"HAWK"
Three months ago it would have been difficult for His Highness, Grand
Duke Peter Nicholaevitch, to imagine himself in his present situation as
sponsor for Beth Cameron. He had been no saint. Saintly attributes were
not usually to be found in young men of his class, and Peter's training
had been in the larger school of the world as represented in the
Continental capitals. He had tasted life under the tutelage of a father
who believed that women, bad as well as good, were a necessary part of a
gentleman's education, and Peter had learned many things.... Had it not
been for his music and his English love of fair play, he would have
stood an excellent chance of going to the devil along the precipitous
road that had led the Grand Duke Nicholas Petrovitch there.
But Peter had discovered that he had a mind, the needs of which were
more urgent than those of his love of pleasure. Many women he had known,
Parisian, Viennese, Russian--and one, Vera Davydov, a musician, had
enchained him until he had discovered that it was her violin and not her
soul that had sung to him ... Anastasie Galitzin ... a dancer in Moscow
... and then--the War.
In that terrible alembic the spiritual ingredients which made Peter's
soul had been stirred until only the essential remained. But that
essence was the real Peter--a wholesome young man steeped in idealism
slightly tinged with humor. It was idealism that had made him attempt
the impossible, humor that had permitted him to survive his failure, for
no tragedy except death itself can defy a sense of humor if it's
whimsical enough. There was something about the irony of his position in
Black Rock which interested him even more than the drama that lay hidden
with McGuire's Nemesis in the pine woods. And he couldn't deny the fact
that this rustic, this primitive Beth Cameron was as fine a little lady
as one might meet anywhere in the wide world. She had amused him at
first with originality, charmed him with simplicity, amazed him later
with talent and now had disarmed him with trust in his integrity. If at
any moment the idea had entered Peter's head that here was a wild-flower
waiting to be gathered and worn in his hat, she had quickly disabused
his mind of that chimera. Curious. He found it as difficult to conceive
of making free with Beth as with the person of the Metropolitan of
Moscow, or with that of the President of the Pennsylvania Railroad. She
had her dignity. It was undeniable. He imagined the surprise in her
large blue eyes and the torrent of ridicule of which her tongue could be
capable. He had felt the sting of its humor at their first meeting. He
had no wish to test it again.
And now, after a few days of acquaintanceship, he found himself Beth's
champion, the victor over the "Hellion" triplet, and the guardian of her
good repute. He found, strangely enough, the responsibility
strengthening his good resolves toward Beth and adding another tie to
those of sympathy and admiration. The situation, while not altogether of
his making, was not without its attractions. He had given Beth her
chance to withdraw from the arrangement and she had persisted in the
plan to come to the Cabin. Very well. It was his cabin. She should come
and he would teach her to sing. But he knew that Peter Nichols was
throwing temptation in the way of Peter Nicholaevitch.
* * * * *
McGuire was quiet that night and while they smoked Peter talked at
length on the needs of the estate as he saw them. Peter went down to the
Cabin and brought up his maps and his plans for the fire towers. McGuire
nodded or assented in monosyllables, but Peter was sure that he heard
little and saw less, for at intervals he glanced at the clock, or at his
watch, and Peter knew that his obsession had returned. Outside,
somewhere in the woods, "Hawk" was approaching to keep his tryst and
McGuire could think of nothing else. This preoccupation was marked by a
frowning thatch of brow and a sullen glare at vacancy which gave no
evidence of the fears that had inspired him, but indicated a mind made
up in desperation to carry out his plans, through Peter, whatever
happened later. Only the present concerned him. But underneath his
outward appearance of calm, Peter was aware of an intense alertness, for
from time to time his eyes glowed suddenly and the muscles worked in his
cheeks as he clamped his jaws shut and held them so.
As the clock struck ten McGuire got to his feet and walked to the safe,
which he opened carefully and took out the money that Peter had brought.
Then he went to a closet and took out an electric torch which he tested
and then put upon the table.
"You're armed, Nichols?" he asked.
