_A DASTARDLY DEED._
When Broom came to himself after rushing from the scene of his violence
he discovered that he had returned instinctively to the Fort.
Finding the house in darkness he groped his way across the kitchen to
the inner room, where, after a little, he succeeded in finding and
lighting a lamp. As its rays fell upon his features they clearly
disclosed the hateful effects of his debauch, the havoc his ungovernable
paroxysms of violence and passion had worked upon him. The veins of his
forehead were dark and swollen, his eyes inflamed and hollow, his look
that of a worn-out demon. He was still agitated, and his blood-shot eyes
swept the room fiercely like a wild beast still unsatisfied. His
breathing was labored and his mood still that of half-suppressed fear
and rage. Frowning and irresolute, he paused after lighting the lamp,
then began to pace the floor unsteadily, his pace increasing in fretful
rapidity as he continued his short, irregular perambulations. At last,
as if wearying of this, he stopped short and leaned his weight against
the pair of sleeping-bunks.
Just then the indistinct form of a man appeared noiselessly in the
doorway.
Broom eyed it fearfully, while his face grew pale and moist with
perspiration. He clutched at the sides of the bunks to support his
trembling limbs. Then commanding his courage he demanded somewhat
unsteadily:
“Who are you?—speak out—be you man or devil?”
The answer was a wordless mumble. The dim form slipped forward into the
light and the broad figure and grinning face of Ocpic stood revealed,
and Broom’s courage was greatly restored. He heaved a long sigh of
relief and made a ghastly attempt at jocularity.
“Well, you imp of Satan,” he cried, “what do you want here?”
“_Ik-ki mai_” (It is very cold), declared the Eskimo with an
accompanying expressive shiver. Then, entirely unsolicited, he lit the
fire, which had gone out during Broom’s absence.
Broom paid no further attention to the native. With short, jerky steps
he recommenced his restless walk, pausing now and again with a nervous
start as the wood in the stove cracked sharply, like so many reports of
a pistol. He was in an impatient fury. His deliberations were far from
pleasant, for he felt that however much Roy might be inclined to
overlook the offence of breaking into the liquor chest, he had, by his
unpardonable assault upon Kasba, followed by his brutal attack on David,
put himself outside the pale of forgiveness. He knew by experience that
the trader would show him no mercy for this second insult to the girl,
and he dreaded his return. Not that he was a coward—in the physical
sense of the word; if corporal punishment could have atoned for his
brutal conduct he would have taken his punishment—as he then felt—with
the utmost satisfaction. But he recognized that in bringing this trouble
upon himself he had betrayed the trader’s trust, and this, to his mind,
was a far greater offence than his more criminal actions—even as
cheating at cards or the like ungentlemanly action is popularly supposed
to touch a man’s honor more closely than the committal of any offence in
the criminal calendar. He paced the floor impatiently, out of humor with
himself and things else, and cursing with bitter oaths his folly and the
circumstances which led to it. Moreover, the craving for strong drink
was again upon him, lashing him into a fury.
He had just succeeded in working himself into an ungovernable passion
when the kitchen door was thrown violently open and Sahanderry burst
into the room. The Indian gibbered wildly and seemed about to
precipitate himself upon Broom.
“What for you do?” he cried excitedly, pausing in the doorway and
spreading out his hands with a gesture of interrogation.
Broom stopped short in his walk and stared at the speaker with eyes that
darted malignant hate. The appearance of Sahanderry was as a match to
tinder, and Broom’s look was so venomous that it disconcerted the Indian
and he halted irresolutely.
Sahanderry’s discomfiture tickled Broom. He laughed derisively, then
abruptly resumed his tramp, his manner signifying his utter contempt for
anything the enraged Indian might do.
Incensed by the man’s laughter, and drawing courage from his outraged
feelings, Sahanderry approached his adversary with menacing gestures.
Broom halted, turned, and awaited his attack with a provoking smile.
