IN WHICH THREE GO TO THE SIGN OF THE SLED AND BUT TWO RETURN
As Helen and her companion ascended the mountain, scarred and swept by
the tempest of the previous night, they heard, far below, the swollen
torrent brawling in its bowlder-ridden bed, while behind them the angry
ocean spread southward to a blood-red horizon. Ahead, the bleak
mountains brooded over forbidding valleys; to the west a suffused sun
glared sullenly, painting the high-piled clouds with the gorgeous hues
of a stormy sunset. To Helen the wild scene seemed dyed with the colors
of flame and blood and steel.
“That rain raised the deuce with the trails,” said Struve, as they
picked their way past an unsightly “slip” whence a part of the
overhanging mountain, loosened by the deluge, had slid into the gulch.
“Another storm like that would wash out these roads completely.”
Even in the daylight it was no easy task to avoid these danger spots,
for the horses floundered on the muddy soil. Vaguely the girl wondered
how she would find her way back in the darkness, as she had planned. She
said little as they approached the road-house, for the thoughts within
her brain had begun to clamor too wildly; but Struve, more arrogant
than ever before, more terrifyingly sure of himself, was loudly
garrulous. As they drew nearer and nearer, the dread that possessed the
girl became of paralyzing intensity. If she should fail--but she vowed
she would not, could not, fail.
They rounded a bend and saw the Sign of the Sled cradled below them
where the trail dipped to a stream which tumbled from the comb above
into the river twisting like a silver thread through the distant valley.
A peeled flag-pole topped by a spruce bough stood in front of the
tavern, while over the door hung a sled suspended from a beam. The house
itself was a quaint structure, rambling and amorphous, from whose sod
roof sprang blooming flowers, and whose high-banked walls were pierced
here and there with sleepy windows. It had been built by a homesick
foreigner of unknown nationality whom the army of “mushers” who paid for
his clean and orderly hospitality had dubbed duly and as a matter of
course a “Swede.” When travel had changed to the river trail, leaving
the house lonesome and high as though left by a receding wave, Struve
had taken it over on a debt, and now ran it for the convenience of a
slender traffic, mainly stampeders, who chose the higher route towards
the interior. His hireling spent the idle hours in prospecting a hungry
quartz lead and in doing assessment work on near-by claims.
Shortz took the horses and answered his employer’s questions curtly,
flashing a curious look at Helen. Under other conditions the girl would
have been delighted with the place, for this was the quaintest spot she
had found in the north country. The main room held bar and gold-scales,
a rude table, and a huge iron heater, while its walls and ceiling were
sheeted with white cloth so cunningly stitched and tacked that it seemed
a cavern hollowed from chalk. It was filled with trophies of the hills,
stuffed birds and animals, skins and antlers, from which depended, in
careless confusion, dog harness, snow-shoes, guns, and articles of
clothing. A door to the left led into the bunk-room where travellers had
been wont to sleep in tiers three deep. To the rear was a kitchen and
cache, to the right a compartment which Struve called the art gallery.
Here, free reign had been allowed the original owner’s artistic fancies,
and he had covered the place with pictures clipped from gazettes of
questionable repute till it was a bewildering arrangement of pink ladies
in tights, pugilists in scanty trunks, prize bull-dogs, and other less
moral characters of the sporting world.
“This is probably the worst company you were ever in,” Struve observed
to Helen, with a forced attempt at lightness.
“Are there no guests here?” she asked him, her anxiety very near the
surface.
“Travel is light at this time of the year. They’ll come in later,
perhaps.”
A fire was burning in this pink room where the landlord had begun
spreading the table for two, and its warmth was grateful to the girl.
Her companion, thoroughly at his ease, stretched himself on a
fur-covered couch and smoked.
“Let me see the papers, now, Mr. Struve,” she began, but he put her off.
“No, not now. Business must wait on our dinner. Don’t spoil our little
party, for there’s time enough and to spare.”
She arose and went to the window, unable to sit still. Looking down the
narrow gulch she saw that the mountains beyond were indistinct for it
was growing dark rapidly. Dense clouds had rolled up from the east. A
rain-drop struck the glass before her eyes, then another and another,
and the hills grew misty behind the coming shower. A traveller with a
pack on his back hurried around the corner of the building and past her
to the door. At his knock, Struve, who had been watching Helen through
half-shut eyes, arose and went into the other room.