Peter nodded. "But of course there's no reason why your mysterious
visitor should take a pot at me," he said. And then, curiously, "Do you
think so, Mr. McGuire?"
"Oh, no," said the other quickly. "You have no interest in this affair.
You're my messenger, that's all. But I want you to follow my
instructions carefully. I've trusted you this far and I've got to go the
whole way. This man will say something. You will try to remember word
for word what he says to you, and you're to repeat that message to me."
"That shouldn't be difficult."
McGuire was holding the money in his hand and went on in an abstraction
as though weighing words.
"I want you to go at once to the maple tree. I want you to go now so
that you will be there when this man arrives. You will stand waiting for
him and when he comes you will throw the light into his face, so that
you can see him when you talk to him, and so that he can count this
money and see that the amount is correct. I do not want you to go too
close to him nor to permit him to go too close to you--you are merely to
hand him this package and throw the light while he counts the money.
Then you are to say to him these words, 'Don't forget the blood on the
knife, Hawk Kennedy.'"
"'Don't forget the blood on the knife, Hawk Kennedy,'" murmured Peter in
amazement. And then, "But suppose he wants to tell me a lot of things
you don't want me to know----"
"I'll have to risk that," put in McGuire grimly. "I want you to watch
him carefully, Nichols. Are you pretty quick on the draw?"
"What do you mean?"
"I mean, can you draw your gun and shoot quickly--surely? If you can't,
you'd better have your gun in your pocket, keep him covered and at the
first sign, shoot through your coat."
Peter took out his revolver and examined it quizzically. "I thought you
said, Mr. McGuire," he put in coolly, "that I was not to be required to
do anything a gentleman couldn't do."
"Exactly," said the old man jerkily.
"I shouldn't say that shooting a defenseless man answers that
requirement."
McGuire threw up his hands wildly.
"There you go--up in the air again. I didn't say you were to shoot him,
did I?" he whined. "I'm just warning you to be on the lookout in case he
attacks you. That--that's all."
"Why should he attack me?"
"He shouldn't, but he might be angry because I didn't come myself."
"I see. Perhaps you'd better go, sir. Then you can do your killing
yourself."
McGuire fell back against the table, to which he clung, his face gray
with apprehension, for he saw that Peter had guessed what he hoped.
"You want this man killed," Peter went on. "It's been obvious to me from
the first night I came here. Well, I'm not going to be the one to do
it."
McGuire's glance fell to the rug as he stammered hoarsely, "I--I never
asked you to do it. Y-you must be dreaming. I--I'm merely making plans
to assure your safety. I don't want you hurt, Nichols. That's all.
You're not going to back out now?" he pleaded.
"Murder is a little out of my line----"
"You're not going to fail me----?" McGuire's face was ghastly. "You
_can't_," he whispered hoarsely. "You can't let me down now. _I_ can't
see this man. I can't tell Stryker all you know. You're the only one.
You promised, Nichols. You promised to go."
"Yes. And I'll keep my word--but I'll do it in my own way. I'm not
afraid of any enemy of yours. Why should I be? But I'm not going to
shoot him. If that's understood give me the money and I'll be off."
"Yes--yes. That's all right, Nichols. You're a good fellow--and honest.
I'll make it worth your while to stay with me here." He took up the
money and handed it to Peter, who counted it carefully and then put it
in an inside pocket. "I don't see why you think I wanted you to kill
Hawk Kennedy," McGuire went on, whining. "A man's got a right to protect
himself, hasn't he? And you've got a right to protect _yourself_, if he
tries to start anything."
"Have you any reason to believe that he might?"
"No. I can't say I have."
"All right. I'll take a chance. But I want it understood that I'm not
responsible if anything goes wrong."
"That's understood."
Peter made his way downstairs, and out of the front door to the portico.
Stryker, curiously enough, was nowhere to be seen. Peter went out across
the dim lawn into the starlight. Jesse Brown challenged him by the big
tree and Peter stopped for a moment to talk with him, explaining that he
would be returning to the house later.
