There was a gleam in his eyes, a setting of the lips, a line sinking into
the forehead between the eyes.
"I've been watching for him all day, and I'll watch till he comes. I'm
going to say some things to him that he won't forget. I'm going to get
Bobby's money, or have the law to do it--unless you think I'm a brute,
Nett." She looked at him wistfully.
"That's all right. Don't worry about me, Jo. He's my brother, but I know
him--I know him through and through. He's done everything that a man can
do and not be hanged. A thief, a drunkard, and a brute--and he killed a
man out here," he added, hoarsely. "I found it out myself--myself. It was
murder."
Suddenly, as he looked at her, an idea seemed to flash into his mind. He
came very near and looked at her closely. Then he reached over and almost
touched the scar on her forehead.
"Did he do that, Jo?"
For an instant she was silent and looked down at the floor. Presently she
raised her eyes, her face suffused. Once or twice she tried to speak, but
failed. At last she gained courage, and said:
"After Cynthy's death I kept house for him for a year, taking care of
little Bobby. I loved Bobby so--he has Cynthy's eyes. One day Dorland--oh,
Nett, of course I oughtn't to have stayed there--I know it now; but I was
only sixteen, and what did I understand! And my mother was dead. One
day--oh, please, Nett, you can guess. He said something to me. I made him
leave the house. Before I could make plans what to do, he came back mad
with drink. I went for Bobby, to get out of the house, but he caught hold
of me. I struck him in the face, and he threw me against the edge of the
open door. It made the scar."
Foyle's face was white. "Why did you never write and tell me that, Jo? You
know that I--" He stopped suddenly.
"You had gone out of our lives down there. I didn't know where you were
for a long time; and then--then it was all right about Bobby and me,
except that Bobby didn't get the money that was his. But now--"
Foyle's voice was hoarse and low. "He made that scar, and he--and you only
sixteen--Oh, my God!"
Suddenly his face reddened, and he choked with shame and anger. "And he's
my brother!" was all that he could say.
"Do you see him up here ever?" she asked, pityingly.
"I never saw him till a week ago." A moment, then he added, "The letter
wasn't to be sent here in his own name, was it?"
She nodded. "Yes, in his own name, Dorland W. Foyle. Didn't he go by that
name when you saw him?"
There was an oppressive silence, in which she saw that something moved him
strangely, and then he answered, "No, he was going by the name of
Halbeck--Hiram Halbeck."
The girl gasped. Then the whole thing burst upon her. "Hiram Halbeck!
Hiram Halbeck, the thief--I read it all in the papers--the thief that you
caught, and that got away. And you've left the Mounted Police because of
it--oh, Nett!" Her eyes were full of tears, her face was drawn and gray.
He nodded. "I didn't know who he was till I arrested him," he said. "Then,
afterward, I thought of his child, and let him get away; and for my poor
old mother's sake. She never knew how bad he was, even as a boy. But I
remember how he used to steal and drink the brandy from her bedside, when
she had the fever. She never knew the worst of him. But I let him away in
the night, Jo, and I resigned, and they thought that Halbeck had beaten
me, had escaped. Of course I couldn't stay in the Force, having done that.
But, by the heaven above us, if I had him here now I'd do the thing--do
it, so help me God!"
"Why should you ruin your life for him?" she said, with an outburst of
indignation. All that was in her heart welled up in her eyes at the
thought of what Foyle was. "You must not do it. You shall not do it. _He_
must pay for his wickedness, not you. It would be a sin. You and what
becomes of you mean so much." Suddenly, with a flash of purpose, she
added, "He will come for that letter, Nett. He would run any kind of risk
to get a dollar. He will come here for that letter--perhaps to-day."
He shook his head moodily, oppressed by the trouble that was on him. "He's
not likely to venture here, after what's happened."
"You don't know him as well as I do, Nett. He is so vain he'd do it, just
to show that he could. He'd probably come in the evening. Does any one
know him here? So many people pass through Kowatin every day. Has any one
seen him?"
"Only Billy Goatry," he answered, working his way to a solution of the
dark problem. "Only Billy Goatry knows him. The fellow that led the
singing--that was Goatry."
"There he is now," he added, as Billy Goat passed the window.
She came and laid a hand on his arm. "We've got to settle things with
him," she said. "If Dorl comes, Nett--"
There was silence for a moment, then he caught her hand in his and held
it. "If he comes, leave him to me, Jo. You will leave him to me?" he
added, anxiously.
"Yes," she answered. "You'll do what's right--by Bobby?"
"And by Dorl, too," he replied, strangely.
There were loud footsteps without.
"It's Goatry," said Foyle. "You stay here. I'll tell him everything. He's
all right; he's a true friend. He'll not interfere."