“Thank Heaven, some one has come,” she thought. The voices were deadened
to a hum by the sod walls, till that of the stranger raised itself in
such indignant protest that she distinguished his words.
“Oh, I’ve got money to pay my way. I’m no deadhead.”
Shortz mumbled something back.
“I don’t care if you are closed. I’m tired and there’s a storm coming.”
This time she heard the landlord’s refusal and the miner’s angry
profanity. A moment later she saw the traveller plodding up the trail
towards town.
“What does that mean?” she inquired, as the lawyer re-entered.
“Oh, that fellow is a tough, and Shortz wouldn’t let him in. He’s
careful whom he entertains--there are so many bad men roaming the
hills.”
The German came in shortly to light the lamp, and, although she asked no
further questions, Helen’s uneasiness increased. She half listened to
the stories with which Struve tried to entertain her and ate little of
the excellent meal that was shortly served to them. Struve, meanwhile,
ate and drank almost greedily, and the shadowy, sinister evening crept
along. A strange cowardice had suddenly overtaken the girl; and if, at
this late hour, she could have withdrawn, she would have done so gladly
and gone forth to meet the violence of the tempest. But she had gone too
far for retreat; and realizing that, for the present, apparent
compliance was her wisest resource, she sat quiet, answering the man
with cool words while his eyes grew brighter, his skin more flushed, his
speech more rapid. He talked incessantly and with feverish gayety,
smoking numberless cigarettes and apparently unconscious of the flight
of time. At last he broke off suddenly and consulted his watch, while
Helen remembered that she had not heard Shortz in the kitchen for a long
time. Suddenly Struve smiled on her peculiarly, with confident cunning.
As he leered at her over the disorder between them he took from his
pocket a flat bundle which he tossed to her.
“Now for the bargain, eh?”
“Ask the man to remove these dishes,” she said, as she undid the parcel
with clumsy fingers.
“I sent him away two hours ago,” said Struve, arising as if to come to
her. She shrank back, but he only leaned across, gathered up the four
corners of the tablecloth, and, twisting them together, carried the
whole thing out, the dishes crashing and jangling as he threw his burden
recklessly into the kitchen. Then he returned and stood with his back to
the stove, staring at her while she perused the contents of the papers,
which were more voluminous than she had supposed.
For a long time the girl pored over the documents. The purport of the
papers was only too obvious; and, as she read, the proof of her uncle’s
guilt stood out clear and damning. There was no possibility of mistake;
the whole wretched plot stood out plain, its darkest infamies revealed.
In spite of the cruelty of her disillusionment, Helen was nevertheless
exalted with the fierce ecstasy of power, with the knowledge that
justice would at last be rendered. It would be her triumph and her
expiation that she, who had been the unwitting tool of this miserable
clique, would be the one through whom restitution was made. She arose
with her eyes gleaming and her lips set.
“It is here.”
“Of course it is. Enough to convict us all. It means the penitentiary
for your precious uncle and your lover.” He stretched his chin upward at
the mention as though to free his throat from an invisible clutch. “Yes,
your lover particularly, for he’s the real one. That’s why I brought you
here. He’ll marry you, but I’ll be the best man.” The timbre of his
voice was unpleasant.
“Come, let us go,” she said.
“Go,” he chuckled, mirthlessly. “That’s a fine example of unconscious
humor.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, first, no human being could find his way down to the coast in
this tempest; second--but, by-the-way, let me explain something in those
papers while I think of it.” He spoke casually and stepped forward,
reaching for the package, which she was about to give up, when something
prompted her to snatch it behind her back; and it was well she did, for
his hand was but a few inches away. He was no match for her quickness,
however, and she glided around the table, thrusting the papers into the
front of her dress. The sudden contact with Cherry’s revolver gave her a
certain comfort. She spoke now with determination.
“I intend to leave here at once. Will you bring my horse? Very well, I
shall do it myself.”
She turned, but his indolence vanished like a flash, and springing in
front of the door he barred her way.
“Hold on, my lady. You ought to understand without my saying any more.