"The old man seems to be comin' to life, Mister," said Jesse.
"What do you mean?"
"Not so skeered-like. He was out here when you went to the Cabin for
them plans----"
"Out here?" said Peter in amazement.
Andy nodded. "He seemed more natural-like,--asked what the countersign
was and said mebbe we'd all be goin' back to the mills after a night or
so."
"Oh, did he? That's good. You're pretty tired of this night work?"
"Not so long as it pays good. But what did he mean by changin' the
guards?"
"He didn't say anything to me about it," said Peter, concealing his
surprise.
"Oh, didn't he? Well, he took Andy off the privet hedge and sent him
down to the clump of pines near the road."
"I see," said Peter. "Why?"
"You've got me, Mister. If there's trouble to-night, there ain't no one
at the back of the house at all. We're one man short."
"Who?"
"Shad Wells. He ain't showed up."
"Ah, I see," muttered Peter. And then, as he lighted a cigarette, "Oh,
well, we'll get along somehow. But look sharp, just the same."
Peter went down the lawn thoughtfully. From the first he hadn't been any
too pleased with this mission. Though Peter was aware that in the realm
of big business it masqueraded under other names, blackmail, at the
best, was a dirty thing. At the worst--and McGuire's affair with the
insistent Hawk seemed to fall into this classification,--it was both
sinister and contemptible. To be concerned in these dark doings even as
an emissary was hardly in accordance with Peter's notion of his job, and
he had acceded to McGuire's request without thinking of possible
consequences, more out of pity for his employer in his plight than for
any other reason. But he remembered that it usually required a guilty
conscience to make blackmail possible and that the man who paid always
paid because of something discreditable which he wished to conceal.
McGuire's explanations had been thin and Peter knew that the real reason
for the old man's trepidations was something other than the ones he had
given. He had come to Black Rock from New York to avoid any possible
publicity that might result from the visits of his persecutor and was
now paying this sum of money for a respite, an immunity which at the
best could only be temporary. It was all wrong and Peter was sorry to
have a hand in it, but he couldn't deny that the interest with which he
had first approached Black Rock House had now culminated in a curiosity
which was almost an obsession. Here, close at hand, was the solution of
the mystery, and whether or not he learned anything as to the facts
which had brought McGuire's discomfiture, he would at least see and talk
with the awe-inspiring Hawk who had been the cause of them. Besides,
there was Mrs. Bergen's share in the adventure which indicated that
Beth's happiness, too, was in some way involved. For Peter, having had
time to weigh Beth's remarks with the housekeeper's, had come to the
conclusion that there had been but one man near the house that night.
The man who had talked with Mrs. Bergen at the kitchen door was not John
Bray the camera-man, or the man with the dark mustache, but Hawk Kennedy
himself.
Peter entered the path to the Cabin, and explored it carefully,
searching the woods on either side and then, cutting into the scrub oak
at the point where he and Beth had first seen the placard, made his way
to the maple tree. There was no one there. A glance at his watch under
the glare of the pocket torch showed that he was early for the tryst, so
he walked around the maple, flashing his light into the undergrowth and
at last sat down, leaning against the trunk of the tree, lighted another
cigarette and waited.
Under the depending branches of the heavy foliage it was very dark, and
he could get only the smallest glimpses of the starlit sky. At one point
toward Black Rock House beyond the boles of the trees he could see short
stretches of the distant lawn and, in the distance, a light which he
thought must be that of McGuire's bedroom, for to-night, Peter had
noticed, the shutters had been left open. It was very quiet too. Peter
listened for the sounds of approaching footsteps among the dry leaves,
but heard only the creak of branches overhead, the slight stir of the
breeze in the leaves and the whistle of a locomotive many miles away, on
the railroad between Philadelphia and Atlantic City.
