THE FIGHT IN THE FOOTHILLS
While Allan sat in the little cabin he gradually became oppressed
with a sense of great loneliness. From time to time he looked at the
face of his sleeping father, and suddenly the knowledge struck him
like a knife that it was the face of an old man. He had never thought
of him as an old man before, but as he lay on the rough floor,
sleeping soundly after his long drive, there was something in the
form that told of advancing years, and Allan could see plainly the
deepening furrows in his strong, still handsome face. As he looked a
vast tenderness mingled with his loneliness; he would have stooped
and caressed him had he not feared to disturb his slumbers. Allan's
love for his father was that of man to man rather than son to parent;
it was the only deep passion of his young life, and it ran with a
fulness that could not be checked. Of his mother he thought with
kindliness, tinged with regret that all had not of late been quite as
it should be in their domestic circle; toward his sister he felt a
vague longing and uneasiness, and a new feeling which had taken root
that afternoon that perhaps after all she was right in seeking to
live her life as she would; but it was to his father that his great
emotion turned. He looked upon the sleeping man now, with the wealth
of a lifetime's labour at his side, and the bond of trust and
confidence between them seemed so tight it brought the moisture to
his eyes. He thought of the past years; of their labour on the farm
together--hard labour, but always relieved by their comradeship and
mutual ambitions. A hundred half-forgotten incidents came to mind, in
all of which his father was companion and chum rather than parent and
corrector. And after all, hadn't it been worth while? Had not they,
in their way, really given expression to their lives as best they
could in the black, earth-smelling furrows, in the scent of tallowy,
straw-aromaed steam from their engine, or the wet night-perfume of
ripening wheat? How those old smells beat up from the mysterious
chambers of memory and intoxicated his nostrils with fondness and a
great sense of having, in some few hallowed moments, dove-tailed his
own career into the greater purpose of creation! Allan did not
analyze these thoughts and memories, or try to fit them into words,
but they brought to him a consciousness of having lived--of having
known some experiences that were not altogether material and
temporal.
And then his memory carried him still furthe back--back to the days
when he was a little child, and in the mirror of the darkness he
could see his own small figure trudging in the track of the plough
and hanging to the rein-ends that dropped from the knot on his
father's ample back. Back to the old sod shanty, with its sweet smell
of comfort when the snow beat against the little window and the wind
roared in the rattling stove-pipe, and his mother sat by the fire and
plied her flying needles. What wonderful times they were, and what
wonderful dreams in the little, thoughtful child-mind just catching
the first glimmerings of life! Could it be this old cabin, these
rotting logs, this earthy floor, that were stirring memory cells
asleep for twenty years? He would not allow his mind to be drawn into
speculation--the thing was the remembrance, now, when it was offered
him. Old lullabies stole into his brain; a deep peace compassed him,
and consciousness faded thinner and thinner into the sea of the
infinite...
Allan sat up in a sudden, cold chill of terror. Had he been asleep?
What cold breath of dread had crossed his path? He was no coward; the
sense of fear was almost unknown lo him, but now it enveloped him,
stifled him, set his teeth chattering and his limbs quaking. He had
heard nothing, seen nothing. The gun was in his hands as it had lain
when last he remembered it; his father slept by his side, and near
the wall lay the precious satchel. And yet he shook in absolute,
unreasoning, unfounded terror. His eyes wandered from the lantern to
the door--to the blanket hanging limply in the door; and there they
stared and stayed as though held in the spell of a serpent.
Subconsciously, certainly without any direction of will of his own,
he raised the shot-gun to his shoulder and kept it trained on the
sagging blanket...The blanket seemed to move! It swayed at first as
though a light breeze had touched it, and yet not as though a breeze
had touched it. The impulse seemed too far up--about the height of a
man's shoulder. The blood had gone from Allan's face; he was as one
in a trance, obeying some iron law outside the realm of the will and
the reason. He cocked his gun and tightened his finger on the
trigger, and watched...And then, so plain that it must have been
real, he saw stealthy fingers feeling their way about the blanket.
Then Allan fired.
In an instant he was wide awake, and wondering terribly what had
happened. The explosion blew out the lantern, and the building was in
utter darkness. His father was clambering to his feet with "Allan,
what is it? What is it, Allan?" The blanket had been torn from its
hangings as by a heavy weight, and something was writhing in it in
the doorway. Allan sprang up and would have rushed upon it, but in
the darkness he collided with another man. His fingers found his
adversary's arm and ran up it to his throat, but before they could
fasten in a fatal grip there was another flash of light, and a hot
pang stabbed him in the breast. There was a strange gurgling in his
lungs, a choking in his throat, a spinning dizziness in his head, as
he staggered over the mass in the doorway and fell into the night.
