt the fingers about his throat sinking like hot iron into his flesh
and the breath slipping from his body he remembered this murderous
knee-punch of the rough fighters of the inland seas and with all the
life that remained in him he sent it crushing into the abdomen of the
Mormon king. It was a moment before he knew that it had been successful,
before the film cleared from his eyes and he saw Strang groveling at his
feet; another moment and he had hurled himself on the prophet. His fist
shot out like a hammer against Strang's jaw. Again and again he struck
until the great shaggy head fell back limp. Then his fingers twined
themselves like the links of a chain about the purplish throat and he
choked until Strang's eyes opened wide and lifeless and his convulsions
ceased. He would have held on until there was no doubt of the end, had
not the king's wife--the woman whose misery he had shared that
night--suddenly flung herself with a piercing cry, between him and the
blackened face, clutching at his hands with all her fragile strength.
[Illustration: His fingers twined about the purplish throat.]
"My God, you are killing him--killing him!" she moaned.
Her eyes blazed as she tore at his fingers.
"You are killing him--killing him!" she shrieked. "He has not destroyed
Marion! You said you would take her and leave him--for me--" She struck
her head against his breast, tearing the flesh of his wrists with her
nails.
Nathaniel loosened his grip and staggered to his feet.
"For you!" he panted. "If you had only come--a little sooner--" He
stumbled to his pistol and picked it up. "I am afraid he is--dead!"
He did not look back.
Arbor Croche barred the door. He had not moved since he had fallen. His
head was twisted so that his face was turned to the glow of the lamp
and Nathaniel shuddered as he saw where his shot had struck. He had
apparently died with that last cry on his lips.
There was no longer a fear of the Mormons in Nathaniel. He believed the
king and Arbor Croche dead, and that in the gloom and excitement of the
night he could go among the people of St. James undiscovered. A great
load was lifted from his soul, for if he had not been in time to save
Marion he had at least delivered her after a short bondage. He had now
only to find Marion and she would go with him, for she loved him--and
Strang was no more.
He hurried through the grove toward the temple. Even before he had come
near to it he could see that a great crowd had congregated there. The
street which he passed was deserted. No lights shone in the houses. Even
the dogs were gone. For the first time he understood what it meant. The
whole town had fled to that huge log stronghold for protection.
Buildings and trees shut out his view seaward but he could see the
flare of great fires mounting into the sky and he knew that those who
were not at the temple were guarding the shore.
Suddenly he almost fell over a figure in his path. It was an old woman
mumbling and sobbing incoherently as she stumbled weakly in the
direction of the temple. Like an inspiration the thought came to him
that here was his opportunity of gaining admittance to that multitude of
women and children. He seized the old woman by the arm and spoke words
of courage to her as he half carried her on her way. A few minutes more
and a blaze of light burst upon them and the great square in which the
temple was situated lay open before them. Half a hundred yards ahead a
fire was burning; oil and pine sent their lurid flame high up into the
night, and in the thick gloom behind it, intensified by the blinding
glare, Nathaniel saw the shadows of men. He caught the old woman in his
arms and went on boldly. He passed close to a thin line of waiting men,
saw the faint glint of firelight on their rifles, and staggering past
them unchallenged with his weight he stopped for a moment to look back.
The effect was startling. Beyond the three great fires that blazed
around the temple the clearing was bathed in a sea of light; in its
concealment of giant trees the temple was buried in gloom. From the
gloom a hundred cool men might slaughter five times their number
charging across that illumined death-square!
Nathaniel could not repress a shudder as he looked. Screened behind each
of the three fires was a cannon. He figured that there were more than a
hundred rifles in that silent cordon of men. What was there on the
opposite side of the temple?
He turned with the old woman and joined the throng that was seething
about the temple doors. There were women, children and old men, crushing
and crowding, fighting with panic-stricken fierceness for admittance to
the thick log walls. Through the doors there came the low thunder of
countless voices pierced by the shrill cries of little children. Foot by
foot Nathaniel fought his way up the steps. At the top were drawn a
dozen men forming barriers with their rifles. One of them shoved him
back.
"Not you!" he shouted. "This is for the women!"
