THE DRIP OF WATER IN THE DARK
Even after Helen had been out for some time she could barely see
sufficiently to avoid collisions. The air, weighted by a low-hung roof
of clouds, was surcharged with the electric suspense of an impending
storm, and seemed to sigh and tremble at the hint of power in leash. It
was that pause before the conflict wherein the night laid finger upon
its lips.
As the girl neared Glenister’s cabin she was disappointed at seeing no
light there. She stumbled towards the door, only to utter a
half-strangled cry as two men stepped out of the gloom and seized her
roughly. Something cold and hard was thrust violently against her cheek,
forcing her head back and bruising her. She struggled and cried out.
“Hold on--it’s a woman!” ejaculated the man who had pinioned her arms,
loosing his hold till only a hand remained on her shoulder. The other
lowered the weapon he had jammed to her face and peered closely.
“Why, Miss Chester,” he said. “What are you doing here? You came near
getting hurt.”
“I am bound for the Wilsons’, but I must have lost my way in the
darkness. I think you have cut my face.” She controlled her fright
firmly.
“That’s too bad,” one said. “We mistook you for--” And the other broke
in, sharply, “You’d better run along. We’re waiting for some one.”
Helen hastened back by the route she had come, knowing that there was
still time, and that as yet her uncle’s emissaries had not laid hands
upon Glenister. She had overheard the Judge and McNamara plotting to
drag the town with a force of deputies, seizing not only her two
friends, but every man suspected of being a Vigilante. The victims were
to be jailed without bond, without reason, without justice, while the
mechanism of the court was to be juggled in order to hold them until
fall, if necessary. They had said that the officers were already busy,
so haste was a crying thing. She sped down the dark streets towards the
house of Cherry Malotte, but found no light nor answer to her knock. She
was distracted now, and knew not where to seek next among the thousand
spots which might hide the man she wanted. What chance had she against
the posse sweeping the town from end to end? There was only one; he
might be at the Northern Theatre. Even so, she could not reach him, for
she dared not go there herself. She thought of Fred, her Jap boy, but
there was no time. Wasted moments meant failure.
Roy had once told her that he never gave up what he undertook. Very
well, she would show that even a girl may possess determination. This
was no time for modesty or shrinking indecision, so she pulled the veil
more closely about her face and took her good name into her hands. She
made rapidly towards the lighted streets which cast a skyward glare, and
from which, through the breathless calm, arose the sound of carousal.
Swiftly she threaded the narrow alleys in search of the theatre’s rear
entrance, for she dared not approach from the front. In this way she
came into a part of the camp which had lain hidden from her until now,
and of the existence of which she had never dreamed.
The vices of a city, however horrible, are at least draped scantily by
the mantle of convention, but in a great mining-camp they stand naked
and without concealment. Here there were rows upon rows of criblike
houses clustered over tortuous, ill-lighted lanes, like blow-flies
swarming to an unclean feast. From within came the noise of ribaldry and
debauch. Shrill laughter mingled with coarse, maudlin songs, till the
clinging night reeked with abominable revelry. The girl saw painted
creatures of every nationality leaning from windows or beckoning from
doorways, while drunken men collided with her, barred her course,
challenged her, and again and again she was forced to slip from their
embraces. At last the high bulk of the theatre building loomed a short
distance ahead. Panting and frightened, she tried the door with weak
hands, to find it locked. From behind it rose the blare of brass and the
sound of singing. She accosted a man who approached her through the
narrow alley, but he had cruised from the charted course in search of
adventure and was not minded to go in quest of doormen; rather, he chose
to sing a chantey, to the bibulous measures of which he invited her to
dance with him, so she slipped away till he had teetered past. He was
some long-shoreman in that particular epoch of his inebriety where life
had no burden save the dissipation of wages.
Returning, she pounded on the door, possessed of the sense that the man
she sought was here, till at last it was flung open, framing the
silhouette of a shirt-sleeved, thick-set youth, who shouted:
“What ’n ’ell do you want to butt in for while the show’s on? Go round
front.” She caught a glimpse of disordered scenery, and before he could
slam the door in her face thrust a silver dollar into his hand, at the
same time wedging herself into the opening. He pocketed the coin and the
door clicked to behind her.
