TERROR
Eve was alone. Never in all her life had she been so absolutely alone
as now. She rocked herself to and fro beside her kitchen stove, her
thoughts and fears rioting through body and mind, until she sat
shivering with terror in the warmth of her own fireside.
It was nearly nine o'clock in the evening and the vigilantes were due
back in the village before midnight. What would be their news?
What----? She paused, listening fearfully. But the sound she heard was
only a creaking of the frame of her little home.
The suspense was nerve racking. Would it never end? Yes, she felt it
would end--certainly, inevitably. And the conviction produced a fresh
shudder in her slight body. Three hours ago she had seen Jim Thorpe
and his jaded horse return to the village. She had longed to seek him
out--he had gone to Peter Blunt's hut for the night--and question him.
But she had refrained. Whatever Jim's actual attitude toward her, she
must think of him in her calculations as the bitterest enemy. In her
tense nervousness she laughed hysterically. Jim, her enemy? How
ridiculous it seemed. And a year ago he had been her lover.
For a moment her terror eased. Thoughts of a year ago were far removed
from the horror of her present. Jim could be nobody's enemy unless it
were his own. Her enemy? Never. He was too kind, too honest, too much
a man. And yet--the haunting of the moment broke out afresh--he must
be. In self-defense he must be her enemy. He could not clear his own
name otherwise.
She pondered. Her eyes grew less wild, less frightened, and a soft
glow welled up in her heart as she thought of the man whom she
declared must be her enemy. Just for a moment she thought how
different things might have been had only her choice fallen otherwise.
Then she stifled her regrets, and, in an instant, was caught again in
the toils of the horror that lay before her.
She tried to think out what she must do when the vigilantes returned.
What would be her best course? She wanted advice so badly. She wanted
to talk it over with somebody, somebody who had clear judgment,
somebody who could think with a man's cool courage. Yes, she wanted a
man's advice. And there was no man to whom she could appeal. Jim?--no,
she decided that she could not go to him. She felt that, for safety,
she had seen too much of him already. Peter? Ah, yes! But the thought
of him only recalled to her mind another trouble with which she was
beset. It was one, which, amidst the horror of the matter of the
cattle stealing, had, for the moment, been banished from her mind.
She remembered the note she had received from him that morning, and
groped for it in the bosom of her dress. It had reached her by a
special messenger, and its tone, for Peter, was urgent and serious.
She found it at last, and straightened out its creases. She was
thankful for the occupation, and lingered over it before she read it
over again.
"DEAR EVE,
"Has Elia returned home? He left camp two mornings ago, before sun
up. I've been hunting him ever since, but can't locate him. I've a
shrewd idea that he's on the trail of your Will, but can't be
sure. Anyway, I'm worried to death about him, and, as a last
resource, thought he might have gone back to you. Send word by the
bearer.
"Yours,
"PETER BLUNT."
Elia gone. The thought filled her with dismay. Elia was the one person
in the world she still clung to. And now he had gone--been spirited
away.
She thought of the poor stricken lad with his crooked body. She loved
him as she might have loved a child of her own. Yes, he was much more
to her than her brother. Had not she cared and struggled for him all
these years? He had become part of her very life.
And Peter, in whose care she had left him, had failed her. Who on
earth could she trust, if not Peter? She blamed him, blamed him
bitterly; but, in her heart, she knew she had no right to. Peter would
not willingly hurt her, and she knew well enough that if Elia had gone
it was through no carelessness of this gentle, kindly man.
She put the note away, and sat staring into the fire. The change of
thought had eased the pitch of her nerves for a moment. If she could
only blot that other out altogether--but even as the wish was
formulated in her brain, the horror and dread were on her again
crushing her.
She sprang to her feet and paced the room with rapid, uneven strides.
She could not rest. The dread of the return of the vigilantes obsessed
her. She found herself vaguely wondering if they were all out. Was Doc
Crombie out? No, she knew he wasn't. That was something. That was the
man she most dreaded. To her heated imagination he seemed inevitable.