Why did I bring you here? Why did I plan this little party? Why did I
send that man away? Just to give you the proof of my complicity in a
crime, I suppose. Well, hardly. You won’t leave here to-night. And when
you do, you won’t carry those papers--my own safety depends on that and
I am selfish, so don’t get me started. Listen!” They caught the wail of
the night crying as though hungry for sacrifice. “No, you’ll stay here
and--”
He broke off abruptly, for Helen had stepped to the telephone and taken
down the receiver. He leaped, snatched it from her, and then, tearing
the instrument loose from the wall, raised it above his head, dashed it
upon the floor, and sprang towards her, but she wrenched herself free
and fled across the room. The man’s white hair was wildly tumbled, his
face was purple, and his neck and throat showed swollen, throbbing
veins. He stood still, however, and his lips cracked into his
ever-present, cautious smile.
“Now, don’t let’s fight about this. It’s no use, for I’ve played to
win. You have your proof--now I’ll have my price;--or else I’ll take it.
Think over which it will be, while I lock up.”
* * * * *
Far down the mountain-side a man was urging a broken pony recklessly
along the trail. The beast was blown and spent, its knees weak and
bending, yet the rider forced it as though behind him yelled a thousand
devils, spurring headlong through gully and ford, up steep slopes and
down invisible ravines. Sometimes the animal stumbled and fell with its
master, sometimes they arose together, but the man was heedless of all
except his haste, insensible to the rain which smote him blindingly, and
to the wind which seized him savagely upon the ridges, or gasped at him
in the gullies with exhausted malice. At last he gained the plateau and
saw the road-house light beneath, so drove his heels into the flanks of
the wind-broken creature, which lunged forward gamely. He felt the pony
rear and drop away beneath him, pawing and scrambling, and instinctively
kicked his feet free from the stirrups, striving to throw himself out of
the saddle and clear of the thrashing hoofs. It seemed that he turned
over in the air before something smote him and he lay still, his gaunt,
dark face upturned to the rain, while about him the storm screamed
exultantly.
* * * * *
The moment Struve disappeared into the outer room Helen darted to the
window. It was merely a single sash, nailed fast and immovable, but
seizing one of the little stools beside the stove she thrust it through
the glass, letting in a smother of wind and water. Before she could
escape, Struve bounded into the room, his face livid with anger, his
voice hoarse and furious.
But as he began to denounce her he paused in amazement, for the girl had
drawn Cherry’s weapon and levelled it at him. She was very pale and her
breast heaved as from a swift run, while her wondrous gray eyes were lit
with a light no man had ever seen there before, glowing like two jewels
whose hearts contained the pent-up passion of centuries. She had altered
as though under the deft hand of a master-sculptor, her nostrils growing
thin and arched, her lips tight pressed and pitiless, her head poised
proudly. The rain drove in through the shattered window, over and past
her, while the cheap red curtain lashed and whipped her as though in
gleeful applause. Her bitter abhorrence of the man made her voice sound
strangely unnatural as she commanded:
“Don’t dare to stop me.” She moved towards the door, motioning him to
retreat before her, and he obeyed, recognizing the danger of her
coolness. She did not note the calculating treachery of his glance,
however, nor fathom the purposes he had in mind.
* * * * *
Out on the rain-swept mountain the prostrate rider had regained his
senses and now was crawling painfully towards the road-house. Seen
through the dark he would have resembled some misshapen, creeping
monster, for he dragged himself, reptile-like, close to the ground. But
as he came closer the man heard a cry which the wind seemed guarding
from his ear, and, hearing it, he rose and rushed blindly forward,
staggering like a wounded beast.
Helen watched her captive closely as he backed through the door before
her, for she dared not lose sight of him until free. The middle room was
lighted by a glass lamp on the bar and its rays showed that the
front-door was secured by a large iron bolt. She thanked Heaven there
was no lock and key.