The sound carried his mind beyond the pine-belt out into the great world
from which he had come, and he thought of many things that might have
been instead of this that was--the seething yeast that was Russia, the
tearing down of the idols of centuries and the worship of new gods that
were no gods at all--not even those of brass or gold--only
visions--will-o'-the-wisps.... The madness had shown itself here too.
Would the fabric of which the American Ideal was made be strong enough
to hold together against the World's new madness? He believed in
American institutions. Imperfect though they were, fallible as the human
wills which controlled them, they were as near Liberty, Equality,
Fraternity as one might yet hope to attain in a form of government this
side of the millennium.
Peter started up suddenly, for he was sure that he had heard something
moving in the underbrush. But after listening intently and hearing
nothing more he thought that his ears had deceived him. He flashed his
lantern here and there as a guide to Hawk Kennedy but there was no
sound. Complete silence had fallen again over the woods. If McGuire's
mysterious enemy was approaching he was doing it with the skill of an
Indian scout. And it occurred to Peter at this moment that Hawk Kennedy
too might have his reasons for wishing to be sure that he was to be
fairly dealt with. The placard had indicated the possibility of
chicanery on the part of McGuire. "No tricks," Hawk had written. He
would make sure that Peter was alone before he showed himself. So Peter
flashed his lamp around again, glanced at his watch, which showed that
the hour of the appointment had passed, then lighted a third cigarette
and sank down on the roots of the tree to wait.
There was no other sound. The breeze which had been fitful at best had
died and complete silence had fallen. Peter wasn't in the least alarmed.
Why should he be? He had come to do this stranger a favor and no one
else except McGuire could know of the large sum of money in his
possession. The trees were his friends. Peter's thoughts turned back
again, as they always did when his mind was at the mercy of his
imagination. What was the use of it all? Honor, righteousness, pride,
straight living, the ambition to do, to achieve something real by his
own efforts--to what end? He knew that he could have been living snugly
in London now, married to the Princess Galitzin, drifting with the
current in luxury and ease down the years, enjoying those things----
Heigho! Peter sat up and shrugged the vision off. He must not be
thinking back. It wouldn't do. The new life was here. _Novaya Jezn._
Like the seedling from the twisted oak, he was going to grow straight
and true--to be himself, the son of his mother, who had died with a
prayer on her lips that Peter might not be what his father had been.
Thus far, he had obeyed her. He had grown straight, true to the memory
of that prayer.
Yes, life was good. He tossed away his cigarette, ground it into the
ground with his heel, then lay back against the tree, drinking in great
drafts of the clean night air. The forest was so quiet that he could
hear the distant tinkle of Cedar Creek down beyond the Cabin. The time
was now well after eleven. What if Hawk Kennedy failed to appear? And
how long must----?
A tiny sound close at hand, clear, distinct. Peter took a chance and
called out,
"Is that you, Hawk Kennedy?"
Silence and then a repetition of the sound a little louder now and from
directly overhead. Peter rose, peering upward in amazement.
"Yes, I'm here," said a low voice among the leaves above him.
And presently a foot appeared, followed by legs and a body, emerging
from the gloom above. Peter threw the light of his torch up into the
tree.
"Hey! Cut that," commanded a voice sharply.
And Peter obeyed. In a moment a shape swung down and stood beside him.
After the glare of the torch Peter couldn't make out the face under the
brim of the cap, but he could see that it wore a mustache and short
growth of beard. In size, the stranger was quite as tall as Peter.
Hawk Kennedy stood for a moment listening intently and Peter was so
astonished at the extraordinary mode of his entrance on the scene that
he did not speak.
"You're from McGuire?" asked the man shortly.
"Yes."
"Why didn't he come himself?"
The voice was gruff, purposely so, Peter thought, but there was
something about it vaguely reminiscent.
"Answer me. Why didn't he come?"
Peter laughed.
"He didn't tell me why. Any more than you'd tell me why you've been up
this tree."
"I'm takin' no chances this trip. I've been watchin'--listenin'," said
the other grimly. "Well, what's the answer? And who--who the devil are
you?"