Suddenly springing forward, the Indian seized him by the hair of his
head with both hands, then paused to allow him to get a grip on his
locks in turn—this being the tribal idea of the proper opening of
affairs of honor, in which each man, having gotten a firm hold, tries to
twist the neck of his antagonist by screwing his head into a position
not in accordance with nature’s planning. But Broom, after permitting
his opponent to take up the proper attitude, suddenly discarded all
further recognized rules of Chipewyan combat and struck the vastly
astonished Sahanderry such a violent blow on the chest that had not the
Indian’s fingers been entangled in his adversary’s hair, it would have
felled him to the ground. As it was he was able to regain his
equilibrium in part before relaxing his hold, and staggering against the
table, he stood for a moment panting and muttering curses upon the head
of the sailor, then slowly, craftily, he shifted his position.
For, in coming in contact with the table, he had instinctively put out
his hands to break the force of the collision and had touched an object
that stood thereon, over which his fingers had instantly closed, and
without pausing to consider what the missile might be or do, he, in
great desperation and excitement, now hurled it with sudden strength,
bred of his vindictive mood, at the head of the offending Broom.
The missile was the bottle stolen from the chest, and, hurled with all
the force of Sahanderry’s arm, it struck Broom full on the cheek with a
cruel thud, then fell to the ground and broke.
This unexpected attack found Broom quite unprepared. He staggered from
the force of the blow, but suddenly straightening himself, laughed
discordantly and pulled a revolver, which he cocked and levelled at the
now shrinking Indian, who, at the sight of the weapon, dropped to the
ground and vanished under the table, where he lay trembling and
terror-stricken.
The Indian’s extreme fear filled Broom with fiendish glee. In sheer
devilment he fired several times—apparently at haphazard, but with
unerring aim, at various objects in the room. He was undoubtedly a dead
shot, and, taking advantage of his skill, he tortured the poor
distracted wretch until he moaned again. Fingering the revolver in an
apparently careless fashion, he touched the trigger and the bullet
passed in close proximity to Sahanderry’s body. Then throwing up the
weapon to feign sudden alarm it went off as if by accident, the bullet
grazing the Indian’s head. Then followed a display of fancy shooting,
till, suddenly tiring of his amusement, Broom’s mood changed. His face
became grim again and once more he levelled the revolver at the
shrinking figure under the table. The Indian fairly shook with terror,
and the sweat gathered upon his brow.
Sahanderry felt that his end had come. Broom’s ghastly face and
glistening eyes seemed proof that he was no longer accountable for his
reckless acts.
“You can say your prayers, you hypocritical imp of Satan, for I’m going
to kill you,” hissed the madman. “In five minutes more you’ll be a dead
man.”
And a dead man Sahanderry certainly would have been if Broom had been
less elaborate in his system of torture. But during his shooting display
Roy Thursby had arrived at the Fort, and hearing the report of the last
shot had cautiously opened the door, crept noiselessly across the dark
kitchen, and reached the room in time to hear Broom’s murderous threat.
As his eyes took in the scene presented he started and raised his
clenched hand.
“Now, you hell-hound,” continued Broom, “your time has come. I——” With
a deadly intent he was sighting the weapon.
“Stop! You cowardly bully,” cried Roy furiously from the doorway. “If
you wish to fight you can fight me, but leave that wretched, cowering
Indian alone.” He spoke rapidly but calmly, and his tone of command had
its effect upon Broom.
“What devil’s luck brought him here?” Broom muttered to himself as he
unconsciously lowered the revolver and stood looking at Roy with
darkened brows. But the next moment he laughed recklessly.
Roy started at the sound of this discordant laughter. He eyed Broom
questioningly, apprehensively for some moments. From his strange
agitated manner, the gray pallor of his countenance and the wild, shifty
look in his eyes, Roy knew that he had to deal with a man who, if not
actually insane, or acting a part, was on the verge of delirium, or
could it be delirium tremens? But whatever the condition or cause, the
man was in a state that might be dangerous to himself and to others,
especially while in the possession of firearms. Roy resolved to
propitiate him as far as was consistent with getting him under control.