Struve had retreated until his back was to the counter, offering no
word, making no move, but the darting brightness of his eyes showed that
he was alert and planning. But when the door behind Helen, urged by the
wind through the broken casement, banged to, the man made his first
lightning-like sign. He dashed the lamp to the floor, where it burst
like an egg-shell, and darkness leaped into the room as an animal
pounces. Had she been calmer or had time for an instant’s thought Helen
would have hastened back to the light, but she was midway to her liberty
and actuated by the sole desire to break out into the open air, so
plunged forward. Without warning, she was hurled from her feet by a body
which came out of the darkness upon her. She fired the little gun, but
Struve’s arms closed about her, the weapon was wrenched from her hand,
and she found herself fighting against him, breast to breast, with the
fury of desperation. His wine-burdened breath beat into her face and she
felt herself bound to him as though by hoops, while the touch of his
cheek against hers turned her into a terrified, insensate animal, which
fought with every ounce of its strength and every nerve of its body. She
screamed once, but it was not like the cry of a woman. Then the struggle
went on in silence and utter blackness, Struve holding her like a
gorilla till she grew faint and her head began to whirl, while darting
lights drove past her eyes and there was the roar of a cataract in her
ears. She was a strong girl, and her ripe young body, untried until this
moment, answered in every fibre, so that she wrestled with almost a
man’s strength and he had hard shift to hold her. But so violent an
encounter could not last. Helen felt herself drifting free from the
earth and losing grip of all things tangible, when at last they tripped
and fell against the inner door. This gave way, and at the same moment
the man’s strength departed as though it were a thing of darkness and
dared not face the light that streamed over them. She tore herself from
his clutch and staggered into the supper-room, her loosened hair falling
in a gleaming torrent about her shoulders, while he arose from his knees
and came towards her again, gasping:
“I’ll show you who’s master here--”
Then he ceased abruptly, cringingly, and threw up an arm before his face
as if to ward off a blow. Framed in the window was the pallid visage of
a man. The air rocked, the lamp flared, and Struve whirled completely
around, falling back against the wall. His eyes filled with horror and
shifted down where his hand had clutched at his breast, plucking at one
spot as if tearing a barb from his bosom. He jerked his head towards the
door at his elbow in quest of a retreat, a shudder ran over him, his
knees buckled and he plunged forward upon his face, his arm still
doubled under him.
It had happened like a flash of light, and although Helen felt, rather
than heard, the shot and saw her assailant fall, she did not realize the
meaning of it till a drift of powder smoke assailed her nostrils. Even
so, she experienced no shock nor horror of the sight. On the contrary, a
savage joy at the spectacle seized her and she stood still, leaning
slightly forward, staring at it almost gloatingly, stood so till she
heard her name called, “Helen, little sister!” and, turning, saw her
brother in the window.
That which he witnessed in her face he had seen before in the faces of
men locked close with a hateful death and from whom all but the most
elemental passions had departed--but he had never seen a woman bear the
marks till now. No artifice nor falsity was there, nothing but the
crudest, intensest feeling, which many people live and die without
knowing. There are few who come to know the great primitive, passionate
longings. But in this black night, fighting in defence of her most
sacred self, this girl’s nature had been stripped to its purely savage
elements. As Glenister had predicted, Helen at last had felt and yielded
to irresistibly powerful impulse.
Glancing backward at the creature sprawled by the door, Helen went to
her brother, put her arms about his neck, and kissed him.
“He’s dead?” the Kid asked her.
She nodded and tried to speak, but began to shiver and sob instead.
“Unlock the door,” he begged her. “I’m hurt, and I must get in.”
When the Kid had hobbled into the room, she pressed him to her and
stroked his matted head, regardless of his muddy, soaking garments.
“I must look at him. He may not be badly hurt,” said the Kid.
“Don’t touch him!” She followed, nevertheless, and stood near by while
her brother examined his victim. Struve was breathing, and, discovering
this, the others lifted him with difficulty to the couch.
“Something cracked in here--ribs, I guess,” the Kid remarked, gasping
and feeling his own side. He was weak and pale, and the girl led him
into the bunk-room, where he could lie down. Only his wonderful
determination had sustained him thus far, and now the knowledge of his
helplessness served to prevent Helen’s collapse.
The Kid would not hear of her going for help till the storm abated or
daylight came, insisting that the trails were too treacherous and that
no time could be saved by doing so. Thus they waited for the dawn. At
last they heard the wounded man faintly calling. He spoke to Helen
hoarsely. There was no malice, only fear, in his tones:
“I said this was my madness--and I got what I deserved, but I’m going to
die. O God--I’m going to die and I’m afraid.” He moaned till the Bronco
Kid hobbled in, glaring with unquenched hatred.
“Yes, you’re going to die and I did it. Be game, can’t you? I sha’n’t
let her go for help until daylight.”
Helen forced her brother back to his couch, and returned to help the
wounded man, who grew incoherent and began to babble.
A little later, when the Kid seemed stronger and his head clearer, Helen
ventured to tell him of their uncle’s villany and of the proof she held,
with her hope of restoring justice. She told him of the attack planned
that very night and of the danger which threatened the miners. He
questioned her closely and, realising the bearing of her story, crept
to the door, casting the wind like a hound.