The bearded visage was thrust closer to Peter's as though in
uncertainty, but accustomed as both men now were to the darkness,
neither could make out the face of the other.
"I'm McGuire's superintendent. He sent me here to meet you--to bring you
something----"
"Ah--he comes across. Good. Where is it?"
"In my pocket," said Peter coolly, "but he told me to tell you first not
to forget the blood on the knife, Hawk Kennedy."
The man recoiled a step.
"The blood on the knife," he muttered. And then, "McGuire asked you to
say that?"
"Yes."
"Anything else?"
"No. That's all."
Another silence and then he demand in a rough tone,
"Well, give me the money!"
Impolite beggar! What was there about this shadow that suggested to
Peter the thought that this whole incident had happened before? That
this man belonged to another life that Peter had lived? Peter shrugged
off the illusion, fumbled in his pocket and produced the envelope
containing the bills.
"You'd better count it," said Peter, as the envelope changed hands.
"It's not 'phoney'----?" asked Hawk's voice suspiciously.
"Phoney?"
"Fake money----?"
"No. I got it in New York myself yesterday."
"Oh----." There was a silence in which the shade stood uncertainly
fingering the package, peering into the bushes around him and listening
intently. And then, abruptly,
"I want to see the color of it. Switch on your light."
Peter obeyed. "You'd better," he said.
In the glow of lamp Hawk Kennedy bent forward, his face hidden by his
cap brim, fingering the bills, and Peter saw for the first time that his
left hand held an automatic which covered Peter now, as it had covered
him from the first moment of the interview.
"Five hundreds--eh," growled Kennedy. "They're real enough, all right.
One--two--three--four----"
A roar from the darkness and a bullet crashed into the tree behind
them.... Another shot! Peter's startled finger relaxed on the button of
the torch and they were in darkness. A flash from the trees to the
right, the bullet missing Peter by inches.
"A trick! By ----!" said Hawk's voice in a fury, "but I'll get _you_ for
this."
Peter was too quick for him. In the darkness he jumped aside, striking
Kennedy with his torch, and then closed with the man, whose shot went
wild. They struggled for a moment, each fighting for the possession of
the weapon, McGuire's money ground under their feet, but Peter was the
younger and the stronger and when he twisted Hawk's wrist the man
suddenly relaxed and fell, Peter on his chest.
The reason for this collapse was apparent when Peter's hand touched the
moisture on Kennedy's shoulder.
"Damn you!" Hawk was muttering, as he struggled vainly.
Events had followed so rapidly that Peter hadn't had time to think of
anything but his own danger. He had acted with the instinct of
self-preservation, which was almost quicker than his thought, but as he
knew now what had happened he realized that he, too, had been tricked by
McGuire and that the murderous volley directed at Hawk Kennedy had come
perilously near doing for himself. With the calm which followed the
issue of his struggle with Kennedy, came a dull rage at McGuire for
placing him in such danger, which only showed his employer's desperate
resolve and his indifference to Peter's fate. For Hawk Kennedy had been
within his rights in supposing Peter to be concerned in the trick and
only the miracle of the expiring torch which had blinded the intruder
had saved Peter from the fate intended for Hawk. Peter understood now
the meaning of McGuire's explicit instructions and the meaning of the
changing of the guards. The old man had hoped to kill his enemy with one
shot and save himself the recurrence of his terror. What had become of
him now? There was no sound among the bushes or any sign of him. He had
slipped away like the poltroon that he was, leaving Peter to his fate.
"Damn you!" Hawk muttered again. "What did _you_ want to come meddling
for!"
The man couldn't be dangerously hurt if he possessed the power of
invective and so, having possessed himself of Hawk's automatic, Peter
got off his chest and fumbled around for the electric torch.
"It won't do you any good to lie there cursing me. Get up, if you're
able to."
"Got me in the shoulder," muttered the man.
"And he might have gotten _me_," said Peter, "which would have been
worse."
"You mean--you didn't--_know_," groaned Hawk, getting up into a sitting
posture.