He could not fail in his self-imposed mission. He would hunt his man
down. He would never pause until the wretched victim was swinging at
the rope end.
She shuddered. This sort of thing had never before impressed its
horror upon her as it did now. How should it? It had always seemed so
far away, so remote from her life. And now--oh, God, to think that its
shadow was so near her!
Then for a second her struggling brain eased with an undefined hope.
She was thinking of how they had tried to track Will before, and how
they had failed. She tried to tell herself that then their incentive
had been even greater. Had it not been the greed of gold? And she well
knew its power with these men. Yes, it suggested hope. But that one
passing gleam vanished all too swiftly. She felt in her inmost heart
that no such luck would serve him now. These men were bloodhounds on a
trail of blood. They were demanding a life, nor would they lift their
noses from the scent until their work was accomplished.
It was not the man. It was not the thought of his life that drove her
frantic now. It was the horror of such an end to her wretched
marriage. The wife of a cattle-thief! The widow of a man lynched by
his fellow citizens! She buried her face in her hands, and hard, dry
sobs racked her body.
For a moment she stood thus. Then she suddenly lifted her head, her
eyes staring, her whole attitude alert, intent. There was a sound
outside. She heard the clank of the latch. And now an awkward
shuffling gait just outside her door. She moved toward the parlor and
stood listening in the doorway.
Suddenly a light broke in upon her. That awkward footstep! She knew
it! Her relief was heartbreaking. It was Elia. With a rush she was at
the door, and the next moment she dragged the boy in, and was crooning
over him like some mother over a long-lost child.
But the boy pushed her away roughly. His calm face and gentle eyes now
shone with excitement, one of those excitements she so dreaded in
him.
"Quit, sis," he cried sharply. "I ain't no use fer sech slobberin'. I
ain't a kid. Say----"
He broke off, eyeing her with his head bent sideways in the
extraordinary attitude which a cruel nature had inflicted upon him.
"Yes."
Eve's eyes were full of a yearning tenderness. His rebuff meant
nothing to her devotion. She believed it to be only his way. Part of
the cruel disease for which he must be pitied and not blamed.
But his broken sentence remained uncompleted. His eyes were fixed upon
her face bland yet sparkling with the thought behind them.
"Peter sent word to me to-day that you--you were lost," Eve said.
The boy laughed without relaxing a muscle.
"Did he? He's a fule someways."
He passed into the kitchen and took Eve's rocking-chair. She followed
him, and stood leaning against the table.
"Then you--you didn't get lost?"
"Say, you folks make me sick. Why 'ud I get lost more'n other fellers?
You guess I'm a kid--but I ain't. Lost! Gee! Say, sis, Peter orter
know'd wher' I was. I told him I was goin'. An' I went. Sure I went."
He rubbed his delicate hands together in his glee. His eyes sparkled
again with rising excitement. But Eve forgot her fears for him now;
she was interested. She was lifted out of her own despair by his
evident joy, and waited for him to tell his story.
But Elia had his own way of doing things, and that way was rarely a
pleasant one. Nor was it now, as Eve was quickly to learn.
"Yes, sure, Peter's a fule, someways--but I like him. He's real good.
Say, sis, he's goin' to give me all the gold he finds. He said so.
Yep. An' he'll do it. Guess he's good. That's sure why I didn't do
what he told me not to."
He sat blinking up at his sister with impish amusement. Suddenly
something in his expression stirred his sister to alarm. Nor could she
have said how it came to her, or what the nature of the alarm. It was
there undefined, but none the less certain.
"What did he tell you not to do?" she asked anxiously.
"Give him away. Say, here, I'll tell you. It's a dandy yarn. Y'see I
ain't just as other folks are, sis; there's things I ken do, an'
things I ken understand wot other folks can't. Say, I ken trail
like--like a wolf. Well, I guess one day I told Peter I could trail. I
told him I could trail your Will, an' find out wher' he got his
gold."
"And did you?"
The girl's demand was almost a shriek. The boy nodded his bent head
wisely, and his eyes lit with malice.
"And you didn't give him away? You wouldn't--you wouldn't? He's my
husband."