Gardiner had reached the window just in time to see Allan's gun
trained on the doorway. For an instant he stood dumfounded; there was
something uncanny in the sight of the young man sitting there in
silent, absolute readiness for the attack. He drew back to warn
Riles, but he was too late. At that moment the gun spoke; there was
the sound of a heavy body falling, and stifled noises bore ample
evidence of the accuracy of Allan's aim. But even in that moment of
uncertainty Gardiner had not lost thought of their purpose, and his
quick eye took in the sleeping form of John Harris and the location
of the leather bag beside the wall. Without an instant's hesitation
he vaulted through the window and, revolver in hand, began to steal
his way softly toward the treasure.
He had not taken three steps when Allan plunged full force into him.
He staggered with the shock, but recovered himself only to find the
young farmer's strong fingers clutching for his throat. It had been
no part of Gardiner's plan that there should be bloodshed in the
carrying out of the robbery, but he was a man of quick decision, who
accepted conditions as he found them... A slight pressure on the
trigger, and Allan fell, coughing, through the door.
Gardiner retained his sense of location, and slipped silently to the
wall. Harris was rushing about the rotten floor in the darkness,
crying, "What is it, Allan? For God's sake, what has happened? Are
you shot?" and for his own noise he could not hear Gardiner's
stealthy movements. Gardiner's hand fell on a log of the wall, and
his keen fingers traced their way along it. Five steps, he judged,
and the bag would be at his feet. At the fifth step his toe touched
an object on the floor; he leaned over and raised the booty in his
hand.
By this time his eyes had responded to the intense darkness, and he
could discern a square of greyer gloom where the window admitted the
night. He moved rapidly and silently toward it, but almost with the
last step his foot slipped through a broken spot on the floor, and he
staggered and fell. The revolver was thrown from his grasp, but he
was able to pitch the bag through the window as he crashed to the
floor.
The sound arrested Harris, and before Gardiner could extricate
himself the farmer was upon him. At first he seemed to think it was
Allan, and felt about in the darkness without attempting to defend
himself. This gave Gardiner an opportunity; he was able to clasp his
arms about Harris's shins, and, with a quick turn of the body, cast
his adversary headlong to the floor. At the same moment he freed
himself from his entanglement and made another dash for the window.
But Harris, still numbed from his heavy sleep, now realized that some
kind of tragedy had occurred, and guessed enough to believe that
Allan was a victim. From his prostrate position, with one powerful
leg he interrupted Gardiner's flight, and the next moment the two men
were rolling on the floor in each other's arms. Harris was much the
stronger man of the two, but Gardiner was active and had some skill
in wrestling. Besides, Harris had been taken wholly by surprise, and
had no idea who his antagonist was, while Gardiner had full knowledge
of all the circumstances, and the struggle was less uneven than might
have been supposed. Inwardly cursing the luck that had thrown the
revolver from his hand, Gardiner sought in the darkness for his
adversary's throat, nose, or eyes. Harris, seizing the younger man by
the waist, lifted him bodily from the floor and crashed him down
again upon it, but the next instant Gardiner had one of his hands in
both of his, and, bringing his knee down with great force on Harris's
elbow, compelled him, at the risk of a broken arm, to turn face
downwards on the floor. Gardiner again wrenched violently to break
free, but Harris's grip was too much for him, so with the quickness
and fury of a tiger he threw himself upon the farmer's back and
wrapped his free arm about his throat. With his air partially cut off
Harris released the grip of his other hand, and Gardiner instantly
took advantage of this move to bring both arms to bear on Harris's
throat. Things began to go badly with the farmer; face downwards on
the floor, he was unable to shake his adversary off, and was losing
strength rapidly with his choking. Gardiner no longer sought an
opportunity to break away; his blood was up and he was in the fight
to the finish, ruled at last by his heart instead of his head. Had he
been content merely to retain his present advantage, unconsciousness
would soon have overcome his victim, but he tried to improve his
grip, and the attempt proved disastrous. His thumb, seeking better
vantage, fell into Harris's gasping mouth. Harris was no more
depraved than most of mankind, but when fighting for life, and
choking to death in the hands of an unknown enemy, he was ready to
seize any advantage, and with a great effort he brought his jaws
together upon the intruder.
With a yell of pain Gardiner sprang to his feet, jerking the farmer
into a half-sitting posture as he did so, and Harris, with a great
gasp for air, relinquished his sudden and unexpected advantage. But
Gardiner's head was again in command; he rushed through the door,
half falling over the obstruction as he went, and in an instant was
lost in the gloom of the night.