“Well, speak up. The act’s closin’.” Evidently he was the directing
genius of the performance, for at that moment the chorus broke into full
cry, and he said, hurriedly:
“Wait a minute. There goes the finally,” and dashed away to tend his
drops and switches. When the curtain was down and the principals had
sought their dressing-rooms he returned.
“Do you know Mr. Glenister?” she asked.
“Sure. I seen him to-night. Come here.” He led her towards the
footlights, and, pulling back the edge of the curtain, allowed her to
peep past him out into the dance-hall. She had never pictured a place
like this, and in spite of her agitation was astonished at its gaudy
elegance. The gallery was formed of a continuous row of compartments
with curtained fronts, in which men and women were talking, drinking,
singing. The seats on the lower floor were disappearing, and the canvas
cover was rolling back, showing the polished hardwood underneath, while
out through the wide folding-doors that led to the main gambling-room
she heard a brass-lunged man calling the commencement of the dance.
Couples glided into motion while she watched.
“I don’t see him,” said her guide. “You better walk out front and help
yourself.” He indicated the stairs which led up to the galleried boxes
and the steps leading down on to the main floor, but she handed him
another coin, begging him to find Glenister and bring him to her.
“Hurry; hurry!” she implored.
The stage-manager gazed at her curiously, remarking, “My! You spend your
money like it had been left to you. You’re a regular pie-check for me.
Come around any time.”
She withdrew to a dark corner and waited interminably till her messenger
appeared at the head of the gallery stairs and beckoned to her. As she
drew near he said, “I told him there was a thousand-dollar filly
flaggin’ him from the stage door, but he’s got a grouch an’ won’t stir.
He’s in number seven.” She hesitated, at which he said, “Go on--you’re
in right;” then continued, reassuringly: “Say, pal, if he’s your
white-haired lad, you needn’t start no roughhouse, ’cause he don’t flirt
wit’ these dames none whatever. Naw! Take it from me.”
She entered the door her counsellor indicated to find Roy lounging back
watching the dancers. He turned inquiringly--then, as she raised her
veil, leaped to his feet and jerked the curtains to.
“Helen! What are you doing here?”
“You must go away quickly,” she gasped. “They’re trying to arrest you.”
“They! Who? Arrest me for what?”
“Voorhees and his men--for riot, or something about last night.”
“Nonsense,” he said. “I had no part in it. You know that.”
“Yes, yes--but you’re a Vigilante, and they’re after you and all your
friends. Your house is guarded and the town is alive with deputies.
They’ve planned to jail you on some pretext or other and hold you
indefinitely. Please go before it’s too late.”
“How do you know this?” he asked, gravely.
“I overheard them plotting.”
“Who?”
“Uncle Arthur and Mr. McNamara.” She faced him squarely as she said it,
and therefore saw the light flame up in his eyes as he cried:
“And you came here to save me--came _here_ at the risk of your good
name?”
“Of course. I would have done the same for Dextry.” The gladness died
away, leaving him listless.
“Well, let them come. I’m done, I guess. I heard from Wheaton to-night.
He’s down and out, too--some trouble with the ’Frisco courts about
jurisdiction over these cases. I don’t know that it’s worth while to
fight any longer.”
“Listen,” she said. “You must go. I am sure there is a terrible wrong
being done, and you and I must stop it. I have seen the truth at last,
and you’re in the right. Please hide for a time at least.”
“Very well. If you have taken sides with us there’s some hope left.
Thank you for the risk you ran in warning me.”
She had moved to the front of the compartment and was peering forth
between the draperies when she stifled a cry.
“Too late! Too late! There they are. Don’t part the curtains. They’ll
see you.”
Pushing through the gambling-hall were Voorhees and four others,
seemingly in quest of some one.
“Run down the back stairs,” she breathed, and pushed him through the
door. He caught and held her hand with a last word of gratitude. Then he
was gone. She drew down her veil and was about to follow when the door
opened and he reappeared.
“No use,” he remarked, quietly. “There are three more waiting at the
foot.” He looked out to find that the officers had searched the crowd
and were turning towards the front stairs, thus cutting off his retreat.
