THE CHICKEN-KILLING
An hour later Will left the house. He felt good. He felt that he
wanted to shout aloud his good fortune. To a temperament like his
there was only one outlet to such feelings. He would go down to the
saloon and treat the boys. They should share in his good fortune--to
the extent of drink. He cared nothing for them in reality. He cared
nothing for anybody but himself. He wanted drink, and to treat the
boys served as an excuse.
Since winning Eve he had debated with himself the matter of
"straightening up" with regard to drink. It is the usual condition of
mind upon such occasions amongst men who live hard. It is an upward
moral tendency for the moment, and often the highest inclination of
their life's moral switchback, the one that inevitably precedes the
longest and severest drop. At no other time would he have needed an
excuse to drink.
He hurried so as not to lose anything of the evening's entertainment
at the saloon, but his way did not take him direct. He had left the
bulk of his money secreted in the cupboard in his old hut, a place he
still kept in which to sleep when business or pleasure brought him in
from the hunting-grounds of the trade which was his.
But the deviation was considerable, nor had he the assistance of any
outside influence to keep his mind in focus. Thus he found it drifting
whithersoever it chose. It passed from Eve to the saloon, to the money
he required to help him pass the evening, to a dozen and one things,
and finally settled itself upon the one subject he would rather have
avoided. It focused itself upon Jim Thorpe, and, try as he would to
break away from this thrall, it clung tenaciously.
He could not get away from Eve's spoken sympathy for Jim, and every
word he recollected stung him poisonously. His regard for Jim was of
the frailest texture. He had always regarded him as something
inevitable in his life, and that was all. Nor was he to be considered
in the least where his own desires were concerned. Yet he cursed that
shooting match. He cursed himself for going to see Jim at all. Why had
he not gone to Eve in the first place? Then he promptly reassured
himself that he had only gone to Jim out of a sense of honor. Yes, it
was that shooting match. Jim had forced it on him. That was it. It was
wholly Jim's fault. How was he to know he was going to lose? There was
no doubt that Jim was a fine shot, but so was he.
Then through his brain flashed another thought. Maybe it had
inspiration in the thought of Jim's shooting. What would happen when
he met Jim, as, sooner or later, he knew he must? What would Jim's
attitude be? He frowned heavily. This had not occurred to him before.
Would there be trouble? Well, if there were it might be easier, at
least less complicated. On the other hand, what else could Jim do? It
was uncomfortably puzzling. His own disposition made it impossible for
him to probe the possibilities of such a nature as Jim's.
He could not answer his question, and it left him with a feeling of
apprehension which no prospect of violence could have inspired in
him. He told himself he was sorry, regretted the whole occurrence, but
there was less truth in his mental apology than in the feelings which
his thoughts had inspired. Though in his heart he knew he had done
wrong, he had acted with the grossest dishonor toward Jim, he would
not admit it; consequently he experienced the nervous apprehension
which every wrong-doer, however hardened, always feels at the thought
of being confronted with his crime.
By the time he reached his hut he was in a bad mood. He not only
rebelled against the worry of his thought, but wanted to vent his
feelings. He probably hated Jim just then, and a meeting with him at
that moment would undoubtedly have provoked a quarrel.
He was approaching his hut from the back. The place was in darkness,
and he groped in his pockets for matches. He had to pass the old
hen-roost, which, in their early days in Barnriff, had kept him and
Jim supplied with fresh eggs. As he drew abreast of this he suddenly
halted and stood listening. There was a commotion going on inside, and
it startled him. He could hear the flapping of wings, the scuffling
and clucking of the frightened hens.
For the moment he thought of the coyote, that thieving scavenger of
the prairie which is ever on the prowl at night. But the next instant
he remembered the chicken killing going on in the village. He ran to
the door of the roost and flung it wide open. Without waiting for a
light he stooped down and made his way in. And that act of stooping
probably saved his life. Something whistled over his bent body,
splitting the air like a well-swung sword. He knew instinctively it
was a knife aimed at him. But the next moment he had grappled with
his assailant, and held him fast in his two strong arms.
From that moment there was no further struggle. As he dragged his
prisoner out he wondered. Then, in a moment, his wonder passed, as he
felt a set of sharp, strong human teeth fasten themselves upon the
flesh of his forearm. He dropped his hold and with his free hand
seized his captive by the throat and choked him until the teeth
released their grip.
To rush his prisoner along before him to the door of the hut and
thrust him inside was curiously easy. There was no resistance or
struggle for freedom. The captive seemed even anxious to avoid all
further effort. Nor was there a word spoken until Will had struck a
match and lit the guttered candle stuck in the neck of a whiskey
bottle. Then, with the revealing light, he uttered an exclamation of
blank astonishment.
Elia, Eve's brother, stood cowering before him with his usually mild
eyes filled with such a glare of abject terror that it might well have
inspired pity in the hardest heart.
But Will was not given to pity. The boy's terror meant nothing to him.
All he remembered was his unutterable dislike of the boy, and his
satisfaction at having caught the chicken-killer of Barnriff. And, to
judge by the boy's blood-stained hands, in the thick of his fell
work.
"So, I've caught you, my lad, have I?" he said, with a cold grin of
appreciation. "It's you who spend your time killing the chickens?