The handle of the door turned slowly. "You keep watch on the post-office,
Jo," he added.
Goatry came round the opening door with a grin.
"Hope I don't intrude," he said, stealing a half-leering look at the girl.
As soon as he saw her face, however, he straightened himself up and took
on different manners. He had not been so intoxicated as he had made out,
and he seemed only "mellow" as he stood before them, with his corrugated
face and queer, quaint look, the eye with the cast in it blinking faster
than the other.
"It's all right, Goatry," said Foyle. "This lady is one of my family from
the East."
"Goin' on by stage?" Goatry said, vaguely, as they shook hands.
She did not reply, for she was looking down the street, and presently she
started as she gazed. She laid a hand suddenly on Foyle's arm.
"See--he's come," she said, in a whisper, and as though not realizing
Goatry's presence. "He's come."
Goatry looked, as well as Foyle. "Halbeck--the devil!" he said.
Foyle turned to him. "Stand by, Goatry. I want you to keep a shut mouth.
I've work to do."
Goatry held out his hand. "I'm with you. If you get him this time, clamp
him, clamp him like a tooth in a harrow."
Halbeck had stopped his horse at the post-office door. Dismounting, he
looked quickly round, then drew the reins over the horse's head, letting
them trail, as is the custom of the West.
A few swift words passed between Goatry and Foyle.
"I'll do this myself, Jo," he whispered to the girl presently. "Go into
another room. I'll bring him here."
* * * * *
In another minute Goatry was leading the horse away from the post-office,
while Foyle stood waiting quietly at the door. The departing footsteps of
the horse brought Halbeck swiftly to the doorway, with a letter in his
hand.
"Hi, there, you damned sucker!" he called after Goatry, and then saw Foyle
waiting.
"What the hell--!" he said, fiercely, his hand on something in his
hip-pocket.
"Keep quiet, Dorl. I want to have a little talk with you. Take your hand
away from that gun--take it away!" he added, with a meaning not to be
misunderstood.
Halbeck knew that one shout would have the town on him, and he did not
know what card his brother was going to play. He let his arm drop to his
side. "What's your game? What do you want?" he asked, surlily.
"Come over to the Happy Land Hotel," Foyle answered, and in the light of
what was in his mind his words had a grim irony.
With a snarl Halbeck stepped out. Goatry, who had handed the horse over to
the hostler, watched them coming.
"Why did I never notice the likeness before?" Goatry said to himself.
"But, gosh! what a difference in the men. Foyle's going to double cinch
him this time, I guess."
He followed them inside the hall of the Happy Land. When they stepped into
the sitting-room, he stood at the door waiting. The hotel was entirely
empty, the roisterers at the Prairie Home having drawn off the idlers and
spectators. The barman was nodding behind the bar, the proprietor was
moving about in the backyard inspecting a horse. There was a cheerful
warmth everywhere; the air was like an elixir; the pungent smell of a
pine-tree at the door gave a kind of medicament to the indrawn breath. And
to Billy Goat, who sometimes sang in the choir of a church not a hundred
miles away--for the people agreed to forget his occasional sprees--there
came, he knew not why, the words of a hymn he had sung only the preceding
Sunday:
"As pants the hart for cooling streams,
When heated in the chase--"
The words kept ringing in his ears as he listened to the conversation
inside the room--the partition was thin, the door thinner, and he heard
much. Foyle had asked him not to intervene, but only to stand by and await
the issue of this final conference. He meant, however, to take a hand in
if he thought he was needed, and he kept his ear glued to the door. If he
thought Foyle needed him--his fingers were on the handle of the door.
"Now, hurry up! What do you want with me?" asked Halbeck of his brother.
"Take your time," said ex-Sergeant Foyle, as he drew the blind
three-quarters down, so that they could not be seen from the street.
"I'm in a hurry, I tell you. I've got my plans. I'm going South. I've only
just time to catch the Canadian Pacific three days from now, riding
hard."
"You're not going South, Dorl."
"Where am I going, then?" was the sneering reply.
"Not farther than the Happy Land."
"What the devil's all this? You don't mean you're trying to arrest me
again, after letting me go?"
"You don't need to ask. You're my prisoner. You're my prisoner," he said,
in a louder voice--"_until you free yourself_."
"I'll do that damn quick, then," said the other, his hand flying to his
hip.
"Sit down," was the sharp rejoinder, and a pistol was in his face before
he could draw his own weapon.
"Put your gun on the table," Foyle said, quietly. Halbeck did so. There
was no other way.
Foyle drew it over to himself. His brother made a motion to rise.
"Sit still, Dorl," came the warning voice.
White with rage, the freebooter sat still, his dissipated face and heavy
angry lips, looking like a debauched and villanous caricature of his
brother before him.