The pleading in his sister's voice was pitiful to hear.
"That's sure what Peter made me promise--or I wouldn't get his gold."
Eve breathed more freely. But her relief was short-lived.
The boy began to laugh. It was a soft chuckle that found no expression
in his face. The sound of it sent a shudder through the harassed
woman.
"No. I didn't give him away," he said suddenly. "Sis, I trailed an'
trailed, an' I found him. Gee, I found him. He was diggin' his
gold, but it was in the hides of cattle, an' with a red-hot
brandin' iron. Gee! I watched him, but he didn't see me. Oh, no, I
took care of that. If he'd seen me he'd sure have killed me. Say,
sis, your Will's a cattle-thief. You've heerd tell of 'em, ain't
you? Do you know what they do to cattle-thieves? I'll tell you.
They hang 'em. They hang 'em slow. They haul 'em up, an' their
necks stretch, an'--an' then they die. Then the coyotes come round
an' jump up an' try to eat 'em. An' they hang there till they stink.
That's how they treat cattle-rustlers. An' Will's a cattle-rustler."
"For God's sake, be quiet!"
The woman's face was terrible in its horror, but it only seemed to
give the boy pleasure, for he went on at once.
"Ther' ain't no use in squealin'. I didn't give him away. I'd like to,
because I'd like to see Will with his neck pulled sure. But I want
Peter's gold, an' I wouldn't get it if I give him away."
"Did you come straight back here?" Eve questioned him sharply, a faint
hope stirring her.
"Yep, sis, straight here." He laughed silently while he watched her
with feline glee. "An' jest as fast as I could get, too. You see, I
guessed I might miss Doc Crombie."
"Doc Crombie?" The girl's eyes dilated. She stood like one petrified.
"Sure. You see I couldn't give Will away because of Peter. But I told
him wher' the stolen cattle wer'. An' that I'd seen the rustlers at
work, an' if he got busy he'd get 'em right off, an'----"
But he got no further; Eve had him by the shoulders in a clutch that
chilled his heart to a maddening fear. His eyes stared, and he gasped
as though about to faint.
"You told him that--you--you? You never did! You couldn't! You
wouldn't dare! Oh, God, and to think! Elia, Elia! Say you didn't.
You'll never--you'll never get Peter's gold!"
The woman was beside herself. She had no idea of what she was
saying. All she knew was that Doc Crombie had been told of Will's
hiding-place, and, for all she knew, might be on his way there now.
Discovery was certain; and discovery meant----
But suddenly she realized the boy's condition. He was on the verge of
collapse from sheer dread of physical hurt. His face was ashen, and
his eyes were almost starting from their sockets. In an agony of
remorse and fear she released him and knelt before him.
"I'm sorry, Elia. I didn't mean to hurt you. But--but you haven't told
Doc?" she cried piteously. "Say you haven't, dear. Oh, God!"
She abruptly buried her face in her hands as though to shut out the
horrid sight of this thing her brother had done.
Elia recovered quickly, but his vicious glee had dropped to a sulky
savagery.
"You're a fule, sis," he said, in a sullen tone. "I sure did it for
you--an' 'cos I hate him. But say," he cried, becoming suddenly
suspicious. "I didn't tell Doc who it was. I kep' my promise to Peter.
I sure didn't give him away. So why for do you raise sech a racket?
An' anyway if he hangs you won't be married to him no more. You----"
He broke off, listening. The sound of a horse galloping could be
plainly heard. The noise abruptly ceased, and the boy looked up with
the light of understanding in his eyes.
"One o' the boys, sis. One o' Doc's boys. Mebbe----"
But he was interrupted by the opening of the outer door, and Peter
Blunt strode in.
The expression of the man's face was sufficient explanation of his
unceremonious visit. He made no pretense at apology. He glanced
swiftly round the little parlor, and finally espied Eve and her
brother through the open kitchen door. He hurried across and stood
before them, his eyes on the boy he had spent two days searching for.
"Thank God I've found you, laddie----" he began.
But Eve cut him short.
"Oh, Peter, Peter, thank God you've come!" she cried.
