CHÂTEAU BELLAIRE
Now Drennen, having passed around the shore of Red Deer Lake, having
often dipped his body into the icy water where there was little room to
pass between the lake and the cliffs, having fought his way upward
again much as he had travelled downward but by an easier path, came at
last, in the late afternoon, to the grove of giant trees upon the crest
of the great ridge. And, as he paused a moment, a new wonder was upon
him.
He had expected to find here merely a rude camp; he found himself
staring at a house under the trees! Such a house as he had never seen
in all of his life, but a house none the less. It was screened from
him by the tree trunks until he stood within fifty yards of it; it was
disguised now in the very manner of its construction.
The corners were great stacks of high piled flat stones; across the
rude columns lay tree trunks roughly squared with axes; the roof was a
sloping shed-roof, steep pitched, made of saplings, covered a foot deep
with loose soil. In this soil grew the hardy mountain grasses; even
two or three young trees were seeking life here where the cones had
fallen from the lofty branches of the mother trees. Over the great,
square door was a long slab of wood, carefully cut into a thick board,
the marks of the axe blades still showing. And inscribed deep into
this board, the letters having been burned there with a red hot iron,
were the words:
CHÂTEAU BELLAIRE.
Drennen's pause was brief. From the low, awkward building there were
voices floating out to him. He had come to the end of the long trail.
One voice, low toned and clear, drove the blood racing through his
body. His hand shook upon his rifle stock. In spite of him a strange
shiver ran through him. He knew now how only a woman, one woman, can
bring to a man his heaven of joy, his hell of sorrows. And that woman,
the one woman, was at last only fifty yards away! After all of these
bitter empty months she was at last only fifty yards away!
He came on slowly, making no sound. He drew near the corner of the
building. The voices came more distinctly, each word clear. The other
voice was the musical utterance of Ramon Garcia. Again Drennen stopped
for a brief instant. Were Sefton and Lemarc in there, too?
Ygerne's laughter drove a frown into his eyes. His hand was steady now
upon his rifle. Her laughter was like a child's, and a child's is like
the music of God's own heaven. Drennen came on.
In another moment he stood at the wide door, looking in. There was a
hunger in his eyes which he could not guess would ever come into them.
He did not see Garcia just then, though the little Mexican stood out in
full view, making the girl a sweeping, exaggerated bow after his
manner. He did not notice the long bare floor nor yet the rough beams
across the ceiling; he registered no mental picture of the deep
throated, rock chimney, the rude, worm eaten table and benches, the few
homemade objects scattered about the long room. He saw only Ygerne
Bellaire, and the picture which she made would never grow dim in the
man's mind though he lived a hundred years.
She stood upon a monster bear skin. Upon the rug, strewn about her
carelessly, their bright discs adance with reflected light, a thousand
minted gold pieces caught the glint of the low sun. Her head was
thrown back, her arms lifted. Her eyes were filled with light, her red
mouth curved to the gaity of her laughter. About her white throat was
the dazzle of diamonds; upon her bared white arms was the splendour of
diamonds.
"My Countess!" murmured the Mexican, his eyes soft with the unhidden
worship in them. "You are like a Lady who is born out from the dream
of a poet! See!" He dropped suddenly to his knees, caught up the hem
of her short skirt and pressed it to his lips. "You are the Queen of
the Worl'!"
"At last," she cried, her voice ringing triumphantly, "I have come into
my own! For it is mine, mine, I tell you! You shall have your share,
and Sefton and Marc! But it is mine, the heritage of Paul Bellaire!"
As Garcia had stooped something had fallen from his breast. Rising
swiftly he caught it up. It was a little faded bunch of field flowers.
"My share, señorita?" He laughed softly. "I am not come here for
gol'. Me, I have this." He lifted the flowers, his eyes tender upon
them. "With this I am more rich than the King of Spain!"
