THE ORDEAL
"What are you doing here?"
Curly was a sorry looking specimen of humanity as he stood before his
stern questioner, the ruler of Glen West. His clothes were torn, and
his face dirty and unshaven. His eyes glowed with a sullen light of
hatred, mingled with a nameless fear as he glanced furtively around the
room.
"What are you doing here?" Weston repeated. "Why don't you answer?
Are you deaf?"
"I was prospectin'," was the surly reply.
"Where?"
"In the hills, north of Crooked Trail."
"And why did you come through the pass?"
"Me pardner an' I got lost; that's why."
"Who was your partner?"
"Slim Fales, from Big Draw."
"Where is he now?"
"Search me. He escaped, while I got pinched."
"Did you expect to find gold near the Golden Crest?"
"We thought it worth the try."
"You know better now, don't you?"
Curly made no reply, but kept his eyes fixed upon the floor.
"It seems to me that you were prospecting for something more valuable
than gold, weren't you?" Weston queried.
"What do you mean?" and Curly lifted his head.
"You were prospecting for a woman, and that woman happens to be my
daughter. Deny it, if you dare."
"I do deny it," Curly stoutly protested. "Your daughter is nothing to
me."
Jim Weston's right hand toyed with a paper-weight on his desk, and his
eyes gleamed with anger.
"You lie, Curly, and you know it," he charged. "You have had your foul
eyes upon my daughter ever since you first saw her. You have declared
over and over again that one day she would be yours."
Curly's face grew livid, and he tried to speak. But Weston lifted his
hand.
"Wait until I am through," he thundered. "Have you not used my
daughter's name very often while gambling? And did you not bet a short
time ago at Big Draw that you would cross the Golden Crest and lure my
daughter to a fate worse than death? You know it is true, and yet you
have the impudence to stand here and deny it."
Curly's eyes were again fixed upon the floor, and he made no reply to
this accusation. His terror of this man was becoming great. How did
he know so much? he asked himself.
"Now, what should be done to a thing like you?" Weston continued.
"Your record is well known, not only here but all along the coast. No
innocent woman or girl is safe when you are around, and you are a
menace to any community. You leave the marks of your filthy trail
wherever you go. And you are not alone in your villainous deeds, for
there are others just like you, who defy the laws of God and man. So
far you have escaped, but now you shall pay for your vile and cowardly
acts. It would be a sin to allow a creature like you to remain at
large. It is far better to settle with you immediately and thus make
you incapable of doing more harm in the future. You took it upon
yourself to enter Glen West to ruin my daughter, and you must abide by
the result."
Curly fully understood the meaning of these words, and his face
blanched with terror. He lifted his eyes and tried to speak. But
intelligible words failed to come, for he was almost paralyzed with
fear.
"Death is too good a punishment for you," Weston resumed. "But as that
is about the only thing which will strike terror into the hearts of
human devils, of which you are the chief, it must be done. It may
teach others to keep clear of Glen West after this."
With a howl Curly dropped upon his knees. His teeth chattered, and his
body trembled violently. He stretched out his hands in a beseeching
manner.
"For God's sake, don't kill me!" he yelled. "Let me go, an' I swear
I'll never come near this place again."
"H'm, you are too late with your prayers, Curly. It's nothing less
than the Ordeal for you now, so stop your yelps. If you don't of your
own accord, we shall be forced to do something to make you."
He then turned to Sconda and gave a brief order in the Indian tongue.
The next instant Curly was hurried out of the house, and down the trail
leading to the village.
Weston sat for a while in his room after the others had gone. The grim
expression had now left his face, and his eyes twinkled, while a smile
lurked about the corners of his mouth. Anyone watching would have
pronounced him the most hardened villain in existence. How could a man
smile who had just sentenced a fellow creature to death? This man's
heart must be hard and cold as an iceberg. But Weston's thoughts were
evidently not unpleasant, and when he at length picked up his hat and
left the house he was in an excellent frame of mind. Could Glen have
seen him then she would have wondered more than ever.
The light of day had not yet faded from the land, although the high
ridge of the Golden Crest placed the village in deep shadows. The sky
was heavy with big clouds, presaging a storm. The wind was steadily
increasing, and Weston knew that the rain would shortly be upon them.
He continued on his way down through the village, past the store and
the last house in the place until he came to the edge of a thicket of
firs and jack-pines. Here he paused and listened intently, but no
sound could he hear. Advancing fifty yards more, he left the main
thoroughfare and entered upon a narrow trail leading down toward the
lake. The trees were thicker here, and the ground suddenly sloped to a
valley a short distance ahead. Weston needed no light to guide him,
and he walked with the assurance of one well acquainted with his
surroundings.
In a few minutes a light gleamed through the trees, and a smile of
satisfaction overspread Weston's face. He knew that the natives were
obeying orders and doing their part. Beyond was a small clearing, and
coming to the edge of this, he again paused and watched unseen all that
was taking place.