“Fight you, my English bulldog; why, of course I’ll fight you,” cried
the frenzied man, handling his revolver in a reckless manner. “But not
in the low-bred manner of your countrymen, if you please. Hands are
weapons for women; we’ll fight like men.” Again he flourished the
dangerous weapon, then playfully presenting it at Roy, he shut an eye
and took long, deliberate aim.
The trader glanced unflinchingly at the extended revolver. He fully
realized that his life depended upon the whim of a lunatic, and God only
knew what strange fantasy would next flash through Broom’s crazed brain;
but he realized also it was only a bold presence that would save the
situation. He therefore desisted from drawing his own weapon, and
remained motionless, gazing unswervingly down the little blue muzzle
before him.
There was silence for some moments, then Broom laughed uncomfortably,
and, throwing up the revolver, he deliberately fired over Roy’s head.
The bullet whistled desperately near his skull, but he stood immovable.
This unperturbed demeanor appeared to have a quieting effect upon the
delirious Broom, for he presently lowered his weapon.
Meanwhile a plan had flashed through Roy’s brain. He would induce Broom
to discharge his revolver at some innocent object till he was assured
its chamber was exhausted; then, with the help of Sahanderry, he would
secure him.
But unfortunately for this plan Broom’s thoughts had returned to the
proposed fight. Flourishing his own weapon recklessly, he called on Roy
to “produce his gun!”
“Come on, my weak-blooded Englishman; surely you are not afraid,” he
jeered.
The offensive tone and leering face provoked Roy almost beyond
endurance. But believing the man to be for the moment little better than
a maniac, he controlled himself, and drawing a revolver, the one he had
displayed to Delgezie in the camp, he deliberately opened the breech,
ostensibly to discover whether it was in order, but really to gain time.
“Don’t you think—,” he was saying in conciliating tones, when the other
broke in with a shout of demoniacal laughter; then suddenly remembering
Sahanderry his brows clouded again and he muttered viciously, “but first
I’ll settle with this black trash,” and once more he covered the
cowering creature beneath the table, causing him to shrink still farther
under cover.
The white fury of Broom’s face and his deadly earnest manner startled
Roy anew. He perceived that he must instantly distract the man’s
attention if he wished to save the Indian’s life, and presenting his
revolver at Broom, he called, in a tone of stern command:
“Drop your hand or I’ll——.” He spoke no further. By some unaccountable
accident the weapon was discharged at the moment when Broom’s finger was
actually pressing the trigger of his revolver to shoot Sahanderry.
Hearing the bullet whiz past his ears and believing that Roy had
wilfully shot at him, he turned with lightning quickness, diverted his
aim and fired, as he thought, in self-defence.
Roy staggered, swayed and fell heavily.
Standing rigidly erect, Broom gazed stupidly at the still body. His face
was livid. His legs trembled under him. His arm dropped to his side, his
hand still clenching the murderous weapon.
Picking himself from the corner, where he had hidden when the trader
suddenly appeared, Ocpic now crept cautiously to the side of the
prostrate man. He dropped on one knee and closely scrutinized the
upturned face. Then laughing wildly, he got to his feet.
“_To-koo-kuni! To-koo-kuni!_” (He is dead, he is dead), he gleefully
cried.
The sound of the Eskimo’s voice brought Broom to himself. With a strong
effort he withdrew his eyes from the senseless figure and gazed about
the room like one suddenly awakened from an unpleasant dream, in doubt
whether the horrible event had really taken place, or he had been the
victim of some grotesque nightmare. But all doubt as to its reality
ceased when his wandering gaze returned to the outstretched body of his
victim. This ghastly proof was sufficient to convince him that the crime
was no fantasy of a delirious brain. He sighed heavily. A slight
convulsion passed over his features. Then, terror taking the form of
defiance, he sprang forward and stood gazing down at Roy’s still figure.
