THE SPEAKING OF GUNS
Max had heard, whirled and came running back to the door.
"Stand aside!" he called to Drennen. "Those men are my prisoners."
Drennen made no answer. Mindful of the weapons on the floor he caught
them up and threw them far out into the underbrush. His rifle ready in
both hands, his purpose standing naked in his eyes, he stepped out
after Max.
"Curse you!" shouted Max over his shoulder. "If you interfere now I'll
shoot you like a dog!"
Sefton and Lemarc, riding and leading two other horses, came into view
through the trees. Evidently Garcia had not lied, evidently there was
some roundabout trail from the far side of the lake, evidently, the
treasure found, these men wished to lose no time in carrying it away
with them.
They had not heard until they had seen; by that time they were not
fifty yards away and Max's rifle bore unwaveringly upon Sefton's chest.
"Up with your hands, Sefton and Lemarc!" he called loudly. "In the
name of the Law!"
"Fight it out, Sefton, if you are a man!" shouted Drennen, his own
rifle at his shoulder. "I am going to kill you any way!"
Ernestine was crying out inarticulately; no one listened to the thing
she was trying to say. She had waited too long. Marshall Sothern, a
queer smile upon his lips which Drennen was never to forget, strode to
his son's side.
"Dave," he said gently. "If you are doing this for me . . . let be! I
have told Max."
"What do you mean?" muttered Drennen dully. "Told him what?"
"Who I am."
He laid his hand on the barrel of Drennen's rifle, forcing it downward.
His son stared at him with wondering eyes.
"I don't understand. . . ."
Both Sefton and Lemarc, with one accord had jerked in their horses,
their hands dropping the ropes of the animals they led and going the
swift, certain way to the gun in the coat pocket.
"It's a hold-up, Marc!" cried Sefton, driving his heels into his
horse's sides and coming on in defiance of the rifle still trained upon
him.
"Garcia!"
Garcia shrugged his shoulders and watched, having nothing else to do.
"Wait!" screamed Marc after Sefton. "Can't you see the uniform? He's
one of the Mounted."
Sefton saw. He saw too that at the door was David Drennen; that at his
side was Marshall Sothern; that big Kootanie George stood out, a little
in front. His face went white; he jerked his horse back upon its
haunches; his teeth cut, gnawing, at his lip. He saw and he
understood. He knew that for him the play was over; he knew that
within the old house was a fortune for many men and that he had had his
hands on it and that it was not to be for him. His white face went
whiter with the rage and despair upon him.
"It's you that did for me!" he yelled. "You, John Harper Drennen!
You! Damn you . . . take that!"
In the first grip of the fury upon him he fired. Fired so that the
short barrel of his revolver, spitting out the leaden pellets, grew
hot. He was too close to miss. Marshall Sothern clutched at Drennen's
arm and went down, sinking slowly, not so much as a groan bursting from
his lips. And as he dropped Kootanie George fell with him, the big
Canadian's broad chest taking the first of the flying bullets.
Drennen and Max fired almost at the same instant, the rifles snapping
together. Too close to miss a target like that, and Sefton, clutching
at his horse's mane, slipped from the saddle and to the ground.
"Lemarc," shouted Max sternly, "come on! Your hands up or you get the
same thing."
He had not seen old Marshall Sothern fall. Drennen was on his knees
now, his father's head caught up in his lap, his face horrible with the
grief upon it as he bent forward. The old man was badly hurt but
conscious. His eyes went to David's, his hand sought to close about
his son's. And Drennen, leaning lower as he saw the lips framing
words, thought that he had not heard aright.
"Thank God!" was what Marshall Sothern was saying.
There had been the one sharp fusillade and the fight was over. Three
men lay upon the ground, two of them having caught their death wounds.