Well, you're going to pay for it, you--you wretched deformity."
The boy cowered back. His curious mind was filled with hatred, but his
fear was all-mastering. Will suddenly reached forward and dragged him
further into the feeble rays of the candle-light.
"Come here, you young demon!" he cried. "You're not going to escape
punishment because of your sister. You haven't got her here to protect
you. You've got a man to deal with. Do you understand, eh? A man."
"A devil," Elia muttered, his eyes gleaming.
"Well, at this moment, perhaps, a devil!" Will retorted, giving the
boy's arm a cruel twist. "How's that?" he inquired, as the boy gave
one of those curious cries of pain of his, which had so much likeness
to an animal's yelp.
"Oh, that's nothing to what you're going to get," his persecutor went
on. "We do the same here to boys who kill chickens as we do to those
who kill and steal cattle. We hang 'em, Elia, we hang 'em. How would
you like to be hanged?"
Will watched the working features. He saw and appreciated the terror
he was causing, the suffering. But he could draw no further retort.
As a matter of fact he had no definite idea yet as to what he should
do with his captive. He was Eve's brother, but that did not influence
him. He probably disliked the boy all the more for it, because one day
he would be his brother, and he knew that Elia came before all else in
the world in Eve's thoughts. His jealousy and hatred were well
blended, and, in a man of his mind, this was a dangerous combination.
He released his hold on his captive and looked at his bleeding arm.
The boy's teeth had left an ugly wound, and the blood was flowing
freely. He turned his eyes again to Elia's face and a devil lurked in
them.
"I've a good mind to thrash you, you piece of deformity!" he cried
angrily. And he made a move as though to fulfil his threat.
Then that cruel grin gathered round his lips again.
"That's a good idea," he said. "Thrash you for myself, and hand you
over to those others, after."
But his words had not the effect which his physical force had. Perhaps
the boy, with that peculiar twist he possessed, was reading the
indecision, the uncertainty in his captor's mind. Anyway, the terror
in his eyes was becoming less, and a defiant light was taking its
place. But Will could see none of this, and he went on.
"I'd hate to be handed over to the boys for hanging----"
Elia suddenly shook his head.
"There's no hangin'!" he cried, "and you know it. You send me to--the
others an' see what happens to you. I tell you, sis 'ud see you dead
before she married you. Guess you best let me go right quick, an' no
more bulldozing."
The boy had suddenly tacked to windward of him, and Will was
confronted with an ugly "lee shore." The trap he had fallen into was
difficult, and he stood thinking. The dwarf had recovered himself, and
his bland look of innocence returned to his eyes.
"I killed 'em nigh all--your chickens," he said earnestly. "I'll kill
the rest later, because they're yours. I can't kill you because you
are stronger than me, but I hate you. I'm goin' right out of here now,
an' you won't stop me."
But the boy had overreached himself. Will was not easy when at bay.
He took a step forward and seized him by his two arms.
"You hate me, eh?" he said cruelly. "I can't hand you over to the
boys, eh?" He wrenched the arms with a twist at each question, and, at
each twist, the boy uttered that weird cry that was scarcely human.
"Well, if I can't," Will went on through his clenched teeth, wrenching
his arms as he spoke, "it cuts both ways; you'll get your med'cine
here instead, and you daren't speak of it--see, see, see!"
The boy's cries were louder and more prolonged. Terror had again taken
its place in his eyes. Yet he seemed to have no power for resistance.
He was held in a paralysis of unutterable fear. With each of Will's
three final words the lad's arms were nearly wrenched from their
sockets, and, as the victim's final cry broke louder than the rest,
the door was flung open and the candle set flickering.
"Stop that!" cried a voice, directly behind Will, and the man turned
to find the burly form of Peter Blunt filling the doorway.
But Will was beside himself with rage and hatred.
"Eh?" he demanded. "Who says to stop? He's the chicken-killer. I got
him red-handed." He held up one of the boy's blood-stained hands.
"I don't care what he is. If you don't loose him instantly I'll throw
you out of this shack." The big man's voice was calm, but his eyes
were blazing.
Will released the boy, but only to turn fiercely upon the intruder.
"And who in thunder-are you to interfere?" he cried savagely.
Without a moment's hesitation Peter walked straight up to him. For a
second he stood towering over him, eye to eye. Then he turned his
back, and thrust out one great arm horizontally across the other's
body, as though to warn him back while he spoke to Elia. There was
nothing blustering in his attitude, nothing even forceful. There was a
simplicity, a directness that was strangely compelling. And Will found
himself obeying the silent command in spite of his fury.
"Get out, laddie," said Peter gently. "Get out, quick."
And in those moments while Will watched his prey hobbling to freedom,
he remembered Eve and what it would mean if the story of his doings
reached her.
As the boy vanished through the doorway Peter turned.
"Thanks, Will," he said, in his amiable way. "You'd far best let him
go. When you hurt that boy you hurt Eve--ter'ble."
Swift protest leaped to Will's lips.
"But the chickens. He killed 'em. I caught him red-handed."
"Just so, Will," responded the big man easily. "He'll answer for
it--somewhere. There's things we've been caught doing 'red-handed'
by--some one. And we'll answer for 'em sure--somewhere."