A STRANGE VICTORY
Apparently it is true that, under certain circumstances at least, one can
recognize a person by his whisper. Certain it is that Grace Krowl, upon
opening her door for a second time that night and upon hearing the
whispered message, "Merry Christmas, Grace Krowl," said without a
moment's hesitation:
"_You are the Whisperer._"
"I am." The slim, gray-haired man before her smiled. "May I come in?"
She stepped aside. He entered and took a seat.
"It was generous of you to trust me," he said. "You will not regret it.
"You see--" His eyes strayed about the place. "I fitted these rooms up
for myself. Then, for reasons you shall know of later, I was obliged to
leave them. When I learned of your presence here, I decided to trust you,
and to use you. I-- You have Nida's story?"
Grace nodded.
"She is the daughter of a very old friend." The little, gray-haired man
leaned forward. "Will you tell me the story?"
Grace told the story as best she could.
"It is as I thought." The Whisperer sprang to his feet. "That man, J.
Templeton Semp, is a rascal. He tried to hide his evil deeds by
persecuting others. I must go!" He seized his hat.
"But who--who are you?" Grace cried.
"I--" He smiled. "I am Newton Mills." Then he was gone.
What a commotion that declaration would have caused among the watchers in
the little gray house on the prairies! Newton Mills, Joyce Mills' father,
boon companion of Drew Lane, Tom Howe and Johnny Thompson--Newton Mills
come to life and he, of all men, the Whisperer! But no word of this could
reach them now.
* * * * * * * *
It was cold over there by the north window of the little gray house.
Before he and Alice established themselves there, Johnny gathered up his
heavy coat and wrapped it about the girl. He was very close to her now,
this brave and beautiful child of a slain policeman. They were facing
death together, these two. And death drew them closer.
Bleak night was outside, and out there somewhere in hiding, creeping up
behind that barn or the grove where the Captain had played as a boy, or
perhaps behind the great cottonwood just before them, death was coming
nearer. Johnny was seized with an involuntary shudder.
"What is it, my friend Johnny?" The little Canadian's shoulder touched
his.
"Nothing. Only thinking." He laughed a low, uncertain laugh.
"Do you know," he said a moment later in a voice that was all but a
whisper, "that old barn behind the cottonwood was standing when the
Captain was a boy? On rainy days they played in the hay, climbed high and
pushed one another down, made swings of the hay ropes and leaped into the
mow from twenty feet in air. They played hide and seek, boys and girls
together. Sounds sort of peaceful and joyous, doesn't it? Not--not like
this."
"You make it seem so real. Perhaps, after all, this is only a dream. Or,
or only a trick to frighten us. Christmas morning will come as it came in
those good days. Stockings all in a row." Her voice was dreamy.
"Presents, and a fire laughing up the chimney. All that and--
"Johnny!" She broke off suddenly to grip his arm. "What was that? A
shot?"
"I--I don't know."
Johnny's right hand gripped his automatic. Surely there had come a sharp
crack. It sounded strange in the night.
"Board nails snapping in the frost perhaps." He relaxed a little.
"Look, Johnny!" She gripped his arm till it hurt. "Look! Some dark object
tumbling about under that huge tree. It--I think it looks like a man!"
Johnny was on his feet. "Drew! Drew Lane! Come here quick!" He all but
shouted the words.
Before the call died on his lips, Drew was at his side. By that time not
one dark object, but three were to be seen tumbling about on the snow
beneath the giant cottonwood. Their antics were grotesque in the
extreme--like men sewed into canvas sacks.
"Something's happening," Johnny hazarded.
"Or it's a decoy to call us out," Drew replied dryly.
What was to be done? Surely here was a quandary. One of the figures had
stiffened and lay quite still like a corpse.
"May be faked," Drew said grimly. "But a fellow has to see." One hand on
the door, the other gripping his automatic, he was prepared for a dash,
when Johnny pulled him back.
"No! No! Let me go! You are older. If anything goes wrong, you'll be
needed here. You must remember the women."
"All--all right." Drew backed away reluctantly. Then, standing up at full
height, ready for instant action, he prepared to protect Johnny as best
he might.
Johnny was out of the door and away like a shot. Not so fast, however,
but that a dark, muffled figure followed him.
Reaching the first prostrate form, he uttered a low exclamation. It was a
man. Apparently quite unconscious, he lay there, his face half buried in
the snow. There was a curious odor about the place. Johnny felt a faint
dizziness in his head.
He stepped to the next figure. To his surprise and horror he saw it was
Spider. He too lay motionless.
"Gas!" a voice said in his ear. "Can't you see they've been gassed?"
He wheeled about to find himself staring in the face of the little French
Canadian girl, Alice.
"You!" he murmured.
"Come out of it!" She dragged him away. "There is still some of that gas
in the air."
Johnny had got a little more of that gas than he thought. He did not lose
consciousness, but he did have only a hazy notion of that which went on
about him. It will always remain so--how the other members of the party
came swarming out, how they found four members of the "Massacre Parade"
prostrate on the snow, and Spider beside them on the ground with a broken
arm--all this will always be a dream to Johnny. So too will be the story
of how Drew and Tom went after the missing Iggy, who was not one of the
four under the tree, and how they found him waiting in a high-powered
car, and, having been fired upon, how they mowed him down with the very
machine gun that had been loaded for the purpose of massacring women, men
and girls alike.
The effect of the gas did not last more than twenty minutes. The words
used by the four would-be savage massacre men when they found handcuffs
on their wrists and clothes-line rope bound round their legs, were
scarcely in keeping with the spirit of Christmas. It will not seem
strange that no one cared.
As for Spider, he had some explaining to do. When a doctor had set his
broken arm and he had fully recovered from his share of the gas, he told
a strange story.
He had caught a glimpse of someone dodging behind the old barn. Putting
the whole thing together, he had decided that the men with machine guns
would take their stand behind the giant cottonwood. Its thick base would
offer perfect protection from bullets.
"I thought," he went on, "if only I can beat them to the tree and climb
it, with that gas bomb on my back, I'll be in a position to put them all
to sleep at once. There wasn't a minute to lose, so, without saying
anything, I made a dash for it."
"But it's twenty feet to the first branch!" Johnny protested. "How'd you
make it?"
"The bark of that old tree," said Spider with a smile, "is like the edge
of inch-thick boards sticking out. Nothing easier than getting a grip and
going up."
"For you," Johnny agreed. "But you were found on the ground," he
objected.
"Things didn't go just right." Spider indulged in a wry smile. "I got up
the tree all right. They did their part, came and got under. Then I saw
something I hadn't counted on--saw the tops of heads, yours and Alice's
by that window.
"Ten seconds more, and they'd have riddled you with bullets. Guess I got
excited; must have moved. Anyway, one of 'em spotted me and fired.
"Bullet hit my arm. Lost my balance, and down I came, gas bomb and all.
The bomb burst all right. And, well, you know the rest."
"Alice!" Johnny was looking into the little Canadian's eyes. He was
thinking, "What if that machine gun had stuttered just once!"
When he realized that in the face of death Alice had followed him into
the night, he wanted awfully to cry, then to seize the little Canadian
and kiss her on both cheeks. Being a modest youth, he merely flushed and
did neither the one nor the other, which was just as well, since Alice
could understand blushes quite as readily as tears and other things.