Drennen's dry laugh, the old, bitter snarl, cut through the room like a
curse. They had not seen him; they had been too busy with their own
thoughts. Now, as they whirled toward the door which framed him,
Garcia's hand went swiftly to his pocket, Ygerne's face grew as white
as death.
"So," said the Mexican softly. "You are come, señor!"
The muzzle of Drennen's rifle moved in a quick arc. It came to rest
bearing upon Garcia's breast.
"Turn your back!" commanded Drennen sharply. He came well into the
room, setting his own back to the wall so that, should Sefton and
Lemarc come, he should be ready for them. "Do you hear me?" for Garcia
had not stirred. "By God, I'll kill you . . ."
Garcia shrugged, and shrugging obeyed the command which he was in no
position to disobey. And, as again Drennen's curt words came crisply
to him, he obeyed, tossing his revolver aside so that it fell close to
the wall. Then, with Ygerne's wide eyes upon them both, Garcia backed
up to Drennen and Drennen searched him swiftly, removing a cruel-bladed
knife.
"Your little flowers," sneered Drennen, "you can keep."
He caught a murderous gleam from Garcia's eyes.
"The man who would touch them, señor," the Mexican said softly, "would
die if I have but my hands to kill!"
"And now, my fine Countess Ygerne," mocked Drennen, coming a step
toward her. "Have you still your nice little habit . . ."
As though in answer her hand had sped toward her bosom. But Drennen
was too close to her, too quick and too strong. His grip set heavy,
like steel, upon her wrist, he whipped out her weapon and tossed it to
lie beside Garcia's.
"You brute," she said coolly.
He regarded her in silence, insolently. His eyes were bright and
inexorable with their cold triumph.
"So," he said in a little, having passed over her remark just as he had
ignored Garcia's, "in all of your lying to me there was some grain of
truth! There was a Bellaire treasure and you have found it."
"Yes," she cried passionately, her hands clenched and grown bloodlessly
white. "And I'll spend every cent of it to make you suffer for the
things . . ."
"Not so fast," he taunted her. "Do you guess what I am going to do?
Do you know that I am the one who is going to deal out the suffering?
There is nothing in God's world you love . . . except it be
yourself . . . as you love gold! To find is one thing; to keep is
another."
"You mean," she cried angrily, "that you will try to rob me?"
"I mean," he retorted grimly, "that in a little while you and I are
going out there to the edge of the cliffs. You shall watch me; you
shall see your diamonds circle in the sun before they go down into the
lake! And then the gold is going where they go!"
It seemed to him that now, at last, was he Lucky Drennen indeed. Never
had he known how to make this woman suffer; now he believed that the
way was made plain before him.
"David Drennen," she said, the beauty of her face swept across with a
fiery anger, "one of these days I am going to kill you!"
He laughed. He had waited long to stand there before her as he now
stood, laughing at her. He had dreamed dreams of a time like this but
always his dreamings had fallen short of the reality. He would hurt
her and then, staring into her eyes, he would laugh at her. He saw the
rush of blood flaming up redly in her face, saw it draw out, leaving
her cheeks white, and the evil in him raised its head and hissed
through his laughter.
"_Sangre de Dios_!" muttered the Mexican, twisting his head as he stood
facing the wall. "He has gone mad!"
Suddenly Ygerne had whipped off necklace and bracelet and had thrust
deep into her bosom the old famous French jewels which the gay Count of
Bellaire had won across the green topped tables. It was Drennen's time
to shrug.
"Put them where you please," he told her with his old lip-lifted sneer.
"I'll get them. Put them between your white breasts that are as cold
and bloodless as the stones themselves. I'll get them."
"You . . . you unspeakable cur!" she panted, in a flash scarlet-faced.
Garcia was edging slowly, noiselessly along the wall toward the two
revolvers, his and Ygerne's. Drennen whipped about upon him with a
snapping curse.
"Stand where you are, do you hear? You go free of this when I am
through . . . if you are not a fool! It is this girl I want. Her and
Sefton! Where is Sefton?"