Nathaniel fell back, filled with horror. A glance had shown him the vast
dimly lighted interior of the temple packed to suffocation. What sins
had this people wrought that it thus feared the vengeance of the men
from the mainland! He felt the sweat break out upon his face as he
thought of Marion being in that mob, tired and fainting with her
terrible day's experience--perhaps dying under the panic-stricken feet
of those stronger than herself. He hoped now for that which at first had
filled him with despair--that Strang had hidden Marion away from the
terror and suffocation of this multitude that fought for its breath
within the temple. Freeing himself of the crowd he ran to the farther
side of the building. A fourth fire blazed in his face. But on this side
there was no cannon; scarcely a score of men were guarding the rear of
the temple.
For a full minute he stood concealed in the gloom. He realized now that
it would be useless to return to Obadiah. The old councilor could
probably have told him all that he had discovered for himself; that
Marion had gone to the castle--that Strang intended to make her his
bride that night. But did Obadiah know that the castle had been
abandoned? Did he know that the king's wives had sought refuge in the
temple, and did he know where Marion was hidden? Nathaniel could assure
himself but one answer; Obadiah, struck down by his strange madness, was
more ignorant than he himself of what had occurred at St. James.
While he paused a heavy noise arose that quickened his heart-beats and
sent the blood through his veins in wild excitement. From far down by
the shore there came the roar of a cannon. It was closely followed by a
second and a third, and hardly was the night shaken by their thunder
than a mighty cheering of men swept up from the fire-rimmed coast. The
battle had begun! Nathaniel leaped out into the glow of the great
blazing fire beyond the temple; he heard a warning shout as he darted
past the men; for an instant he saw their white faces staring at him
from the firelight--heard a second shout, which he knew was a
command--and was gone. Half a dozen rifles cracked behind him and a yell
of joyful defiance burst from his throat as the bullets hissed over his
head. The battle had begun! Another hour and the Mormon kingdom would be
at the mercy of the avenging host from the mainland--and Marion would be
his own for ever! He heard again the deep rumble of a heavy gun and from
its sullen detonation he knew that it was fired from a ship at sea. A
nearer crash of returning fire turned him into a deserted street down
which he ran wildly, on past the last houses of the town, until he came
to the foot of a hill up which he climbed more slowly, panting like a
winded animal.
From its top he could look down upon the scene of battle. To the
eastward stretched the harbor line with its rim of fires. A glance
showed him that the fight was not to center about these. They had served
their purpose, had forced the mainlanders to seek a landing farther down
the coast. The light of dawn had already begun to disperse the thick
gloom of night and an eighth of a mile below Nathaniel the Mormon forces
were creeping slowly along the shore. The pale ghostly mistiness of the
sea hung like a curtain between him and what was beyond, and even as he
strained his eyes to catch a glimpse of the avenging fleet a vivid light
leaped out of the white distance, followed by the thunder of a cannon.
He saw the head of the Mormon line falter. In an instant it had been
thrown into confusion. A second shot from the sea--a storm of cheering
voices from out of that white chaos of mist--and the Mormons fell back
from the shore in a panic-stricken, fleeing mob. Were those frightened
cowards the fierce fighters of whom he had heard so much? Were they the
men who had made themselves masters of a kingdom in the land of their
enemies--whose mere name carried terror for a hundred miles along the
coast? He was stupefied, bewildered. He made no effort to conceal
himself as they approached the hill, but drew his pistol, ready to fire
down upon them as they came. Suddenly there was a change. So quickly
that he could scarcely believe his eyes the flying Mormons had
disappeared. Not a man was visible upon that narrow plain between the
hill and the sea. Like a huge covey of quail they had dropped to the
ground, their rifles lost in that ghostly gloom through which the voices
of the mainlanders came in fierce cries of triumph. It was magnificent!
Even as the crushing truth of what it all meant came to him, the
fighting blood in his veins leaped at the sight of it--the pretended
effect of the shots from sea, the sham confusion, the disorderly
flight, the wonderful quickness and precision with which the rabble of
armed men had thrown itself into ambush!