Sefton sprawled where he had fallen, alone. He would lie there until
the life rattled out of his body. Ernestine, sobbing a moment, then
very still, was over Kootanie George's body, her poor frail hands
already red with his blood as she sought to lift him a little. George
was looking up at her wonderingly. He did not understand; he could not
understand yet. If she didn't love him, then why did she look at him
like that?
Lemarc, his dark face a study in anger and despair, lifted his two
arms. Max, his eyes hard upon his prisoner, strode forward to disarm
him and take him into closer custody. So, even yet, since neither
Marshall Sothern nor Kootanie had uttered a loud outcry, the lieutenant
was unconscious of all that had happened so few steps behind him.
The sun was entangled in the tree tops far to the westward, the red
sunset already tingeing the sky. In a little the cool sting of the
dusk would be in the air.
Drennen, stooping still further, slipped his arms about Marshall
Sothern's body. As his father had carried him to his own dugout, so
now did he bear his father into the house. He wanted no help; he was
jealous of this duty. And, looking down into the white face at his
shoulder, it seemed to him that the pain had gone out of it; that there
was a deep joy for this wounded man to be gripped thus in the arms of
his son.
Garcia, obeying two curt commands from Drennen, cleared the bearskin of
its golden freight and builded a fire in the rock chimney. Very
tenderly Drennen lay the old man down, seeking to give him what comfort
there was to give.
Ygerne, trembling visibly now, her face white and sick, watched Drennen
wordlessly. She had seen everything; she had marked how Sefton lay
where Max's and Drennen's bullets had found him; she had seen Kootanie
George drop; she had seen Ernestine crouching over him; she had seen
and had read the writing in the old man's face. Now her eyes were upon
Drennen. And he did not see her.
"Dad," he said, a queer catch in his voice. "Dad. . . ."
The old man's stern eyes softened; a smile fought hard for its place
upon his lips and in the end drove away for a little the pain there.
There was just a flutter of his fingers as they sought to tighten about
his son's.
"Davie," he whispered faintly.
Then he lay still, an iron will holding what little strength lay in
him. David sought the wound and found . . . three. A harsh sob broke
from him when he read the meaning that the three bleeding wounds
spelled. He had seen men with their mortal wounds before. He knew
that he might stop the outward flow of blood a little; that perhaps his
father might live to see the sun come up. But he knew, and his father
knew, that at last John Harper Drennen, good man or bad, was at last
going to his reckoning.
Ygerne Bellaire, while she and Marshall Sothern had nursed David
Drennen, had seen hourly all of the courtly, knightly gentleness and
tenderness which was one side of the old man. Now she came swiftly to
the edge of the bearskin. She, too, went down upon her knees at
Sothern's side, just opposite Drennen. Her hands did not tremble as
they grew red with the spurting blood. She said nothing, but she
helped Drennen, who, having looked at her once with terrible eyes, made
no protest. Together they made bandages and sought to do what they
could, Ygerne fastening the knots while Drennen lifted the prone body.
When they had done the old man thanked them both silently, equally,
with his eyes.
So Lieutenant Max found them when, driving Lemarc before him, he came
into the room. The officer's face, as hard as rock, softened
wonderfully as he cried out and came quickly to Marshall Sothern's side.
"Mr. Sothern!" he said harshly. "He got you . . . my God!"
"It saves you a nasty job, my boy," Sothern said gently. "And me much
unhappiness. I'm old, Max, and I'm tired and my work's done. I'm
glad, glad to go. . . ."
For a little he was silent, exhausted, his eyes closed. Then, the
smile seeming to come more easily to the white lips, his eyes still
shut, he murmured so that they leaned closer not to miss the words:
"God is good to me in the end. I have always been lonely . . . without
your mamma, Davie. And now I am going to her . . . with all I love in
life telling me . . . good-bye. You, Max, my boy . . . you, Davie, my
son . . . you, Ygerne, my daughter. . . ."
