THE SHADOW OF CRIME
Winston could never afterward recall having heard any report, yet as he
stepped across the threshold a sharp flare of red fire cleft the
blackness to his left. As though this was a signal he leaped
recklessly forward, running blindly along the narrow path toward the
ore-dump. Some trick of memory led him to remember a peculiar swerve
in the trail just beneath the upper rim of the canyon. It must have
been about there that he saw the flash, and he plunged over the edge,
both hands outstretched in protection of his eyes from injury should he
collide with any obstacle in the darkness. The deep shadows blinded
him, but there was no hesitancy, some instinct causing him to feel the
urgent need of haste. Once he stumbled and fell headlong, but was as
instantly up again, bruised yet not seriously hurt. His revolver was
jerked loose from his belt, but the man never paused to search for it.
Even as he regained his feet, his mind bewildered by the shock, his
ears distinguished clearly the cry of a woman, the sound of heavy feet
crushing through underbrush. It was to his right, and he hurled
himself directly into the thick chaparral in the direction from whence
the sound came.
He knew not what new terror awaited him, what peril lurked in the path.
At that moment he cared nothing. Bareheaded, pushing desperately aside
the obstructing branches, his heart throbbing, his clothing torn, his
face white with determination, he struggled madly forward, stumbling,
creeping, fighting a passage, until he finally emerged, breathless but
resolute, into a little cove extending back into the rock wall. From
exertion and excitement he trembled from head to foot, the perspiration
dripping from his face.
He stopped. The sight which met him for the moment paralyzed both
speech and motion. Halfway across the open space, only dimly revealed
in the star-light, her long hair dislodged and flying wildly about her
shoulders, the gleam of the weapon in her hand, apparently stopped in
the very act of flight, her eyes filled with terror staring back toward
him, stood Beth Norvell. In that first instant he saw nothing else,
thought only of her; of the intense peril that had so changed the girl.
With hands outstretched he took a quick step toward her, marvelling why
she crouched and shrank back before him as if in speechless fright.
Then he saw. There between them, at his very feet, the face upturned
and ghastly, the hands yet clinched as if in struggle, lay the lifeless
body of Biff Farnham. As though fascinated by the sight, Winston
stared at it, involuntarily drawing away as the full measure of this
awful horror dawned upon him: she had killed him. Driven to the deed
by desperation, goaded to it by insult and injury, tried beyond all
power of human endurance, she had taken the man's life. This fact was
all he could grasp, all he could comprehend. It shut down about him
like a great blackness. In the keen agony of that moment of
comprehension Winston recalled how she had once confessed temptation to
commit the deed; how she had even openly threatened it in a tempest of
sudden passion, if this man should ever seek her again. He had done
so, and she had redeemed her pledge. He had dared, and she had struck.
Under God, no one could justly blame her; yet the man's heart sank,
leaving him faint and weak, reeling like a drunken man, as he realized
what this must mean--to her, to him, to all the world. Right or wrong,
justified or unjustified, the verdict of law spelled murder; the
verdict of society, ostracism. It seemed to him that he must stifle;
his brain was whirling dizzily. He saw it all as in a flash of
lightning--the arrest, the pointing fingers, the bitterness of
exposure, the cruel torture of the court, the broken-hearted woman
cowering before her judges. Oh, God! it was too much! Yet what could
he do? How might he protect, shield her from the consequences of this
awful act? The law! What cared he for the law, knowing the story of
her life, knowing still that he loved her? For a moment the man
utterly forgot himself in the intensity of his agony for her. This
must inevitably separate them more widely than ever before; yet he
would not think of that--only of what he could do now to aid her. He
tore open his shirt, that he might have air, his dull gaze uplifting
piteously from the face of the dead to the place where she stood, her
hands pressed against her head, her great eyes staring at him as though
she confronted a ghost. Her very posture shocked him, it was so filled
with speechless horror, so wild with undisguised terror. Suddenly she
gave utterance to a sharp cry, that was half a sob, breaking in her
throat.
"Oh, my God! my God!--you!"
The very sound of her voice, unnatural, unhuman as it was, served to
bring him to himself.
"Yes, Beth, yes," he exclaimed hoarsely through dry lips, stepping
across the body toward her. "You need not fear me."
She drew hastily back from before him, holding forth her hands as
though pressing him away, upon her face that same look of unutterable
horror.
"You! You! Oh, my God!" she kept repeating. "See! see there!--he is
dead, dead, dead! I--I found him there; I--I found him there. Oh, my
God!--that face so white in the starlight! I--I heard the words,
and--and the shot." She pressed both hands across her eyes as though
seeking to blot it out. "I swear I heard it! I--I do not know why I
came here, but I--I found him there dead, dead! I--I was all alone in
the dark. I--I had to touch him to make sure, and--and then it was
you."
"Yes, yes," he said, realizing she was blindly endeavoring to clear
herself, yet thinking only how he might soothe her, inexpressibly
shocked by both words and manner. "I know, I understand--you found him
there in the dark, and it has terrified you."