It was a most gruesome spot, this Valley of the Ordeal, and Curly was
by no means the first who had been conducted hither. But no one had
ever come in a more cringing manner than did this latest victim. Some
had shown the craven spirit, and had begged for mercy, while others had
fought and cursed their captors. But Curly was different. Whatever
spark of manhood he possessed deserted him the moment he left the big
house on the hill. He sank upon the ground, and his guards had to drag
him along by main force.
He wept and moaned all the way through the village until the valley was
reached. Then what he beheld struck him dumb with terror, and for a
while he sat crouched upon the ground, staring wild-eyed upon the
Indians as they began their preparations for the Ordeal.
There were about two dozen natives present, and they knew their work
thoroughly, due, no doubt, to considerable experience in the past.
Near the edge of the thicket, on the opposite side of the clearing from
where Weston was standing, was the blackened stump of a big fir tree.
To this Curly was dragged, and several of the men were forced to hold
him up while he was being securely bound with his back to the trunk.
About his feet dry wood was then placed, and half way up his body.
When this had been accomplished, the Indians formed themselves in a
circle about the unhappy man, and began to chant a slow weird dirge in
the native tongue.
Between them and the tree of punishment a small fire was burning, and
the light from this clearly exposed the face of the bound man. His
eyes were dilated with terror, his weak lower jaw had dropped, and his
mouth was wide open. So overcome was he, that he had no strength left
to stand, so his entire weight rested upon his bonds. Never was there
a more pitiable object of abject terror and cowardice. But the Indians
did not seem in the least affected by their captive's misery. With
stern, impassive faces they went on with their chanting, which steadily
increased in weirdness as they continued.
At length they ceased, and at once Sconda seized a burning brand from
the fire and approached the prisoner. Then wild shrieks rent the air
as Curly frantically struggled to free himself. He might as well have
addressed his words to the trees which surrounded him, as to those grim
natives of the north.
Sconda had already stooped, as if to touch the brand to the inflammable
material about the victim's feet, when Weston stepped within the ring,
and ordered him to wait. Sconda immediately straightened himself up
and stepped back.
"Save me! Save me!" Curly yelled. "Don't let these devils burn me!
For God's sake, save me! Oh, oh!"
For a few seconds Weston stood with folded arms looking upon the
helpless man. Then his lips curled in a sarcastic smile.
"You've got only yourself to blame for this," he began. "Did you not
bet that you would defy all the power of Glen West, and lure my
daughter to her ruin? You can't deny it."
"No, no, I don't deny it. I was a fool, a madman. But save me, oh,
save me! Don't let them burn me!"
"Do you think you are worth saving, Curly Inkles? You are a
plague-spot in any community. You have brought untold misery upon many
innocent ones, and why should you be allowed to do so to others?"
"I will never do any harm again," Curly whined. "I swear by all that
is holy that I will change my life."
"Bah, I wouldn't give the snap of a finger for all the oaths you make,
Curly. You don't know the meaning of an oath. Your soul is so seared
and blackened that one might as well try to change that stump to which
you are bound into a living one as to transform you into a good
citizen. No, it is better for you to be off the earth than on it."
"But it's murder!" Curly yelled. "Would you murder a helpless man?
You will hang for it, and all these devils here."
"How do you dare to speak about murdering a helpless man?" Weston
asked. "What happened to Bill Ducett, at Black Ravine?"
At these words Curly's eyes fairly started from their sockets, and the
perspiration poured down his face in great beads.
"W-what d'ye know about that?" he gasped. "W-who are you, anyway?"
"Oh, never mind who I am, or how much I know. It is sufficient for the
present to say that I have all the knowledge necessary to stretch your
neck. You have now run the length of your wild career, and it shows
you that it is impossible to escape justice here or anywhere else.
But, there, I've wasted too much time talking to you, so get ready."
"Oh, oh, don't burn me!" Curly shrieked, as Weston turned and spoke to
Sconda.
"Burn you? No!" was the contemptuous reply. "I wouldn't foul this
place by burning a thing like you; it wouldn't be fair to others who
have been brought here. They all were men with some sparks of
manliness and spirit left in their bodies. But you, bah!"
He motioned to Sconda, who at once cut the bonds, and Curly fell
forward at Weston's feet.
"Get up," the latter ordered, "and never let me catch you again on this
side of the Golden Crest. The Indians will deal with you now. After
that, they will dump you beyond the pass, and the sooner you hit the
trail for Big Draw the better it will be for you. Thank your stars,
Curly Inkles, that you have escaped this time."
There was much suppressed excitement in Glen West that night, for many
had heard the shrieks of terror from the Valley of the Ordeal. But no
one dared to question the four and twenty men who later that evening
crowded into the store where they received a liberal supply of tobacco
ordered by their Big White Chief. They were men who could be trusted,
and they well knew how to keep a secret.