"Yes, I suppose you'd have potted me, Dorl," said the ex-sergeant. "You'd
have thought no more of doing that than you did of killing Linley, the
ranchman; than you did of trying to ruin Jo Byndon, your wife's sister,
when she was sixteen years old, when she was caring for your child--giving
her life for the child you brought into the world."
"What in the name of hell--it's a lie!"
"Don't bluster. I know the truth."
"Who told you--the truth?"
"She did--to-day--an hour ago."
"She here--out here?" There was a new, cowed note in the voice.
"She is in the next room."
"What did she come here for?"
"To make you do right by your own child. I wonder what a jury of decent
men would think about a man who robbed his child for five years, and let
that child be fed and clothed and cared for by the girl he tried to
destroy, the girl he taught what sin there was in the world."
"She put you up to this. She was always in love with you, and you know
it."
There was a dangerous look in Foyle's eyes, and his jaw set hard. "There
would be no shame in a decent woman caring for me, even if it was true. I
haven't put myself outside the boundary as you have. You're my brother,
but you're the worst scoundrel in the country--the worst unhanged. Put on
the table there the letter in your pocket. It holds five hundred dollars
belonging to your child. There's twenty-five hundred dollars more to be
accounted for."
The other hesitated, then with an oath threw the letter on the table.
"I'll pay the rest as soon as I can, if you'll stop this damned
tomfoolery," he said, sullenly, for he saw that he was in a hole.
"You'll pay it, I suppose, out of what you stole from the C. P. R.
contractor's chest. No, I don't think that will do."
"You want me to go to prison, then?"
"I think not. The truth would come out at the trial--the whole truth--the
murder and all. There's your child, Bobby. You've done him enough wrong
already. Do you want him--but it doesn't matter whether you do or not--do
you want him to carry through life the fact that his father was a
jail-bird and a murderer, just as Jo Byndon carries the scar you made when
you threw her against the door?"
"What do you want with me, then?" The man sank slowly and heavily back
into the chair.
"There is a way--have you never thought of it? When you threatened others
as you did me, and life seemed such a little thing in others--can't you
think?"
Bewildered, the man looked around helplessly. In the silence which
followed Foyle's words his brain was struggling to see a way out. Foyle's
further words seemed to come from a great distance.
"It's not too late to do the decent thing. You'll never repent of all
you've done; you'll never do different."
The old, reckless, irresponsible spirit revived in the man; he had both
courage and bravado; he was not hopeless yet of finding an escape from the
net. He would not beg, he would struggle.
"I've lived as I meant to, and I'm not going to snivel or repent now. It's
all a rotten business, anyhow," he rejoined.
With a sudden resolution the ex-sergeant put his own pistol in his pocket,
then pushed Halbeck's pistol over toward him on the table. Halbeck's eyes
lighted eagerly, grew red with excitement, then a change passed over them.
They now settled on the pistol, and stayed.
He heard Foyle's voice. "It's with you to do what you ought to do. Of
course you can kill me. My pistol's in my pocket. But I don't think you
will. You've murdered one man. You won't load your soul up with another.
Besides, if you kill me, you will never get away from Kowatin alive. But
it's with you--take your choice. It's me or you."
Halbeck's fingers crept out and found the pistol.
"Do your duty, Dorl," said the ex-sergeant, as he turned his back on his
brother.
The door of the room opened, and Goatry stepped inside softly. He had work
to do, if need be, and his face showed it. Halbeck did not see him.
There was a demon in Halbeck's eyes, as his brother stood, his back
turned, taking his chances. A large mirror hung on the wall opposite
Halbeck. Goatry was watching Halbeck's face in the glass, and saw the
danger. He measured his distance.
All at once Halbeck caught Goatry's face in the mirror. The dark devilry
faded out of his eyes. His lips moved in a whispered oath. Every way was
blocked.
With a sudden wild resolution he raised the pistol to his head. It
cracked, and he fell back heavily in the chair. There was a red trickle at
the temple.
He had chosen the best way out.
"He had the pluck," said Goatry, as Foyle swung round with a face of
misery.
A moment afterward came a rush of people. Goatry kept them back.
"Sergeant Foyle arrested Halbeck, and Halbeck's shot himself," Goatry
explained to them.
A white-faced girl with a scar on her temple made her way into the room.
[Illustration: "IF YOU KILL ME, YOU WILL NEVER GET AWAY
FROM KOWATIN ALIVE"]
"Come away--come away, Jo," said the voice of the man she loved; and he
did not let her see the lifeless figure in the chair.
* * * * *
Three days later the plains swallowed them, as they made their way with
Billy Goatry to the headquarters of the Riders of the Plains, where
Sergeant Foyle was asked to reconsider his resignation: which he did.