Bud, after making his escape, ran down the mountain road to the home of
Roge Carver, where he borrowed a rifle and ammunition. Roge loaned both
without either question or comment, although later he admitted to his
neighbors that it did occur to him that the incident was more or less
unusual. It was not easy to understand how Bud happened to be without a
gun of his own when within so short a distance of his shack, or why he
needed one, anyway, on a stormy night at one o’clock in the morning.
“He was all riled up,” explained Roge. “So I didn’ hold no talk with
’um.”
No one disputed that as an unwise decision. When a man like Bud goes
gunning in the dead of night, he is best left alone. The explanation
Roge offered his wife when he returned to bed seemed fairly reasonable.
“Mebbe one o’ them Enfield boys is prowlin’ round.”
On the whole, however, it made little difference to his neighbors what
Bud was about as long as they were not immediately involved. That a
man out there alone on the mountain-side, in Stygian darkness, was
battling with all the devils of Hell did not interest them. Bruised and
sore from head to foot, with the tips of his raw fingers quivering, Bud
could fight it out and welcome as long as he kept to himself. It even
made little difference whether he lost or won.
As he staggered up the rocky road, he would have been the first to
admit the truth of this. This was his fight now--his alone. He could
depend upon neither God, man, nor the Devil for assistance. He was
against the universe and the universe against him. Even the mountain
wind bred in his own mountain trees had played him false. It had lured
him into danger at the door. It was trying to press him back even now
and whipping his black hair into his eyes. In desperate rage he cursed
it as he stumbled on.
No matter how small the man, there is something Homeric about his
struggles when he comes to grips with elemental forces. Whether king or
common slave, a man who swayed by big passions does his best against
odds acquires a certain majesty. Men respect even rats who fight hard
for life.
If Bud had been dominated at the moment of his escape by nothing but
black revenge, this, before he returned to the shack, had changed
into something else, no less intense, but on the whole worthier. His
objective remained still the same--the death of Allston. But while he
lay bound upon the floor suffering acute physical pain, he had looked
forward to this as a matter solely of personal satisfaction. It was man
to man then, with Roxie stimulating the enmity, but she herself almost
wholly eliminated from the final issue. Once Bud was free and, rifle
in hand, within sight of his own door again, the girl assumed to him
her old importance. Because, as he realized now, with Allston dead, she
would be left more than ever his. The first time he had secured no more
than temporary possession; this time possession would be permanent.
So after all he did not stand altogether alone against the universe.
With Roxie still alive that was not possible. God, man, and the
Devil--they could all be against him, but as long as he kept within
striking distance of this girl he could still hope. In a way she was
nearer him at this moment than she had ever been before. He had
until now been under certain restraints. She had forced upon him a
compromise. For her sake he had twice spared Allston. She could not
expect that again of him. The issue now was clean-cut and that suited
him better.
Within a hundred yards of his shack, Bud paused. The windows were
dark--a fact that made him smile grimly. It indicated that the two were
still within or they would not have taken this precaution. And that
they were still inside was all he asked. It meant that they must come
out--in one hour, two hours, ten hours, twenty hours. It did not much
matter when. They must come out of one of two doors.
Bud took up a position by the spring-house to the left. From that angle
he commanded either door. With rifle cocked he sat down to wait.
But waiting was a more difficult business than he anticipated. That was
because his thoughts refused to stand still. And yet often enough he
had sat on a rock for hours at a time waiting for a buck to pass down
a mountain trail--waited stolidly and indifferently for his quarry. He
had not then been worried by thought. He had been patient enough. This
was all that was necessary now.
If Allston had only been in there alone, Bud could have sat where he
was a week, indifferent to sleep, indifferent to hunger, indifferent
to the weather. Each passing hour then would only have heightened his
expectancy. But Roxie was there too.
He wondered what the two were doing. There were moments when he thought
he caught the sound of their muffled voices--as he had caught them when
he lay prone and bound on the floor. Then the moisture started to his
forehead and his arm muscles twitched and the tips of his raw fingers
began to quiver. He was tempted then to beat down one of those silent,
blank doors and force his way in.
Only he knew better. He would be shot in his tracks--through the
panels most likely. He did not underestimate his man--pink-cheeked,
lily-fingered though he might be. Lily fingers could pull a gun trigger
quite as easily as any other kind. Furthermore, he had had evidence
that Allston could shoot straight. He did not like to remember the
night of their first meeting when this stranger had shot the gun out of
his hands. Yet it was one of the things he could not forget.
He must wait--but what were they doing in there? Holding hands,
perhaps. Gawd A’mighty! And he sitting out here in the dark--sitting
outside his own home!
It was curious, but from the first Bud had never considered as a
possibility the fact that Roxie might really care for this stranger.
His mind could no more conceive this than that she should not in the
end care for himself. Allston was fooling her, that was all, and she
was being fooled. One of the traditional old wives’ tales hereabouts
was of a country girl ruined by a city chap. Bud had heard it since a
boy. He knew of other cases, too, where the villain had not been a city
chap; but those stories, though based on sounder evidence, were not
as dramatic. They were, perhaps because of this evidence, distinctly
commonplace.
Whatever Roxie’s relations with Allston were, then, they were only
temporary. And she was not at fault. She did not know men. It was the
old story of the summerer and his fine clothes, except that Roxie would
never be fooled too far. Bud knew that. He had known it before, but the
early part of this evening the girl had proven it. The little wildcat
had taken a knife out of her bosom and started for him. And he--well,
he was almost tempted to risk one cut for a kiss. Her eyes had stopped
him. They had warned that the cut would be deep.
Now she was in there with Allston. That was what made it hard to wait.
It was this which moved him from his position once and urged him to one
of those front windows. Cautiously he peered in. He could see only the
dying fire lighting dimly the hearthstones. But this sight maddened
him. It was cold outside, and here he was barred from his own fire. To
the right was a black shadow. Upon the impulse of the moment he raised
his rifle and fired into it. Then he moved back swiftly to his point of
vantage by the spring-house.
Nothing followed. The shadow evidently was only a shadow. It was
expecting too much to hope it was anything else. Roxie was no fool. She
would see to it that Allston kept out of range. For that matter Allston
himself was no fool.
Bud made up his mind that he could look forward to little action until
morning, and the only consolation he could get out of that was that
daylight would increase his chances. Daylight would make the result
certain. In the dark a man, no matter how good a shot, might shoot
wild. Once the sun was up Bud knew that not even a rat could move ten
inches from either doorsill.
With his rifle across his arm he sat down, his thin lips drawn taut,
his blue eyes as hard and cold as steel.