There were but two ways down from the gallery and no outside windows
from which to leap. As they had made no armed display, the presence of
the officers had not interrupted the dance.
Glenister drew his revolver, while into his eyes came the dancing
glitter that Helen had seen before, cold as the glint of winter
sunlight.
“No, not that--for God’s sake!” she shuddered, clasping his arm.
“I must for your sake, or they’ll find you here, and that’s worse than
ruin. I’ll fight it out in the corridors so that you can escape in the
confusion. Wait till the firing stops and the crowd gathers.” His hand
was on the knob when she tore it loose, whispering hoarsely:
“They’ll kill you. Wait! There’s a better way. Jump.” She dragged him to
the front of the box and pulled aside the curtains. “It isn’t high and
they won’t see you till it’s too late. Then you can run through the
crowd.”
He grasped her idea, and, slipping his weapon back into its holster,
laid hold of the ledge before him and lowered himself down over the
dancers. He swung out unhesitatingly, and almost before he had been
observed had dropped into their midst. The gallery was but twice the
height of a man’s head from the floor, so he landed on his feet and had
drawn his Colt’s even while the men at the stairs were shouting at him
to halt.
At sight of the naked weapons there was confusion, wherein the commands
of the deputies mingled with the shrieks of the women, the crash of
overturned chairs, and the sound of tramping feet, as the crowd divided
before Glenister and swept back against the wall in the same ominous way
that a crowd in the street had once divided on the morning of Helen’s
arrival. The trombone player, who had sunk low in his chair with closed
eyes, looked out suddenly at the disturbance, and his alarm was blown
through the horn in a startled squawk. A large woman whimpered, “Don’t
shoot,” and thrust her palms to her ears, closing her eyes tightly.
Glenister covered the deputies, from whose vicinity the by-standers
surged as though from the presence of lepers.
“Hands up!” he cried, sharply, and they froze into motionless attitudes,
one poised on the lowest step of the stairs, the other a pace forward.
Voorhees appeared at the head of the flight and rushed down a few steps
only to come abruptly into range and to assume a like rigidity, for the
young man’s aim shifted to him.
“I have a warrant for you,” the officer cried, his voice loud in the
hush.
“Keep it,” said Glenister, showing his teeth in a smile in which there
was no mirth. He backed diagonally across the hall, his boot-heels
clicking in the silence, his eyes shifting rapidly up and down the
stairs where the danger lay.
From her station Helen could see the whole tableau, all but the men on
the stairs, where her vision was cut off. She saw the dance girls
crouched behind their partners or leaning far out from the wall with
parted lips, the men eager yet fearful, the bartender with a
half-polished glass poised high. Then a quick movement across the hall
suddenly diverted her absorbed attention. She saw a man rip aside the
drapery of the box opposite and lean so far out that he seemed in peril
of falling. He undertook to sight a weapon at Glenister, who was just
passing from his view. At her first glance Helen gasped--her heart gave
one fierce lunge, and she cried out.
The distance across the pit was so short that she saw his every line and
lineament clearly; it was the brother she had sought these years and
years. Before she knew or could check it the blood call leaped forth.
“Drury!” she cried, aloud, at which he whipped his head about, while
amazement and some other emotion she could not gauge spread slowly over
his features. For a long moment he stared at her without movement or
sign while the drama beneath went on, then he drew back into his retreat
with the dazed look of one doubting his senses, yet fearful of putting
them to the test. For her part, she saw nothing except her brother
vanishing slowly into the shadows as though stricken at her glance, the
curtains closing before his livid face--and then pandemonium broke loose
at her feet.
Glenister, holding his enemies at bay, had retreated to the double doors
leading to the theatre. His coup had been executed so quickly and with
such lack of turmoil that the throng outside knew nothing of it till
they saw a man walk backward through the door. As he did so he reached
forth and slammed the wide wings shut before his face, then turned and
dashed into the press. Inside the dance-hall loud sounds arose as the
officers clattered down the stairs and made after their quarry. They
tore the barrier apart in time to see, far down the saloon, an eddying
swirl as though some great fish were lashing through the lily-pads of a
pond, and then the swinging doors closed behind Glenister.