Ygerne, biting her lips into silence, her eyes flashing at him, her
insulted breasts rising and falling passionately, answered him with her
mute contempt. Garcia lifted his shoulders.
"With el señor Marco he is away for the horses. . . ."
"Liar!" said Drennen sternly. "What horses can climb these cliffs?"
"Don't answer his questions!" commanded Ygerne.
"Silence is as good as the lies I'd get," retorted Drennen.
He closed the heavy panelled door behind turn, dropping into place an
iron bolt which fastened staple and hasp. There was one other door at
the far end of the long room; he moved toward it, at all times watching
Garcia and Ygerne. Here was a smaller room, perhaps a third the size
of the first, without doors, its windows boarded up with thick ax-hewn
slabs. The floor of this room had been wrenched loose and torn away;
there were big chests still sunken in the soil beneath, the boxes
crumbling and evidently broken in their hasty rifling.
He came back into the larger room. Sefton and Lemarc, when they came,
must enter through the door at the front. And he could do nothing but
wait, his heart burning with the feverish hope that they would come
before Max and the others. He drew a bench close to the door and sat
down, his face turned so that he could at once watch Ygerne and Garcia
and not lose sight of the door. He rose again, almost immediately,
picked up the two revolvers and the knife, dropped them to the floor
under his bench and sat down again.
Ygerne in a little, her eyes never leaving his face, sat where she had
been standing, upon the rug amidst the scattered gold. Now and then
her fingers stole from her lap to the old coins about her; once or
twice her fingers travelled slowly to her breast where the diamonds lay
hidden.
Garcia did not move. As commanded he faced the wall. Once or twice
only he turned his head a little, his eyes paying no heed to Drennen
but seeking Ygerne. And his eyes were not gay now, but restless and
troubled.
In a deep silence through which the faint murmur of the branches above
the Château Bellaire spoke like a quiet sigh, they waited. To each,
with his own bitter thoughts, the time writhed slowly like a wounded
serpent.
Upon a little thing did many human destinies depend that summer
afternoon. Though a man's destiny be always suspended by a mere silken
thread, not always is it given to him to see the thread itself and know
how fragile it is. Had Lieutenant Max been five minutes later in
picking up Drennen's trail . . . had Sefton and Lemarc returned to the
"château" five minutes earlier, God knows where the story would have
ended.
As it was it was Max's tread which Drennen's eager ears first heard
drawing near swiftly. And a moment later Max himself, with big
Kootanie George at his heels and both Marshall Sothern and Ernestine
hurrying after them, came running toward the strange building. Drennen
at the door, his rifle laid across his arm, met them.
"Well?" snapped the officer. "What in hell's name have you done?"
Ygerne had leaped to her feet, a little glad cry upon her lips. No
doubt she had thought that this was Sefton returning, Lemarc with him.
She stood still, staring incredulously, as she saw who these others
were. A strange man, with an air of command about him . . . Kootanie
George, his face convulsed with rage as his eyes met her own . . .
Marshall Sothern . . . Ernestine!
"I came to find Captain Sefton," was Drennen's slow answer to the
lieutenant's challenge. "He is not here. I am waiting for him."
"You have killed him!" shouted Max, pushing through the doorway.
"I have not," said Drennen quietly. "But I shall."
"The Mexican, Garcia!" snapped Max irritably. "And the girl. I have
no warrant for them. Hell's bells! Where are the others?"
To answer his own question he strode toward the rear door. Half way
down the long room he stopped with a muttered exclamation of surprise.
He had seen the gold upon the old bear skin.
"Have they robbed the Bank of England?" he gasped.
From without came the sharp rattle of shod hoofs against the rocky
ground.
"It is Sefton and Marco who return," murmured Garcia, his hand at his
mustache, a look of great thoughtfulness in his eyes. "Now there will
be another kind of talk!"
And he looked regretfully toward the revolver lying under Drennen's
bench.