COPPERHEAD
Before the disconcerting discovery that he was trapped on the island,
Dexter had already framed his tentative plans for the future. The
capture of the Chicago outlaw at such a time had left him in a rather
embarrassing situation. The man was too important a prisoner to take
any chance on his escape. But to keep him in custody meant constant
danger. Stark was not a person to let a belt full of gold slip
through his fingers, and he undoubtedly would scour the woods to find
its wearer.
Dexter had decided to play safe. It would be suicidal to push on
northward where he was almost certain to encounter members of Stark's
crowd; so he had made up his mind to turn back through the valley he
had just quitted, make his way out through the southern gateway, and
escort his two prisoners to Fort Dauntless. It was entirely possible
that he might meet a party of re-enforcing police somewhere on the
way. In any event he had discovered the route through the north
pass, and after he had delivered Alison and Crill into safekeeping he
could have returned with comrades to renew the hunt. Stark probably
would continue his operations, and in some way or another the old
trail could have been picked up.
But it was too late now to adopt the wiser course. There was nothing
to be done but to sit still to wait until the stream might be forded
again. And if Crill's companions put in their expected appearance,
the corporal must fight them single-handed, with a thousand to one
chance against his winning.
Dexter's face was an unreadable mask as he surveyed the turbulent
waters, but Crill evidently understood the situation as well as he
did. The outlaw exhibited his yellow teeth in a grin of saturnine
gloating.
"Got yourself in a hole that you won't get out of alive," he
remarked. "My gang'll be here after me, you bet, and when they come
there'll be one less cop on the royal police force."
"The cops of the mounted do drop out at intervals," admitted the
corporal calmly. "But there's always a new one to fill up the ranks.
So that's all right." He smiled almost genially. "Meanwhile I
advise you to step very carefully. Come on. We'll go back."
The three island castaways spent a long and tedious day in the cabin
between the thundering rapids. Dexter found a few old dog-eared
magazines that helped him beguile the dragging hours, but he was
forced to do his reading in broken snatches, with one eye watching
Crill or shifting restlessly towards the open door, through which he
could see along the farther bank of the water-course.
The outlaw for his part did everything he could to keep his captor's
nerves on edge. He had opened a window shutter, and found himself a
seat on a bench under the sill. Part of the time he stared off
downstream with an air of grim expectancy, as though he were
confident that his friends would soon appear. At other moments he
would swing around to fix Dexter with venomous, unwinking eyes. At
intervals he would spring up from his stool and peer out the window,
pretending that he had caught sight of some one approaching through
the forest; only to sit down again with a mocking, throaty laugh when
the corporal also lifted his head to look. Twice he lurched to his
feet and started truculently across the room, moved apparently by a
sudden savage impulse to hurl himself upon his captor. On one such
occasion he advanced so near that the officer dropped the magazine he
was reading and reached for his revolver. Whereupon Crill's face
relaxed in an evil smirk, and he swaggered back to the bench to renew
his vigil at the window.
Dexter would have liked to put an end to the man's antics by tying
him hand and foot; but he could not hope to accomplish the job with
only one serviceable arm. If Crill once laid hands on him he
unquestionably would be crushed and beaten down by sheer bulk and
weight of flesh. His only dependence were the three cartridges left
in Alison Rayne's revolver, and the outlaw well knew that he would
not fire, except in an extreme emergency.
The officer could have called on Alison to help him, and because of
her fear of the murderer she probably would have consented; but the
girl was also his prisoner, and it was a matter of pride and honor
with him not to seek favors where duty forbade him to grant favors in
return. So he made the best of matters by keeping his temper and
patience, and maintaining unceasing vigilance.
For Alison the day passed with less monotony. The mere fact of being
under a roof again served to awaken feminine instincts of
orderliness, and she spent the entire afternoon cleaning the dirty
and untidy cabin. She swept the floor, dusted the larder shelves,
and scrubbed and scoured all the cooking utensils she could find
about the place. Later she baked a pan of biscuits, and contrived an
amazingly appetizing pudding, made of corn meal and dried apples and
molasses, with bear fat for shortening.