He approached closer, holding forth his own hands, believing she would
come to him. But instead she shrank away as a child might, expecting
punishment, her arms uplifted, shielding her face.
"No, no; do not touch me; do not touch me," she moaned. "I am not
afraid of you, only I could not bear it."
"Beth!" He compelled his voice to sternness, confident now that this
hysteria could be controlled only through the exercise of his own will.
"You must listen to me, and be guided by my judgment. You must, you
shall, do as I say. This is a most terrible happening, but it is now
too late to remedy. We cannot restore life once taken. We must face
the fact and do the very best we can for the future. This man is dead.
How he died can make no difference to us now. You must go away from
here; you must go away from here at once."
"And--and leave him alone?"
The whispered words stung him, his distressed mind placing wrong
construction on the utterance.
"Has he been so much to you that now you must sacrifice yourself
needlessly for him?" he questioned quickly.
"No, not that--not that," a shudder ran through her body, "but he--he
was my husband. You forget."
"I do not forget. God knows it has been burden enough for me. But you
have no further duty here, none to him. You have to yourself and to
me."
"To--to you?"
"Yes, to me. I will put it that way, if it will only stir you to
action. I can not, will not, leave you here alone to suffer for this.
If you stay, I stay. In Heaven's name, Beth, I plead with you to go; I
beg you to be guided in this by me."
"You--you will go with me?" her voice trembling, yet for the first time
exhibiting a trace of interest. "If I go, you will go?"
"Yes, yes; can you suppose I would ever permit you to go alone? Do you
give me your promise?"
She still held her head pressed between the palms of her hands, her
dishevelled hair hanging far below the waist, her dark eyes, wild and
filled with terror, roving about as though seeking to pierce the
surrounding darkness.
"Oh, my God! I don't know!" she cried in a breathless sob. "I don't
know! Why won't you go? Why won't you go, and leave me here with him,
until some one else comes? I cannot understand; my brain is on fire.
But that would be better--yes, yes! Do that. I--I am not afraid of
him."
He caught her outflung hand firmly within his own grasp. She
shuddered, as if the contact were painful, yet made no effort to
escape, her eyes widening as she looked at him.
"No, I will not go one step without you." He held her helpless, his
face grown stern, seeing in this his only hope of influencing her
action. "Can it be you believe me such a cur? Beth, we both
comprehend the wrong this man has done, the evil of his life the
provocation given for such an act as this. He deserved it all. This
is no time for blame. If we desired to aid him, our remaining here now
would accomplish nothing. Others will discover the body and give it
proper care. But, oh, God! do you realize what it will inevitably mean
for us to be discovered here?--the disgrace, the stigma, the
probability of arrest and conviction, the ruthless exposure of
everything? I plead with you to think of all this, and no longer
hesitate. We have no time for that. Leave here with me before it
becomes too late. I believe I know a way out, and there is opportunity
if we move quickly. But the slightest delay may close every avenue for
escape. Beth, Beth, blot out all else, and tell me you will go!"
The intense agony apparent in his voice seemed to break her down
utterly. The tears sprang blinding to her dry eyes, her head bent
forward.
"And," she asked, as if the thought had not yet reached her
understanding, "you will not go without--without me?"
"No; whatever the result, no."
She lifted her face, white, haggard, and looked at him through the mist
obscuring her eyes, no longer wide opened in wildness.
"Then I must go; I must go," she exclaimed, a shudder shaking her from
head to foot; "God help me, I must go!"
A moment she gazed blankly back toward the motionless body on the
ground, the ghastly countenance upturned to the stars, her own face as
white as the dead, one hand pressing back her dark hair. She reeled
from sudden faintness, yet, before he could touch her in support, she
had sunk upon her knees, with head bowed low, the long tresses trailing
upon the ground.
"Beth! Beth!" he cried in an agony of fear.
She looked up at him, her expression that of earnest pleading.
"Yes, yes, I will go," she said, the words trembling; "but--but let me
pray first."
He stood motionless above her, his heart throbbing, his own eyes
lowered upon the ground. He was conscious of the movement of her lips,
yet could never afterward recall even a broken sentence of that prayer.
Possibly it was too sacred even for his ears, only to be measured by
the infinite love of God. She ceased to speak at last, the low voice
sinking into an inarticulate whisper, yet she remained kneeling there
motionless, no sound audible excepting her repressed sobbing. Driven
by the requirements of haste, Winston touched her gently upon the
shoulder.
"Come, my girl," he said, the sight of her suffering almost more than
he could bear. "You have done all you can here now."
She arose to her feet slowly, never looking toward him, never appearing
to heed his presence. He noticed the swelling of her throat as though
the effort to breathe choked her, the quick spasmodic heaving of her
bosom, and set his teeth, struggling against the strain upon his own
nerves.
"You will go with me now?"
She glanced about at him, her eyes dull, unseeing.