For some minutes Harris lay on the floor, recovering his breath. As
the oxygen welled back into his lungs he began to realize that, save
for his choking, he was unhurt. With returning strength his thought
reverted to Allan, and, calling the boy's name, he sprang to his
feet. The first thing was to get a light. He found matches in his
pocket, struck one, and peered eagerly into the gloom as its
flickering flame beat back the darkness. A blanket, rolled and
stained, lay in the doorway, and within it was a figure that might
once have been a man. Harris's heart almost stopped at the sight:
"Allan," he gasped, "my boy, Allan!" He tiptoed across the crumbling
floor toward it, holding the match before him. A man's boot and part
of a trouser leg protruded from the mass. He held the match downward,
leaning over them. They were not Allan's.
"Thank God," he murmured, swelling with a great hope, "thank God for
that."
He struck another match and found the lantern. When he had lighted it
he surveyed the little building, and saw Allan's gun lying at the end
farthest from the door. Not until that moment did he think of the
money. Allan had been uppermost in his mind, and when he thought of
Allan money was no consideration. But now a great wave of
understanding rushed in upon him. Yes, the bag was gone. They had
been attacked by robbers. Knowledge of their expedition had in some
way got to evil ears, and while he slept Allan had been set upon. The
boy had emptied his gun--the huddled mass in the doorway told that
tale plainly enough--but other robbers had seized the cash and Allan
had pursued them empty-handed. They had fired at him as he rushed
from the building--that was the flash he saw a few seconds after the
first loud report. He was not quite clear as to his own share in the
fight, but he saw the general plan of it plainly enough. He began to
wonder what had happened to Gardiner and Riles. Had they been shot
down as they wound through the woods? This was evidently the work of
a gang prepared to stop at nothing. Harris never for a moment
suspected his old neighbour of treachery. He was himself a hard,
grasping, money-seeking man, but he had a code of honour none the
less, and within its limitations none was more honourable than he. To
have done what Riles had done would have been quite impossible for
John Harris, and because it was impossible for him its possibility
for Riles never suggested itself.
Harris had not yet fully realized the loss of his money. It was
overshadowed by the more tragic events of which one evidence lay
before him. His anxiety for Allan loomed larger in his mind, although
he had little doubt the boy would take proper care of himself, and,
even if unarmed, would come back with the money and perhaps with a
prisoner. The fact that Allan had not taken his gun was reassuring;
if there had been any great danger he would not have left it behind.
But he must get out now and aid in the search.
As he reached this decision his eye caught a gleam of something
shining on the floor. He walked to it and found a revolver, fully
loaded except for one chamber, which had been discharged. "This is
evidence," said he--"important evidence." Harris had all the Old
Ontario contempt for this kind of weapon, and knew comparatively
little about it, but he concluded from its appearance that it was
almost new. As he examined it his eye fell on the initials, "J. T.,"
cut in the grip.
"J. T.," he said to himself. "J. T. Those initials seem familiar.
I'll just leave this thing where I found it, until the police see
it."
Replacing the weapon on the floor, he stole out of the cabin,
avoiding the silent obstruction in the doorway. Outside he stood for
a moment undecided. The circle of light from his lantern might beacon
Allan back to the shanty, but it would also prove a signal to the
robbers, if they were still in the vicinity. The night was now very
dark, clouds having obscured the stars, and an occasional big drop of
rain spat about him. The roar of water came up from the valleys, but
above or through that roar suddenly he fancied he heard a sound from
the bushes near at hand. He held his breath and listened intently. He
half wished he had brought the revolver with him. Yes, there it was
again--a human sound, beyond question, half groan, half gurgle. He
turned in the direction from which it came and stole quietly forward.
Half-a-dozen yards from the building the light revealed, first a
shadow, and then a figure lying on the ground. With some trepidation
Harris approached. The man's arms had been extended when he fell, and
his coat was thrown over his head. Harris stooped and drew it down
over the shoulders exposing the face.
It was Allan.
The first shock of the revelation almost stopped the heart of the old
farmer, and he sat back as one dazed, unable to accept the testimony
of his own eyes. Then came a panic of uncertainty, and he fell upon
the boy, groping wildly for his heart, and at last pressing upon it
in an agony of fear...Yes, the beat was there, faint and uneven, but
unmistakable. With a sudden surge of returning hope he brought his
ear down to the open mouth, fringed with light red foam, and could
hear the air labouring in the ravaged lungs. Then came that human
sound, half gurgle, half groan; but to Harris, in the reaction from
his first paralyzing fear, it was as very music from heaven. His boy
still lived, and still should live.