Immediately the man's eyes were transferred to her face.
"What is it?" he demanded sharply. And some of the girl's terror
suddenly clutched at his heart.
"He's found him. Will, I mean. Will's the cattle-thief. He found him
in the midst of re-branding. And he came right in and told--told Doc
Crombie."
In an instant Elia was sitting forward defending himself.
"I didn't tell him who he was. Sure I didn't, 'cos you said I wouldn't
get that gold if I did--if I give him away. I didn't give him away,
sure--sure. I jest told Doc where he'd find the rustlers. That's all.
That ain't giving Will away, is it?"
But Peter ignored the boy's defense. His shrewd mind was working
swiftly. Here was his own unspoken suspicion of the man verified. The
whole situation was all too clear. He turned to Eve with a sharp
inquiry.
"So Will's the cattle-thief. You knew it?"
The girl shook her head and wrung her hands piteously.
"No, no; I didn't know it. Indeed, indeed, I didn't. Lately I
suspected--thought--but I didn't know." Then she cried helplessly.
"Oh, Peter, what's to be done? We must--we must save him!"
In an instant Elia was on his feet protesting.
"What for you want to save him?" he cried. "He's a crook. He's a
thief. He's bad--I tell you he's bad."
But Peter suddenly thrust out one great hand and pushed him back into
his chair.
"Sit there and keep quiet," he said sternly. "Now, let's think. You
told Doc, eh?"
"Yes," retorted the boy sulkily. "An' he's goin' out after 'em
to-night. An' I'm glad, 'cos they'll get him."
"If they get him you'll never get your gold, laddie, because you've
given him away. Do you understand?"
Eve, watching these two, began to realize something of the working of
Peter's mind. He meant to win Elia over to his side, and was adopting
the only possible means.
The boy remained obstinately silent, and Peter went on.
"Now, see here, which would you rather do, get that gold--an' there's
plenty; it comes right through here to Barnriff--or see Will hang?"
In spite of his hatred of Will, the boy was dazzled.
"I'd like to see Will hang--but--I'd rather git the gold."
"Well," said Peter, with a sigh of relief, "ther's just one way for
you to get it. You've got to put us wise how to get to Will to warn
him before Doc gets him. If Will hangs, you don't get your gold."
A sudden hope lit Eve's troubled face. This man, she knew, was to be
Will's savior--her savior. Her heart swelled with thankfulness and
hope. This man, without a second's demur, had embraced her cause, was
ready to incriminate himself, to save the worst criminal a cattle
country knows, because--just because he wanted to help a woman, who
was nothing to him, and never could be anything to him. It was the
love he had for all suffering humanity, the wonderful charity of his
kindly heart, that made him desire to help all those who needed his
help.
She was listening now to the manner in which he extracted from her
unwilling brother the information he sought. He did it bit by bit,
with much care and deliberation. He wanted no mistake. The direction
in which Will's secret corrals lay must be given with the last word in
exactness, for any delay in finding him might upset his purpose.
Having extracted all the information necessary, he gave the lad a
final warning.
"Now, see here, Elia, you're a good lad--better than you seem; but I'm
not going to be played with. I've got gold in plenty, sure, and you're
going to get it if you stay right here, and don't say a word to any
one about Will or this cattle-rustling. If you do anything that
prevents Will getting clear away, or let folks know that he's the
rustler, then you get no gold--not one cent."
"Then, wot's this I've heerd about Jim? Guess you want him to get the
blame. You want 'em to hang Jim Thorpe?"
The boy's cunning was paralyzing. Eve's eyes widened with a fresh
fear, and, for a moment, Peter was gravely silent.
"Yes," he said presently, "for a while he must still have the blame."
Then he turned to the woman.
"I wish I could get hold of Jim," he said regretfully. "Amongst other
things, I want his horse."
In an instant Eve remembered.
"He's over in your shack. I saw him go there at sundown."
Peter's face cleared.
"Good," he cried. "Come on, we'll all go over there. I'll go by the
front way, with Elia. You sneak out the back way after we're gone."