In the dark hall, bound hand and foot, Bud Childers lay flat on his
back staring into Hell. In the old days of the Spanish Inquisition
devilish minds spent days of thought in devising new tortures by which
to bring with a nice appreciation of every fine point fresh torments
to individual cases. The infliction of pain was a profession. But even
these fanatical experts could have contrived nothing better adapted to
the especial requirements of Childers than this which Allston--wholly
without that object in mind--had hit upon.
Bud’s very soul was seared by the realization of how he had been
foiled, outwitted, and manhandled by this pink-cheeked stranger--this
honey-lapping interloper--this lily-fingered rival. The fellow had
thrown and tethered him as though he were a yearling steer. And he had
done this in Bud’s own home--in his own inviolable cove. Allston had
kicked him one side like a yellow dog within the sacred precincts of
his own shack and left him like a crippled pup in the dark. And Roxie
had been a witness of this ignominy.
But that was not all. That was enough to make a man writhe like a
salted worm, but it was not all. Allston was still here. He was
occupying Bud’s own living-room. He was sitting in one of Bud’s chairs.
He was warming himself before Bud’s fire. And this with Bud’s own woman
aiding and abetting.
Gawd A’mighty! Gawd A’mighty!
As the full meaning of it all burned into his brain, Bud found it as
difficult to breathe as though he were being strangled. He could hear
their voices from the next room, though he could not make out their
words. That was worse. It left him free to imagine. They were talking
about him and laughing.
Gawd A’mighty!
Bud strained at the ropes binding his hands--strained until the cords
bit into his flesh. He tested his strong legs against the ankle straps
until his muscles cramped into knots. He turned his head this way and
that, his mouth open like a snapping dog, until the sweat stood out
upon his thin forehead in great beads. It ran down into his narrowed
eyes, burning them with salt.
Here in his own shack! Here where for three generations no man had
dared tread without being asked! Here in these rooms he had made ready
for Roxie--she who on the morrow was to have been his bride! The
egg-eyed hornyhead!
He was breathing like a man who has run a mile. His big hairy
chest--made deep by so many trips up and down the mountain--heaved
spasmodically. It was well his heart was strong--else something might
have snapped. It was carrying a heavy load. As it was there were
moments when those thin lips covering that iron jaw grew first purple
and then white.
He could hear their voices and hear their feet when they moved. If
Allston had only come out here occasionally and kicked him, he could
have stood it better. But the man ignored him as though he were not
there. They talked on and for all he knew held hands--in the room
where the sprig of laurel stood in a bottle on the table: on the table
covered with new oilcloth which he had ridden to the village to buy for
her. This man was treading with his dirty feet the floor Bud had got
down on his knees to clean for Roxie. And she was in there beside him.
Bud lay passive for a few minutes. The cold wind slithered in beneath
the door and marked him as with a knife-blade where it touched his
skin. It played with his disheveled black hair. It worried, like a
playful pup, the bottom edges of his trousers and his ankles. It
maddened him like something alive bent upon teasing. He kicked out at
it with both tied feet.
And the man who had done all this was the man he had allowed to go
when he had drawn a sure bead on his heart that day in the cove. What
a cussed fool he had been not to put an end to him then and there!
God give him one more such chance--just one more! God give him half a
chance--just a fighting chance! With a gun or a knife or with his naked
fists. He had not fought with his hands since he was a boy, but now he
felt the instincts of a mountain cat. He craved to claw and to tear. He
ached to bite with his yellow teeth as animals bite.
Again he tested his strength until the muscles in his throat stood out
like whipcords. He could not understand why the rope did not break.
With the strength now latent in him he felt that he could snap iron
chains. It was maddening. When finally he sank back once again limp
after his effort, he felt a choking sensation in his throat like that
which comes to small boys helpless in their rage. Something akin to
tears moistened his hard blue eyes. To offset this, he voiced an ugly
oath below his breath.
He flopped over on his side to relieve the weight of his body on his
hands. There was humiliation in that act itself. It gave him the effect
of groveling. He had seen dogs, belly to the ground, crawl along like
that, and it always filled him with contempt. He felt the same contempt
for himself. But quickly following every such emotion came his black
rage against Allston--the man who forced upon him each additional
torment.
Gawd A’mighty!
But all this while Bud spoke never a word out loud. There were moments
when he could have shrieked in rage; there were other moments when wild
oaths sought expression. But every time so tempted he brought his thin
lips tight over his teeth. Had Allston himself come out here, he would
have been met with stolid silence. Speech to Bud, when highly moved,
expressed nothing. It was too utterly inadequate. His emotions drove
him to stolidness--to the stoicism of the Indian.
At the end of ten minutes Bud had spent in unavailing struggle the
first mad onrush of his blind rage. By brute force he had failed to
accomplish anything except to lacerate his flesh. He accepted this fact
as a fresh humiliation. He had pride in his physical strength. The
deepest satisfaction he could have had at the moment would have been to
burst these bonds Allston had fastened upon him.
Exhausted mentally and physically, he lay quiet for a moment. Passive,
he found himself able to think more clearly. It was barely possible
that what could not be accomplished in one way might be in another. A
rat was a small animal, and yet by industry and patience he generally
managed to secure his ends. Bud had seen them by constant gnawing eat
their way through oak beams that would have foiled the strength of a
bear. A rope was made up of many fine strands. If a man could break
them one by one, it was only a question of time when he would have them
all severed.
Bud squirmed his long fingers tipped with hard nails until they reached
the hempen cords. Then he began to scratch against them--slowly,
laboriously, painfully. It was a tedious process. But the rope was old.
He could feel the outer strands fuzz up as he continued. He could also
feel the calloused tips of his fingers quicken as the skin wore away.
It was a question which would last the longer. It was a question how
much time he had, anyway. But with those voices coming to him from the
next room he must be doing something. And one can never tell.
Gawd A’mighty, if he should get free--!