Ygerne, a sob shaking at her breast, rose swiftly and went out. But in
a moment she was back, bringing with her a little flask of brandy. The
eyes of Ramon Garcia, the only eyes in the room to follow her, grew
unutterly sad.
A little of the brandy added fuel to the flickering fire of life in
Marshall Sothern. At his command they propped him up, the rug under
him, his shoulders against the wall at the side of the fireplace.
Drennen's face again had grown impassive. Max had not opened his lips
after his first outburst but in his eyes tears gathered, slowly
spilling over upon his brown cheeks. Ygerne, as before, stood a little
aloof.
"Davie," the old man said slowly, painfully, yet the words distinct
through the mastery of his will; "I wanted to tell you the story while
we were on the trail together . . . alone, out in the woods. But it is
just as well now. Max, my boy, you will forgive me? I want just Davie
here . . . and Ygerne."
Max turned swiftly, nodding, a new look in his eyes. He had said
truly; this old man had been more than father to him. Like all men of
strong passions Max knew jealousy; and now he sought to hide the hurt
that he should be sent away even though it be to make place for the son.
Max and Garcia and Lemarc went out, the door closing after them.
Coming to where Kootanie George lay they saw that Ernestine's face was
against his breast, that George's great arms were at last flung about
her shoulders.
Meantime John Harper Drennen told his story. Knowing that his time was
short, his strength waning, he gave only the essential facts without
comment, making no defence for himself which did not lie upon the
surface of these facts themselves.
John Harper Drennen had been the second vice-president of the Eastern
Mines, Inc., New York. He had made his reputation as a man of clean
probity, of unimpeachable honour. His influence became very great
because his honesty was great. The first vice-president of the company
was a man named Frayne. Just now Frayne lay dead outside with Max's
and Drennen's bullets through his body.
Frayne . . . or Sefton . . . while nominally first vice-president was
in actuality the manager of Eastern Mines. He had always been a man
without principle but John Harper Drennen had believed in him. There
came a time when the Eastern Mines threw a new scheme upon the market.
Frayne had engineered the plan and had made John Harper Drennen believe
in it. John Harper Drennen, using his influence, had caused his
friends to buy a total of one hundred thousand dollars of worthless
stock.
Before the exposure came John Harper Drennen had had his eyes opened.
He went to Frayne and Frayne laughed at him. He went higher up and
found that the nominal president was under Frayne's thumb.
Drennen sought the way to make restitution to the friends who had been
fleeced through his advice. He, himself, had not more than twenty-five
thousand dollars available. Being in a position of trust in the
company, he took from their vaults the remaining seventy-five thousand
dollars. He gave the money, the whole hundred thousand, to a broker,
instructing him to buy the worthless shares. He went to his friends,
instructing them to unload. He saw that he had made restitution.
Then, knowing that Frayne had cloaked his whole crooked deal in
protective technicalities of the law, knowing that his act could be
punished, he left New York.
He had sought to see his son, but David Drennen was out of town and
there was no time. He went to Paris. At last, a body in the Seine
gave him the opportunity to play at being dead. He wrote the note
which later came to David. Then he came to New York to find his son.
But David had left.
Through the after years the old man had sought always to do two things:
to return to the Eastern Mines the money which he had taken from the
company; to find his son.
That was his story.
He lifted his eyes when it was done, studying anxiously his son's face.
"I have sinned against the laws of man," he said simply. "I have
tried, Davie, not to sin against the laws of God."
Therein lay his only defence.
"Dad," whispered the son, his voice breaking now, the tears standing at
last in his eyes as they had stood in Max's; "it is I who have sinned,
being a man of little faith! Do you know how I worshipped you when I
was a boy? Do you know how I love you now?"
He bent forward swiftly and . . . he was the impulsive, warm-hearted
boy again . . . kissed his father. And a tear, falling, ran in the
same course with a tear from the old man's eye. One a tear of
heartbreaking sadness; one a tear of heartbreaking gladness.