"No. I didn't," replied Peter.
He had found the torch now and was flashing it around on the ground
while he picked up the scattered money.
"I'll fix him for this," groaned the stranger.
Peter glanced at him.
"His men will be down here in a moment. You'd better be getting up."
"I'm not afraid. They can't do anything to _me_. They'd better leave me
alone. McGuire don't want me to talk. But I'll squeal if they bother
me." Peter was aware that the man was watching him as he picked up the
bills and heard him ask haltingly, "What are you--going to do--with that
money?"
"My orders were to give it to you. Don't you want it?"
Peter turned and for the first time flashed the lamp full in the injured
man's face. Even then Peter didn't recognize him, but he saw Hawk
Kennedy's eyes open wide as he stared at Peter.
"Who----?" gasped the man. And then, "_You_ here! '_Cre nom!_ It's Pete,
the waiter!"
Peter started back in astonishment.
"Jim Coast!" he said.
Hawk Kennedy chuckled and scrambled to his feet, halfway between a laugh
and a groan.
"Well, I'm damned!"
Peter was still staring at him, the recovered bills loose in his hand.
Jim Coast thrust out an arm for them.
"The money," he demanded. "The money, Pete."
Without a word Peter handed it to him. It was none of his. Coast counted
the bills, the blood dripping from his fingers and soiling them, but he
wiped them off with a dirty handkerchief and put them away into his
pocket. Blood money, Peter thought, and rightly named.
"And now, _mon gars_, if it's all the same to you, I'd like you to take
me to some place where we can tie up this hole in my shoulder."
This was like Coast's impudence. He had regained his composure again
and, in spite of the pain he was suffering, had become his proper self,
the same Jim Coast who had bunked with Peter on the _Bermudian_, full of
smirking assertiveness and sinister suggestion. Peter was too full of
astonishment to make any comment, for it was difficult to reconcile the
thought of Jim Coast with Hawk Kennedy, and yet there he was, the terror
of Black Rock House revealed.
"Well, Pete," he growled, "goin' to be starin' at me all night?"
"You'd better be off," said Peter briefly.
"Why?"
"They'll be here in a minute. You've got your money."
"Let 'em come. They'll have to take me to McGuire----"
"Or the lock-up at Egg Harbor----"
"All right. I'll go. But when I open my mouth to speak, McGuire will
wish that Hell would open for him." And then, "See here, Pete, do you
know anything of what's between me and McGuire?"
"No--except that he fears you."
"Very well. If you're workin' for him you'll steer these guys away from
me. I mean it. Now think quick."
Peter did. Angry as he was at McGuire, he knew that Jim Coast meant what
he said and that he would make trouble. Also Peter's curiosity knew no
subsidence.
"You go to my cabin. It's hidden in the woods down this path at the
right----"
"That's where you live, is it?"
"Yes. You'll find water there and a towel on the washstand. I'll be
there to help you when I sheer these men off."
Coast walked a few steps and then turned quickly.
"No funny business, Pete."
"No. You can clear out if you like. I don't care. I only thought if you
were badly hurt----"
"Oh, all right. Thanks."
Peter watched the dim silhouette merge into the shadows and disappear.
Then flashed his light here and there that the men who must be
approaching now might be guided to him. In a moment they were crashing
through the undergrowth, Jesse and Andy in the lead.
"What's the shootin'?" queried Jesse Brown breathlessly.
"A man in the woods. I'm looking for him," said Peter. "He got away."
"Well, don't it beat Hell----"
"But it may be a plan to get you men away from the house," said Peter as
the thought came to him. "Did you see McGuire?"
"McGuire! No. What----?"
"All right. You'd better hurry back. See if he's all right. I'll get
along----"
"Not if you go flashin' _that_ thing. I could a got ye with my rifle as
easy as----"
"Well, never mind. Get back to the house. I'll poke around here for a
while. Hurry!"
In some bewilderment they obeyed him and Peter turned his footstep
toward the Cabin.