Helen made her way from the theatre as she had come, unobserved and
unobserving, but she walked in a dream. Emotions had chased each other
too closely to-night to be distinguishable, so she went mechanically
through the narrow alley to Front Street and thence to her home.
Glenister, meanwhile, had been swallowed up by the darkness, the night
enfolding him without sign or trace. As he ran he considered what course
to follow--whether to carry the call to his comrades in town or to make
for the Creek and Dextry. The Vigilantes might still distrust him, and
yet he owed them warning. McNamara’s men were moving so swiftly that
action must be speedy to forestall them. Another hour and the net would
be closed, while it seemed that whichever course he chose they would
snare one or the other--either the friends who remained in town, or Dex
and Slapjack out in the hills. With daylight those two would return and
walk unheeding into the trap, while if he bore the word to them first,
then the Vigilantes would be jailed before dawn. As he drew near Cherry
Malotte’s house he saw a light through the drawn curtains. A heavy
raindrop plashed upon his face, another followed, and then he heard the
patter of falling water increasing swiftly. Before he could gain the
door the storm had broken. It swept up the street with tropical
violence, while a breath sighed out of the night, lifting the litter
from underfoot and pelting him with flying particles. Over the roofs the
wind rushed with the rising moan of a hurricane while the night grew
suddenly noisy ahead of the tempest.
He entered the door without knocking, to find the girl removing her
coat. Her face gladdened at sight of him, but he checked her with quick
and cautious words, his speech almost drowned by the roar outside.
“Are you alone?” She nodded, and he slipped the bolt behind him, saying:
“The marshals are after me. We just had a ‘run in’ at the Northern, and
I’m on the go. No--nothing serious yet, but they want the Vigilantes,
and I must get them word. Will you help me?” He rapidly recounted the
row of the last ten minutes while she nodded her quick understanding.
“You’re safe here for a little while,” she told him, “for the storm will
check them. If they should come, there’s a back door leading out from
the kitchen and a side entrance yonder. In my room you’ll find a French
window. They can’t corner you very well.”
“Slapjack and Dex are out at the shaft house--you know--that quartz
claim on the mountain above the Midas.” He hesitated. “Will you lend me
your saddle-horse? It’s a black night and I may kill him.”
“What about these men in town?”
“I’ll warn them first, then hit for the hills.”
She shook her head. “You can’t do it. You can’t get out there before
daylight if you wait to rouse these people, and McNamara has probably
telephoned the mines to send a party up to the quartz claim after Dex.
He knows where the old man is as well as you do, and they’ll raid him
before dawn.”
“I’m afraid so, but it’s all I can offer. Will you give me the horse?”
“No! He’s only a pony, and you’d founder him in the tundra. The mud is
knee-deep. I’ll go myself.”
“Good Heavens, girl, in such a night! Why, it’s worth your life! Listen
to it! The creeks will be up and you’ll have to swim. No, I can’t let
you.”
“He’s a good little horse, and he’ll take me through.” Then, coming
close, she continued: “Oh, boy! Can’t you see that I want to help? Can’t
you see that I--I’d _die_ for you if it would do any good?” He gazed
gravely into her wide blue eyes and said, awkwardly: “Yes, I know. I’m
sorry things are--as they are--but you wouldn’t have me lie to you,
little woman?”
“No. You’re the only true man I ever knew. I guess that’s why I love
you. And I do love you, oh, so much! I want to be good and worthy to
love you, too.”
She laid her face against his arm and caressed him with clinging
tenderness, while the wind yelled loudly about the eaves and the windows
drummed beneath the rain. His heavy brows knit themselves together as
she whispered:
“I love you! I love you! I love you!” with such an agony of longing in
her voice that her soft accents were sharply distinguishable above the
turmoil. The growing wildness seemed a part of the woman’s passion,
which whipped and harried her like a willow in a blast.
“Things are fearfully jumbled,” he said, finally. “And this is a bad
time to talk about them. I wish they might be different. No other girl
would do what you have offered to-night.”
“Then why do you think of that woman?” she broke in, fiercely. “She’s
bad and false. She betrayed you once; she’s in the play now; you’ve told
me so yourself. Why don’t you be a man and forget her?”