Would the mainlanders rush into the trap? Had some keen eye seen those
shadowy forms dropping through the mist? Each instant the ghostly pall
that shut out vision seaward seemed drifting away. Nathaniel's staring
eyes saw a vague shape appear in it, an indistinct dirt-gray blotch, and
he knew that it was a boat. Another followed, and then another; he heard
the sound of oars, the grinding of keels upon the sand, and where the
Mormons had been a few moments before the beach was now alive with
mainlanders. In the growing light he could make out the king's men below
him, inanimate spots in the middle of the narrow plain. Helpless he
stood clutching his pistol, the horror in him growing with each breath.
Could he give no warning? Could he do nothing--nothing--At least he
could join in the fight! He ran down the hill, swinging to the left of
the Mormons. Half way, and he stopped as a thundering cheer swept up
from the shore. The mainlanders had started toward the hill! Without
rank, without order--shouting their triumph as they came they were
rushing blindly into the arms of the ambush! A shriek of warning left
Nathaniel's lips. It was drowned in a crash of rifle fire. Volley after
volley burst from that shadowy stretch of plain. Before the furious fire
the van of the mainlanders crumpled into ruin. Like chaff before a wind
those behind were swept back. Apparently they were flying without
waiting to fire a shot! Nathaniel dashed down into the plain. Ahead of
him the Mormons were charging in a solid line, and in another moment the
shore had become a mass of fighting men. Far to the left he saw a group
of the mainlanders running along the beach toward the conflict. If he
could only intercept them--and bring them into the rear! Like the wind
he sped to cut them off, shouting and firing his pistol.
He won by a hundred yards and stood panting as they came toward him.
Dawn had dispelled the mist-gloom and as the mainlanders drew nearer he
discerned in their lead a figure that brought a cry of joy from his
lips.
"Neil!" he shouted. "Neil--"
He turned as Marion's brother darted to his side.
"This way--from behind!"
The two led the way, side by side, followed by a dozen men. A glance
told Nathaniel that nothing much less than a miracle could turn the tide
of battle. Half of the mainlanders were fighting in the water. Others
were struggling desperately to get away in the boats. Foot by foot the
Mormons were crushing them back, their battle cries now turned into
demoniac yells of victory. Into the rear of the struggling mass, firing
as they ran, charged the handful of men behind Captain Plum and Neil.
For a little space the king's men gave way before them and with wild
cheers the powerful fishermen from the coast fought their way toward
their comrades. Many of them were armed with long knives; some had
pistols; others used their empty rifles as clubs. A dozen more men and
they would have split like a wedge through the Mormon mass. Above the
din of battle Nathaniel's voice rose in thundering shouts to the men in
the sea, and close beside him he heard Neil shrieking out a name between
his blows. Like demons they fought straight ahead, slashing with their
knives. The Mormon line was thinning. The mainlanders had turned and
were fighting their way back, gaining foot by foot what they had lost.
Suddenly there came a terrific cheer from the plain and the hope that
had flamed in Nathaniel's breast died out as he heard it. He knew what
it meant--that the Mormons at St. James had come to reinforce their
comrades. He fought now to reach the boats, calling to Neil, whom he
could no longer see. Even in that moment he thought of Marion. His only
chance was to escape with the others, his only hope of wresting her from
the kingdom lay in his own freedom. He had waited too long. A crushing
blow fell upon him from behind and with a last cry to Neil he sank under
the trampling feet. Indistinctly there came to him the surging shock of
the fresh body of Mormons. The din about him became fainter and fainter
as though he was being carried rapidly away from it; shouting voices
came to him in whispers, and deadened sounds, like the quick tapping of
a finger on his forehead, were all that he heard of the steady rifle
fire that pursued the defeated mainlanders in their flight.
After a little he began struggling back into consciousness. There was a
splitting pain somewhere in his head and he tried to reach his hand to
it.
"You won't have to carry him," he heard a voice say. "Give him a little
water and he'll walk."
He felt the dash of the water in his face and it put new life into him.
Somebody had raised him to a sitting posture and was supporting him
there while a second person bound a cloth about his head. He opened his
eyes and the light of day shot into them like a stinging, burning charge
of needle-points, and he closed them again with a sharp cry of pain.