Tenderly he turned the body to a more comfortable position, laying
his folded coat beneath the head for a pillow. He loosened the shirt
about the neck, and far down the heaving chest saw the sodden red
that marked his wound. Rain fell in scattered drops, and he brought
another blanket from the cabin, caring little now for the silent form
in the doorway in the sudden shadow of his greater tragedy. He spread
the blanket over the wounded boy, and sat down by his side, caressing
his temples with his big fingers, and wondering what to do next.
As he sat the helplessness of his position grew upon him. He was deep
in the foothills, many miles, as far as he knew, from the home of any
settler. In daylight he could, no doubt, find his way back to town,
but daylight might be too late. He did not know whether Allan was
dying on his hands at that moment. Certainly to attempt to move him
in the buggy would be dangerous in the extreme.
And as he sat he thought of the missing money, the fruit of his
life's labour, snatched from him in a moment in the darkness. The
loss did not hurt him as deeply as he might have thought; he was
numbed by the greater blow that hung over him. If Allan would only
live!...The boy had been his constant companion since babyhood. All
his hopes, all his ambitions, which had found their expression in his
years of feverish toil, had been wrapped about Allan. He had no one
else...His better self revolted at that thought. "You have a wife and
daughter," it said, "ready to share your life as soon as you are
ready to share theirs." He forced his mind from that phase of his
position, but it reverted to it again and again. He could not wander
in memory up the path of his boy's life without meeting his boy's
mother. And all the pain and unhappiness of the later years--how it
cut like an evil bank of fog across the once bright course of their
career! But he had suffered for their sakes, holding fast to his own
course because he knew it to be best...Best? And it had brought him
to this?...The question would not down. Rather than relax an iota
from his own purposes he had broken up his family; he had crushed
them under the wheels of his inflexible will, and now that same will
had driven his son to destruction and himself to ruin.
It is not easy for a man who has laid out a career and followed it
with all the energy of a virile nature, recasting his gods from time
to time to conform with the evolution of his ideals, but recasting
always in the mould of his own will rather than any vessel of creed
or persuasion--it is not easy for such a man to stop at fifty and
say, "I was wrong." It requires a break in his process of evolution,
a shock sufficiently powerful to pulverize his gods before his face,
to drive home the truth that they were not gods at all but merely
idols of his own creation. In Harris's later life two idols had grown
up to the exclusion of all others; they were the wealth which he had
builded with his hands and the boy Allan about whom he wrapped all
the affection of his nature; and they had crumbled to dust even while
he worshipped.
He found a flask thrown from some camper's pack, and filled it with
water at the mountain stream that rushed by a few rods below the
cabin. He placed the liquid to the boy's lips and fancied that some
drops found entrance. He had staunched the wound as best he could
with fragments torn from the lining of his coat, and he sat down
again to watch. Until morning he could do nothing more. Then some
camper, lumberman, or surveyor might happen along the road. If not,
he would have to move Allan at all risks.
It took time for him to realize the utterness with which his plans
had collapsed. As the night wore on he was able to weigh his disaster
in a more balanced mind, but its magnitude grew in the weighing. From
prosperous ambition he had been swept in an hour to penniless ruin.
His destruction was almost complete. The old farm, the scene of his
labours--his and Mary's--was gone. If Allan should die there remained
nothing more.
Suddenly he fancied he heard the sound of horses' hoofs in the clay
road along the hillside, now softened with the light rain. The sound
ceased as suddenly as it began, and it occurred to him that it might
be one of the robbers returning. The lantern was burning low, but as
a precaution he now turned it quite out. There were some cartridges
in Allan's pocket; he felt for them and decided to bring the gun out
of the cabin. But before he could put this decision into effect he
observed the form of a man moving silently but briskly toward the
cabin. He held his breath and remained obscured in the bushes. Dimly
he discerned the form stop at the door and peer into the darkness.