A nervous grip was laid upon his shoulder and he swung fiercely round,
his frightened gaze meeting the oblique eyes of the Eskimo, Ocpic, who
stood pointing with extended arm; as Broom’s eyes followed its direction
his attention was drawn once more to Sahanderry, who by this time was
almost dead of fright.
At the sight of the shrinking figure he started violently; the
catastrophe had happened so suddenly and had so confused and stupefied
him that all knowledge of Sahanderry’s presence had been crowded from
his mind. He now recalled it with fiendish satisfaction. Here was an
object on which to vent his vicious rage, one who—as he wildly
imagined—while under the secure protection of an all-powerful master
had lost no opportunity to insult him covertly. But things were now
changed; the exchange of shots had removed the protector, Sahanderry was
masterless, and Broom resolved to take speedy and adequate vengeance. In
his mood of ungovernable recklessness he hesitated no longer at the
thought of crime, but paused to form a plan of torture sufficiently
atrocious, and the vicious books that were his only reading supplied him
with plots innumerable.
Soon a plan suitable for his diabolical purpose occurred to him. Smiling
sardonically he advanced to the table, and, stooping, caught the half
dead Sahanderry by the heels, and drew him into the centre of the room,
then, snatching a piece of clapmatch line from Ocpic’s hand, he bound
the distressed Indian in a secure fashion, the Indian making not the
slightest struggle or even a murmur of dissent. The latter circumstance
greatly amused Broom—a silent Sahanderry was a new experience. But his
mood soon changed. He again eyed the poor, bound wretch with triumphant
malignance, and, seating himself upon the edge of a bunk, he began his
torture by elaborately unfolding his diabolical plot to the trembling
prisoner.
Chuckling with fiendish glee he said:
“Now, Sahanderry, my friend, I am about to send you to your father, the
devil, by means entirely original and devised by your humble servant. By
the means I have in contemplation you will imitate the great and
excellent prophet Elisha, insomuch as you will quit this world without
encumbering the earth with your carcass.”
Broom paused to enjoy the effect of his words. Sahanderry’s face was
livid. His eyes rolled in their sockets and threatened to start out of
his head. His lips moved convulsively as if he were attempting to speak,
but he was too panic-stricken to articulate.
Well satisfied, Broom continued: “I shall proceed to the trading-store
and bring hither a keg of gunpowder. This explosive I shall place close
beside you, so that you may get the full benefit of it. After extracting
the little wooden stopper, or screw, which confines the dangerous powder
to the inside of the keg, I shall place the end of a lighted candle in
the hole, so that after burning a short time, in order to allow you to
say your prayers, and me an opportunity to escape, the flame will come
in contact with the powder, and—” Broom illustrated the probable result
with expressive gestures.
Sahanderry groaned, at which Broom burst into a great fit of laughter.
Then, finding the Indian was incapable of speech, Broom left the room.
He was closely followed by Ocpic, who, anticipating some developments of
a devilish nature, was singularly happy.
When Broom and his dusky coadjutor had gone, Sahanderry made superhuman
exertions to free himself. But he had been too well bound by the sailor
to escape, and by no possible effort could he loosen his bonds, though
the line cut deeply into his wrists in his violent struggles.
“_Bekothrie, Bekothrie_,” he called hoarsely, in vain hope that he who
had remained undaunted in so many encounters, who had survived so many
dangers, would now rise up to his assistance. It was inconceivably
strange to him that Roy should lie there so impassive, should have
allowed these things to happen without remonstrance, for Sahanderry was
wholly unable to comprehend that Roy could be as readily overcome as any
common mortal. But the lifeless form was still, and Sahanderry’s heart
sank within him and with apprehensions goaded to the utmost he waited
his enemy’s return.
Minutes of intense silence passed, then came the sound of deep
breathing, and Ocpic staggered into the room, carrying a heavy keg. He
was followed by Broom, whose white, set face and feverish eyes showed
him still implacable.