"You will tell Max?" asked Marshall Sothern. "Poor old Max. And
now . . . let them come in. I have lived so much alone . . . I want to
die among my friends."
They stood, heads bared, faces drawn, about the figure which had again
slipped down upon the bear skin. Max knelt and took the lax hand and
kissed it.
"You are the greatest man in the world," he said incoherently. "Do you
think I am ungrateful? Do you think I'd remember a thing like my sworn
duty and forget all you've done for me, all . . ."
"A man is no man unless he does what he thinks is his duty, Max. I
have tried to do mine. You would have done yours."
Ramon Garcia, standing a little apart, came softly forward.
"You die, señor?" he asked very gently.
The old man nodded while David Drennen looked up angrily at the
interruption.
"You love your son?" Garcia asked, still very gently. "This Drennen is
your son and you love him much?"
"Yes."
"Then I, Ramon Garcia, who have never done a good thing in my life, I
do a good thing now! I give you something filled with sweetness to
carry in your heart? For why?" He shrugged gracefully. "It is so
short to tell, and maybe the telling make others happy, too. See. It
is like this: Your son love the señorita de Bellaire. She love him.
_Bueno_. I, too, love her. I cannot make her happy and love me; so I
will make her happy anyway. And you happy while you die, señor. And
your son happy always."
They all looked at him wonderingly. He paused a moment, gathered what
he had to say into as few words as might be and went on calmly.
"Señor David promise Miss Ygerne he stake Lemarc. He give Lemarc ten
thousand dollars. Lemarc come back and say to the lady: 'He lie. He
give me nothing. He say he give the money and more to the lady when
she give herself to him . . . for a little while.' But the lady who
had believe many lies will not believe this one. What then, _amigos_?
Then Ramon Garcia, loving the lady for his own, tell Sefton and Lemarc
what they shall do. He say Ernestine Dumont shall play sick; she shall
say she die and that George hit her; she shall make Señor David take
her in his arms, maybe. And we take the Señorita de Bellaire to see!"
A gasp broke from Ygerne; a look that no man might read sweeping into
her eyes. Drennen knelt still, looking stunned. A look of great
happiness came into the old man's face.
"Garcia," he said, "you are a gentleman! It is the truth . . . this is
what Ernestine has wanted to tell David . . ."
Now, coming swiftly, came the time for a man to die. He died like a
man, fearlessly. He had made his hell knowing the thing he did; a hell
not of filth and darkness but of fierce white flames that purified. He
had walked through it, upright. He had lived without fear; he had done
wrong but had done so that another, greater wrong might not be done; he
had trodden his way manfully. He had suffered and had caused
suffering. But he had not regretted. He had committed his one
sin . . . if sin it were. After that his life had been clean. Not so
much as a lie had come after, even a lie to save his own life. And in
the end, the end coming swiftly now, it was well.
With David Drennen and Ygerne and Max close about him, his last
sensation the touch of their hands, his last sight the sight of their
tear-wet faces, knowing that when he was gone there would be one to
comfort his son, he died.
It was dawn. David Drennen and Ygerne Bellaire standing silent, head
bowed over the still form upon the bear skin, knew in their hearts that
there had been no tragedy wrought here. The lips turned up to them
were smiling. The man had died full of years, honoured in their
hearts, loved deeply. He had grown weary at the end of a long trail
and his rest had come to him as he wanted it.
They did not see Ramon Garcia who came softly to the door. For a
moment he stood looking in, seeing only the girl; slowly there welled
up into his soft eyes great tears. From his breast he took a little
faded bunch of field flowers. He raised them to his lips; for a
second, holding them there, he knelt, his eyes still alone for Ygerne.
Then he rose and crossed himself and went away.
They had not seen. But in a little they heard his voice as he rode
down into the cañon. It was the old song, lilted tenderly, the voice
seeming young and gay and untroubled:
"_Dios_. It is sweet to be young . . . and to love."