There was no doubt in the mind of Harris as to the evil intent of the
visitor. He had come on horseback near the building, and had then
dismounted and stole up to it on foot. That, in itself was
sufficiently incriminating. One who was riding through the mountains
on a legitimate errand, and who knew nothing of the night's affray,
would take no such precautions. Unarmed as he was, Harris resolved
that the robber, probably the murderer of his son, should not on any
account escape him. With the blanket which he had brought to cover
Allan was a bag in which they had carried oats for their horses; this
he found in the darkness, and stole after his victim. He overtook him
standing at the door, in apparent hesitancy whether to enter the
building. Without an instant's warning Harris threw the bag about his
head, and with a quick twist of his powerful wrist had his prisoner
securely gagged. Throwing him violently to the ground, he tied the
sack in a hard knot, and, despite all struggles, dragged him back to
where Allan lay. Here he relighted the lantern, and, cutting part of
the blanket into strips with his pocket-knife, securely tied his
captive hand and foot. At first the prisoner tried to talk, but he
could not speak intelligibly through the closely-drawn sack, and
presently he gave up and lay in silence in the wet grass. And again
the leaden night wore on, broken only by occasional gurglings in the
throat of Allan, or futile struggles by the prisoner. Harris felt
little curiosity concerning the identity of the man in gags before
him, or the victim of Allan's gun in the doorway. They were absolute
strangers to him, and he even feared that if he should look into the
face of the one that still lived his anger over the assault upon
Allan would burst all bounds and he would kill his victim on the
spot. He was slowly forced to the conclusion that Riles and Gardiner
had also met with foul play, and that no help was now to be expected
from that quarter. The light rain had drifted past, and bright stars
gleamed through great rents in the shattered clouds. The gibbous
moon, too, looked down, and its cold light intensified the shadows.
The night grew colder, and Harris spread his own outer garments upon
his son, and at last lay down with Allan in his arms that he might
communicate heat from his body to the struggling frame so sorely
robbed of blood. And even in his distress and his terrific fear for
Allan there came some reminiscence of old delight at the feel of the
boy's limbs against his, and fleet-footed memory ran back again to
the childhood of Allan. But on its way it met the childhood of
Beulah, and conjured up the mother-face leaning in tenderness over
the sick-beds of infancy. And John Harris buried his face in the
heaving chest of his child and wept in his grief and loneliness.
Just as the first bars of grey in the eastern sky proclaimed
approaching dawn, the sound of horse's hoofs came distinctly up the
valley. Harris drew himself into a sitting posture, and listened.
Allan was still breathing, and apparently with less effort than
earlier in the night. The sound of the horse came nearer and nearer.
At last it was in the road just below, and a moment later would have
passed by had not Harris called out. His voice sounded strange and
distant in his own ears, and cost him an unwonted effort.
Sergeant Grey instantly swung his horse from the road and,
dismounting, proceeded in the direction of the voice.
Harris told his story with such coherence as he could. He and his son
had come up into the hills to arrange for the purchase of a property
which they had become interested in through a third party, Gardiner.
They carried with them a large sum of money as proof of the sincerity
of their intentions. At this little cabin they were to be joined by
Gardiner and by another, named Riles, who also was taking an interest
in the property. As they waited in the cabin, and as he, Harris,
slept after his long drive, they were suddenly set upon by outlaws.
Allan shot one down--the body still lay in the doorway--but was
himself badly wounded, and had not spoken since. Harris had
encountered another, but after a severe fight the robber had escaped.
The little black bag in which the money was carried was gone with all
its contents. Although he had waited all night in great anxiety,
Gardiner and Riles had failed to appear, and it could only be
supposed that they too had met with foul play. But some hours after
the assault one of the party had returned, dismounted from his horse
at some distance, and stolen softly up to the shanty. Harris had
followed him, and, taking him by surprise, had been able to make him
prisoner.
Sergeant Grey looked from Harris to Allan, and then to the prisoner,
who seemed to lie in a semi-conscious condition amid his bonds and
gags.
"You were foolish to come into the hills with so much money alone,"
he said. "I would have been at your service for the asking, and this
would not have happened. But now that it has happened, the first
thing is to provide for the wounded man, and the next is to place
this suspect in custody. And you will need some toning up yourself
after your night's experience. Then we will have a full
investigation. I know a rancher's house a few miles down the valley
where you and your son will have the best attention."
The mounted policeman made a brief examination of Allan, as best he
could in the grey dawn, for the lantern now had no oil. "He has not
bled very much," he said, "He has a strong frame and ought to have a
fighting chance. I will just have a look at the scene of the crime,
and then we will move him."
He made a hurried survey of the cabin, merely satisfying himself that
the man in the doorway was quite dead, and then, with Harris's
assistance, quickly found the horses and harnessed them to the buggy.
He also found another horse near the roadway, saddled and bridled.
"We will make the prisoner ride his own horse," he said, "while you
take your son in the buggy."
They placed the wounded and still unconscious Allan in the buggy as
gently as they could, and then Grey gave his attention to the
prisoner. Having searched his clothing for weapons, he cut away the
bonds that securely held his arms and feet, and released the sack
from his half-choked throat. The man writhed and gasped for fresh
air, and the policeman drew the sack away and revealed the face of
Jim Travers.