“I can’t,” he said, simply. “You’re wrong, though, when you think she’s
bad. I found to-night that she’s good and brave and honest. The part she
played was played innocently, I’m sure of that, in spite of the fact
that she’ll marry McNamara. It was she who overheard them plotting and
risked her reputation to warn me.”
Cherry’s face whitened, while the shadowy eagerness that had rested
there died utterly. “She came into that dive alone? She did that?” He
nodded, at which she stood thinking for some time, then continued:
“You’re honest with me, Roy, and I’ll be the same with you. I’m tired of
deceit, tired of everything. I tried to make you think she was bad, but
in my own heart I knew differently all the time. She came here to-day
and humbled herself to get the truth, humbled herself to _me_, and I
sent her away. She suspected, but she didn’t know, and when she asked
for information I insulted her. That’s the kind of a creature I am. I
sent her back to Struve, who offered to tell her the whole story.”
“What does that renegade want?”
“Can’t you guess?”
“Why, I’d rather--” The young man ground his teeth, but Cherry hastened.
“You needn’t worry; she won’t see him again. She loathes the ground he
walks on.”
“And yet he’s no worse than that other scoundrel. Come, girl, we have
work to do; we must act, and act quickly.” He gave her his message to
Dextry, then she went to her room and slipped into a riding-habit. When
she came out he asked: “Where is your rain-coat? You’ll be drenched in
no time.”
“I can’t ride with it. I’ll be thrown, anyway, and I don’t want to be
all bound up. Water won’t hurt me.”
She thrust her tiny revolver into her dress, but he took it and upon
examination shook his head.
“If you need a gun you’ll need a good one.” He removed the belt from his
own waist and buckled his Colt’s about her.
“But you!” she objected.
“I’ll get another in ten minutes.” Then, as they were leaving, he said:
“One other request, Cherry. I’ll be in hiding for a time, and I must get
word to Miss Chester to keep watch of her uncle, for the big fight is on
at last and the boys will hang him sure if they catch him. I owe her
this last warning. Will you send it to her?”
“I’ll do it for your sake, not for her--no, no; I don’t mean that. I’ll
do the right thing all round. Leave it here and I’ll see that she gets
it to-morrow. And--Roy--be careful of yourself.” Her eyes were starry
and in their depths lurked neither selfishness nor jealousy now, only
that mysterious glory of a woman who makes sacrifice.
Together they scurried back to the stable, and yet, in that short
distance, she would have been swept from her feet had he not seized her.
They blew in through the barn door, streaming and soaked by the blinding
sheets that drove scythelike ahead of the wind. He struck a light, and
the pony whinnied at recognition of his mistress. She stroked the little
fellow’s muzzle while Glenister cinched on her saddle. Then, when she
was at last mounted, she leaned forward:
“Will you kiss me once, Roy, for the last time?”
He took her rain-wet face between his hands and kissed her upon the lips
as he would have saluted a little maid. As he did so, unseen by both of
them, a face was pressed for an instant against the pane of glass in the
stable wall.
“You’re a brave girl and may God bless you,” he said, extinguishing the
light. He flung the door wide and she rode out into the storm. Locking
the portal, he plunged back towards the house to write his hurried note,
for there was much to do and scant time for its accomplishment, despite
the helping hand of the hurricane. He heard the voice of Bering as it
thundered on the Golden Sands, and knew that the first great storm of
the fall had come. Henceforth he saw that the violence of men would
rival the rising elements, for the deeds of this night would stir their
passions as Æolus was rousing the hate of the sea.
He neglected to bolt the house door as he entered, but flung off his
dripping coat and, seizing pad and pencil, scrawled his message. The
wind screamed about the cabin, the lamp flared smokily, and Glenister
felt a draught suck past him as though from an open door at his back as
he wrote:
“I can’t do anything more. The end has come and it has brought the
hatred and bloodshed that I have been trying to prevent. I played
the game according to your rules, but they forced me back to first
principles in spite of myself, and now I don’t know what the finish
will be. To-morrow will tell. Take care of your uncle, and if you
should wish to communicate with me, go to Cherry Malotte. She is a
friend to both of us.