That second's glance had shown him that it was a woman who was binding
his head. He had not seen her face. Beyond her he had caught a half
formed vision of many people and the glistening edge of the sea, and as
he lay with closed eyes the murmur of voices came to him. The support at
his back was taken away, slowly, as if the person who held him feared
that he would fall. Nathaniel stiffened himself to show his returning
strength and opened his eyes again. This time the pain was not so great.
A few yards away he saw a group of people and among them were women;
still farther away, so far that his brain grew dizzy as he looked, there
was a black moving crowd. He was among the wounded. The Mormon women
were here. Down there along the shore--among the dead--had assembled the
population of St. James.
A strange sickness overpowered him and he sank back against his
supporter. A cool hand passed over his face. It was a soothing, gentle
touch--the hand of the woman. He felt the sweep of soft hair against his
cheek--a breath whispering in his ear.
"You will be better soon."
His heart stood still.
"You will be better--"
Against his rough cheek there fell the soft pressure of a woman's lips.
Nathaniel pulled himself erect, every drop of blood in him striving for
the mastery of his body, his vision, his strength. He tried to turn, but
strong arms seized him from behind. A man's voice spoke to him, a man's
strength held him. In an agony of appeal Marion's name burst from his
lips.
"Sh-h-!" warned the voice behind him. "Are you crazy?"
The arms relaxed their hold and Nathaniel dragged himself to his knees.
The woman was gone. As far as he could see there were people--scores of
them, hundreds of them--multiplied into thousands and millions as he
looked, until there was only a black cloud about him. He staggered to
his feet and a strong hand kept him from falling while his brain slowly
cleared. The millions and thousands and hundreds of people dissolved
themselves into the day until only a handful was left where he had seen
multitudes. He turned his face weakly to the man beside him.
"Where did she go?" he asked.
It was a boyish face into which his pleading eyes gazed, a face white
with the strain of battle, reddened a little on one cheek with a smear
of blood, and there was a startled, frightened look in it that did not
come of the strife that had passed.
"Who? What are you talking about?"
"The woman," whispered Nathaniel. "The woman--Marion--who kissed--me--"
The young fellow's hand gripped his arm in a sudden fierce clutch.
"You've been dreaming!" he exclaimed in a threatening voice. "Shut up!"
He spoke the words loudly. Then quickly dropping his voice to a whisper
he added, "For God's sake don't betray her! They saw her with
us--everybody knows that it was the king's wife with you!"
The king's wife! Nathaniel was too weak to analyze the words beyond the
fact that they carried the dread truth of his fears deep into his soul.
Who would have come to him but Marion? Who else would have kissed him?
It was her voice that had whispered in his ear--the thrill of her hand
that had passed over his face. And this man had said that she was the
wife of the king! He heard the voices of other men near him but did not
understand what they were saying. He knew that after a moment there was
a man on each side of him holding him by the arms, and mechanically he
moved his legs, knowing that they wanted him to walk. They did not guess
how weak he was--how he struggled to keep from becoming too great a
weight on their hands. Once or twice they stopped in their agonizing
climb up the hill. On its top the cool sea air swept into Nathaniel's
face and it was like water to a parched throat.
After a time--it seemed a day of terrible work and pain to him--they
came to the streets of the town, and in a half conscious sort of way he
cursed at the rabble trailing at their heels. They passed close to the
temple, dirt and blood and a burning torment shutting the vision of it
from his eyes, and beyond this there was another crowd. An aisle opened
for them, as it had opened for others ahead of them. In front of the
jail they stopped. Nathaniel's head hung heavily upon his breast and he
made no effort to raise it. All ambition and desire had left him, all
desire but one, and that was to drop upon the ground and lie there for
endless, restful years. What consciousness was left in him was ebbing
swiftly; he saw black, fathomless night about him and the earth seemed
slipping from under his feet.
A voice dragged him back into life--a voice that boomed in his ears like
rolling thunder and set every fiber in him quivering with emotion. He
drew himself erect with the involuntary strength of one mastering the
last spasm of death and as they dragged him through the door he saw
there within an arm's reach of him the great, living face of Strang,
gloating at him as if from out of a mist--red eyed, white fanged, filled
with the vengefulness of a beast.
The great voice rumbled in his ears again.
"Take that man to the dungeon!"