That evening Dexter sat down to the first civilized dinner he had
tasted in months; and when he finally finished, he got up with a
guilty knowledge of having over-eaten. He was a bit alarmed to
discover that he had grown very drowsy. To sleep soundly with Crill
in the cabin meant to invite death, so he took the precaution of
brewing an extra pot of strong coffee to drink before he turned in
for the night.
There was only one bunk in the cabin, and this was allotted to
Alison. Crill was ordered to spread his blankets before the
fireplace, while Dexter made his bed by the opposite wall, where he
could guard the front door. Before he retired he took a charred
stick from the hearth and drew a half circle around the section of
floor assigned to the outlaw.
"Your deadline," he remarked with somber emphasis. "If you stir
beyond that mark I'll shoot you down without asking a question. Good
night."
Through the long hours of darkness Dexter was permitted but little
rest. At times he dozed off, but with every faint creak of sound
about the cabin his hand reached automatically towards his revolver
and he sat up, wide awake and staring, expecting any moment to see a
crouching bulk stealing upon him from the shadow of the hearth.
Three times during the night he left the cabin to circle the little
island and to gaze up and down the moonlit shore across the way. On
each of these occasions he forced Crill to get up and accompany him,
and while the man muttered and grumbled over the indignity of being
kept awake, he obeyed. Morning arrived at last, and although the
outlaw had not yet ventured to make any hostile move, Dexter was
fagged by his long vigil, and he knew that flesh and blood could not
endure many more such nights.
Except for the fact that time seemed to drag more slowly, the second
day was a repetition of the first. The corporal grew heavy-eyed as
the hours passed, and by mid-afternoon he would have sold the tunic
off his back for a thirty minutes' nap. He drank enormous quantities
of coffee, and with Crill as his companion, went outdoors at frequent
intervals to tramp doggedly up and down the banks of the rising
stream, forcing himself to stay awake.
Alison alone had obtained her full night's rest, and she awakened
fresh and clear-eyed, to resume her self-imposed duties about the
cabin. She prepared the meals and washed the dishes, and smilingly,
but stubbornly, refused to let any one help. When dinner was ready
that evening she insisted on her companions sitting down ahead of
her, while she waited on table.
"You make me feel like a scoundrel," Dexter protested as she forcibly
pushed him to his stool and placed a steaming plate before him. "I
don't just see why you're called upon to be the maid of all work."
She laughed pleasantly, and leaned lightly against his shoulder to
put his coffee cup on the table. "It saves one from going crazy,"
she explained--"having something to keep the hands and mind occupied.
I'm really glad to do it, and I don't want anybody bothering me."
Before the officer could say anything further, she moved away and
bent in seeming absorption over a kettle she had left bubbling in the
fireplace. A look of gentleness stole momentarily into Dexter's gray
eyes, and without thinking what he was doing, he half turned on his
stool to watch the slim, boyish figure bending before the hearth.
For the instant he forgot that Crill was seated on the other side of
the table, almost within arm's reach. His glance was tracing the
graceful curve of the girl's throat and chin, shadowed in the ruddy
glow of the fire, when some guarding sentinel of the brain gave him
warning.
With a startled breath he whirled about, just in time to see Crill
rise from his seat and fling himself across the table.
Dexter caught a glimpse of an evil, bloated face and two slits of
eyes, glaring with ugly purpose. The table was overturned with a
crash, and Crill lunged forward, reaching with his ponderous hands.
The corporal felt murderous fingers at his throat, but in the
fraction of an instant vouchsafed him he twisted away, threw himself
backwards and fell from his stool. He caught his weight on his left
hand, and then, before his heavier assailant could drop upon him, he
sprang to his feet, and a cat-like leap carried him back to the cabin
wall.
Even as he dodged across the room, Dexter's hand had gone to his
jacket pocket. If the man still came on, he must shoot him down.
His fingers started to close upon the butt of his revolver, and found
nothing to take hold of. A limp, helpless feeling came over him as
he waited at bay, with his shoulders backed against the wall. His
weapon was not in his pocket.