“Always your servant, ROY GLENISTER.”
As he sealed this he paused, while he felt the hair on his neck rise and
bristle and a chill race up his spine. His heart fluttered, then pounded
onward till the blood thumped audibly at his ear-drums and he found
himself swaying in rhythm to its beat. The muscles of his back cringed
and rippled at the proximity of some hovering peril, and yet an
irresistible feeling forbade him to turn. A sound came from close behind
his chair--the drip, drip, drip of water. It was not from the caves, nor
yet from a faulty shingle. His back was to the kitchen door, through
which he had come, and, although there were no mirrors before him, he
felt a menacing presence as surely as though it had touched him. His
ears were tuned to the finest pin-pricks of sound, so that he heard the
faint, sighing “squish” of a sodden shoe upon which a weight had
shifted. Still something chained him to his seat. It was as though his
soul laid a restraining hand upon his body, waiting for the instant.
He let his hand seek his hip carelessly, but remembered where his gun
was. Mechanically, he addressed the note in shaking characters, while
behind him sounded the constant drip, drip, drip that he knew came from
saturated garments. For a long moment he sat, till he heard the stealthy
click of a gun-lock muffled by finger pressure. Then he set his face and
slowly turned to find the Bronco Kid standing behind him as though risen
from the sea, his light clothes wet and clinging, his feet centred in a
spreading puddle. The dim light showed the convulsive fury of his
features above the levelled weapon, whose hammer was curled back like
the head of a striking adder, his eyes gleaming with frenzy. Glenister’s
mouth was powder dry, but his mind was leaping riotously like dust
before a gale, for he divined himself to be in the deadliest peril of
his life. When he spoke the calmness of his voice surprised himself.
“What’s the matter, Bronco?” The Kid made no reply, and Roy repeated,
“What do you want?”
“That’s a hell of a question,” the gambler said, hoarsely. “I want you,
of course, and I’ve got you.”
“Hold up! I am unarmed. This is your third try, and I want to know
what’s back of it.”
“_Damn_ the talk!” cried the faro-dealer, moving closer till the light
shone on his features, which commenced to twitch. He raised the revolver
he had half lowered. “There’s reason enough, and you know it.”
Glenister looked him fairly between the eyes, gripping himself with firm
hands to stop the tremor he felt in his bones. “You can’t kill me,” he
said. “I am too good a man to murder. You might shoot a crook, but you
can’t kill a brave man when he’s unarmed. You’re no assassin.” He
remained rigid in his chair, however, moving nothing but his lips,
meeting the other’s look unflinchingly. The Kid hesitated an instant,
while his eyes, which had been fixed with the glare of hatred, wavered a
moment, betraying the faintest sign of indecision. Glenister cried out,
exultantly:
“Ha! I knew it. Your neck cords quiver.”
The gambler grimaced. “I can’t do it. If I could, I’d have shot you
before you turned. But you’ll have to fight, you dog. Get up and draw.”
Roy refused. “I gave Cherry my gun.”
“Yes, and more too,” the man gritted. “I saw it all.”
Even yet Glenister had made no slightest move, realizing that a
feather’s weight might snap the gambler’s nervous tension and bring the
involuntary twitch that would put him out swifter than a whip is
cracked.
“I have tried it before, but murder isn’t my game.” The Kid’s eye caught
the glint of Cherry’s revolver where she had discarded it. “There’s a
gun--get it.”
“It’s no good. You’d carry the six bullets and never feel them. I don’t
know what this is all about, but I’ll fight you whenever I’m heeled
right.”
“Oh, you black-hearted hound,” snarled the Kid. “I want to shoot, but
I’m afraid. I used to be a gentleman and I haven’t lost it all, I guess.
But I won’t wait the next time. I’ll down you on sight, so you’d better
get ironed in a hurry.” He backed out of the room into the semi-darkness
of the kitchen, watching with lynxlike closeness the man who sat so
quietly under the shaded light. He felt behind him for the outer
door-knob and turned it to let in a white sheet of rain, then vanished
like a storm wraith, leaving a parched-lipped man and a zigzag trail of
water, which gleamed in the lamplight like a pool of blood.