“We’ll have to risk it,” said he. “The wind is almost gone and it’s not
long till daylight.”
She pleaded to go alone, but he was firm. “I’ll never leave you again,
and, moreover, I know the lower trail quite well. We’ll go down the
gulch to the valley and reach town that way. It’s farther but it’s not
so dangerous.”
“You can’t ride,” she insisted.
“I can if you’ll tie me into the saddle. Come, get the horses.”
It was still pitchy dark and the rain was pouring, but the wind only
sighed weakly as though tired by its violence when she helped the Bronco
into his saddle. The effort wrenched a groan from him, but he insisted
upon her tying his feet beneath the horse’s belly, saying that the trail
was rough and he could take no chance of falling again; so, having
performed the last services she might for Struve, she mounted her own
animal and allowed it to pick its way down the steep descent behind her
brother, who swayed and lurched drunkenly in his seat, gripping the horn
before him with both hands.
* * * * *
They had been gone perhaps a half-hour when another horse plunged
furiously out of the darkness and halted before the road-house door. Its
rider, mud-stained and dishevelled, flung himself in mad haste to the
ground and bolted in through the door. He saw the signs of confusion in
the outer room, chairs upset and broken, the table wedged against the
stove, and before the counter a shattered lamp in a pool of oil. He
called loudly, but, receiving no answer, snatched a light which he
found burning and ran to the door at his left. Nothing greeted him but
the empty tiers of bunks. Turning, he crossed to the other side and
burst through. Another lamp was lighted beside the couch where Struve
lay, breathing heavily, his lids half closed over his staring eyes. Roy
noted the pool of blood at his feet and the broken window; then, setting
down his lamp, he leaned over the man and spoke to him.
When he received no answer he spoke again loudly. Then, in a frenzy,
Glenister shook the wounded man cruelly, so that he cried out in terror:
“I’m dying--oh, I’m dying.” Roy raised the sick man up and thrust his
own face before his eyes.
“This is Glenister. I’ve come for Helen--where is she?” A spark of
recognition flickered into the dull stare.
“You’re too late--I’m dying--and I’m afraid.”
His questioner shook Struve again. “Where is she?” he repeated, time
after time, till by very force of his own insistence he compelled
realization in the sufferer.
“The Kid took her away. The Kid shot me,” and then his voice rose till
it flooded the room with terror. “The Kid shot me and I’m dying.” He
coughed blood to his lips, at which Roy laid him back and stood up. So
there was no mistake, after all, and he had arrived too late. This was
the Kid’s revenge. This was how he struck. Lacking courage to face a
man’s level eyes, he possessed the foulness to prey upon a woman. Roy
felt a weakening physical sickness sweep over him till his eye fell upon
a sodden garment which Helen had removed from her brother’s shoulders
and replaced with a dry one. He snatched it from the floor and in a
sudden fury felt it come apart in his hands like wet tissue-paper.
He found himself out in the rain, scanning the trampled soil by light of
his lamp, and discerned tracks which the drizzle had not yet erased. He
reasoned mechanically that the two riders could have no great start of
him, so strode out beyond the house to see if they had gone farther into
the hills. There were no tracks here, therefore they must have doubled
back towards town. It did not occur to him that they might have left the
beaten path and followed down the little creek to the river; but,
replacing the light where he had found it, he remounted and lashed his
horse into a stiff canter up towards the divide that lay between him and
the city. The story was growing plainer to him, though as yet he could
not piece it all together. Its possibilities stabbed him with such
horror that he cried out aloud and beat his steed into faster time with
both hands and feet. To think of those two ruffians fighting over this
girl as though she were the spoils of pillage! He must overtake the
Kid--he _would_! The possibility that he might not threw him into such
ungovernable mental chaos that he was forced to calm himself. Men went
mad that way. He could not think of it. That gasping creature in the
road-house spoke all too well of the Bronco’s determination. And yet,
who of those who had known the Kid in the past would dream that his
vileness was so utter as this?
Away to the right, hidden among the shadowed hills, his friends rested
themselves for the coming battle, waiting impatiently his return, and
timing it to the rising sun. Down in the valley to his left were the
two he followed, while he, obsessed and unreasoning, now cursing like a
madman, now grim and silent, spurred southward towards town and into the
ranks of his enemies.