Sahanderry moaned in utter despair. There was a curious grey pallor
under his brickdust complexion. His heart was beating like a drum. He
tried to speak, but his voice failed him.
Broom worked with grim expedition and the preliminaries were soon over.
Ocpic stood calmly watching events. His eyes took on a look of puzzled
bewilderment as the work progressed, but when Broom struck a match to
light the candle, Ocpic divined the hellish secret of these singular
preparations. With a startled cry he made a bolt for the door.
But Broom caught him and unceremoniously threw him back. “_What-cha-o!_”
(Wait!), he said grimly.
With a wary eye on the Eskimo, Broom struck another match and coolly lit
the candle, but a draught caused the flame to burn unsteadily, and
perceiving this was likely to precipitate the explosion Broom carefully
snuffed out the flame with his finger and thumb.
“Won’t do! Guess we’ll have to shift it over there,” he said, pointing
to a corner of the room and glancing significantly at his companion; but
Ocpic hesitated.
“Shift it, I tell you!” roared Broom.
Though unacquainted with the English language, Ocpic understood from
Broom’s gestures that he was ordered to move the keg of gunpowder. He
tremblingly approached, and lifting it gingerly, placed it in the
required place, then glanced furtively around for a speedy chance of
escape. But Broom’s bulk blocked the way. Perceiving Ocpic’s lightning
glance and divining its import, Broom waved him back.
“Stand back!” he snapped fiercely.
But the native retained his position boldly and scowled threateningly.
Sahanderry lay with palpitating heart, watching the two men, in the
desperate hope that a conflict might ensue. Devotedly he prayed that
they might come to blows, but after moments of agonizing suspense
Ocpic’s eyes dropped before the grim ferocity of Broom’s look. He fell
back reluctantly, scowling with rage, and muttering darkly to himself.
The candle was again lit, and this time the flame burned steadily. Broom
was satisfied.
Standing aside, he allowed Ocpic to rush from the room, then quietly he
walked to the door. Pausing at the doorway he called jeeringly back:
“Good-bye, friend Sahanderry, a quick and pleasant journey!” Then with a
burst of sardonic laughter: “I shall now have the charming Kasba all to
myself.”
Left to himself Sahanderry lay still and lifeless, for the grim
situation had scared him into a condition near to death. But presently
the instinct of self-preservation awoke within him. Again he made
terrific struggles to loosen his bonds. With frantic yells he strove to
make himself heard, although he knew there was no likelihood of anyone
being nearer than Delgezie’s hut, and he realized that the sound of his
voice would hardly carry beyond the walls around him. Yet in his
extremity he found it impossible to keep silent. He persisted in his
exertions to free himself, for the issue at stake was his life. His
bonds cut deeply into his flesh at every movement and the pain was
frightful, but he struggled till he could struggle no more and fell back
exhausted, his head dropping to the floor with a dull thud.
As he lay there like a trussed fowl it seemed to him that never did
candle burn so quickly. It shortened as if by magic. Soon the flame was
flickering over the black powder. Suddenly Sahanderry lifted his head
and listened with all his might. There was a sound outside. He gave a
hoarse cry for help, then listened again, his heart thumping like a
steam-engine. The sound drew nearer. It was a terrible moment. He
glanced frantically at the fast expiring candle. Was there yet time?
Spending all his remaining strength in one long-drawn-out cry, he fell
back to listen. He heard footsteps. They came nearer, they paused, and
then slowly went away.
It was Delgezie, who had just arrived. He was alone, Minnihak having
left him to visit a trap. Finding no one on the look-out for him, Kasba
not at hand to take his bedding, the old man became uneasy; his heart
fluttered with vague forebodings. He took a few steps toward the house,
paused undecidedly, then suddenly changing his mind, returned to his
sled. Hauling off the dogs’ harness with the ease and dexterity which
come with custom, the old fellow tied it together mechanically. Then he
again approached the house, muttering to himself in his uneasiness.
Suddenly there was a blinding flash, a fearful report, then—darkness.