"Oh, yes--now," she answered, as if the words were spoken
automatically. He led her away, ignoring the constant efforts she
made, as they climbed the bank, to gaze back across his shoulder.
Finally the intervening branches completely hid that white, dead face
below, and, as if with it had vanished all remaining strength of will,
or power of body, the girl drooped her head against him, swaying
blindly as she walked. Without a word he drew her close within his
arm, her hair blowing across his face, her hand gripping his shoulder.
It was thus they came forth amid the clearer starlight upon the ridge
summit. Again and again as they moved slowly he strove to speak, to
utter some word of comfort, of sympathy. But he could not--the very
expression of her partially revealed face, as he caught glimpses of it,
held him speechless. Deep within his heart he knew her trouble was
beyond the ministration of words. Some one was standing out in front
of the cabin. His eyes perceived the figure as they approached, and he
could not bring himself to speak of this thing of horror in her
presence.
"Beth," he said gently, but had to touch her to attract attention, "I
want you to sit here and wait while I arrange for our journey. You are
not afraid?"
"No," her voice utterly devoid of emotion, "I am not afraid."
"You will remain here?"
She looked at him, her face expressionless, as though she failed to
understand. Yet when he pointed to the stone she sat down.
"Yes," she answered, speaking those common words hesitatingly as if
they were from some unfamiliar foreign tongue, "I am to do what you
say."
She bent wearily down, her head buried within her hands. For a moment
Winston stood hesitating, scarcely daring to leave her. But she did
not move, and finally he turned away, walking directly toward that
indistinct figure standing beside the cabin door. As he drew closer he
recognized the old miner, his rifle half-raised in suspicion of his
visitor. It must be done, and the engineer went at his task directly.
"Has Brown come back?"
"Shore; he 's in thar now," and Hicks peered cautiously into the face
of his questioner, even while pointing back into the dark cabin. "He
come in a while ago; never said no word ter me, but just pushed past in
thar ter the bed, an' kneeled down with his face in the bed-clothes.
He ain't moved ner spoke since. I went in onct, an' tried ter talk ter
him, but he never so much as stirred, er looked at me. I tell yer, Mr.
Winston, it just don't seem nat'ral; 't ain't a bit like Stutter fer
ter act in that way. I just could n't stand it no longer, an' had ter
git out yere into the open air. Damn, but it makes me sick."
"This has been a terrible night," the younger man said gravely, laying
his hand upon the other's shoulder. "I hope never to pass through such
another. But we are not done with it yet. Hicks, Farnham has been
killed--shot. His body lies over yonder in that little cove, just
beyond the trail. You will have to attend to it, for I am going to get
his wife away from here at once."
"You are what?"
"I am going to take Miss Norvell away--now, to-night. I am going to
take her across to Daggett Station, to catch the east-bound train."
Hicks stared at him open-eyed, the full meaning of all this coming to
his mind by degrees.
"Good God! Do yer think she did it?" he questioned incredulously.
Winston shook him, his teeth grinding together savagely.
"Damn you! it makes no difference what I think!" he exclaimed fiercely,
his nerves throbbing. "All you need to know is that she is going;
going to-night; going to Daggett Station, to Denver, to wherever she
will be beyond danger of ever being found. You understand that? She
's going with me, and you are going to help us, and you are going to do
your part without asking any more fool questions."
"What is it you want?"
"Your horse, and the pony Mercedes was riding."
Hicks uttered a rasping oath, that seemed to catch, growling, in his
lean throat.
"But, see yere, Winston," he protested warmly. "Just look at the shape
your goin' now will leave us in yere at the 'Little Yankee.' We need
yer testimony, an' need it bad."
Winston struck his hand against the log, as slight vent to his feelings.
"Hicks, I never supposed you were a fool. You know better than that,
if you will only stop and think. This claim matter is settled already.
The whole trouble originated with Farnham, and he is dead. Tomorrow
you 'll bury him. The sheriff is here, and he's already beginning to
understand this affair. He stands to help you. Now, all you 've got
to do is to swear out warrants for Farnham's partners, and show up in
evidence that tunnel running along your lead. It's simple as A B C,
now that you know it's there. They can't beat you, and you don't
require a word of testimony from me. But that poor girl needs
me,--she's almost crazed by this thing,--and I 'm going with her, if I
have to fight my way out from here with a rifle. That's the whole of
it--either you give me those horses, or I 'll take them."
Old Hicks looked into the grim face fronting him so threateningly, the
complete situation slowly revealing itself to his mind.
"Great Guns!" he said at last, almost apologetically. "Yer need n't do
nothin' like that. Lord, no! I like yer first rate, an' I like the
girl. Yer bet I do, an' I 'm damn glad that Farnham 's knocked out.
Shore, I 'll help the both o' yer. I reckon Stutter 'd be no good as a
guide ter-night, but I kin show yer the way down the ravine. The rest
is just ridin'. Yer kin leave them hosses with the section-boss at
Daggett till I come fer 'em."