 CHAPTER XII. Monday morning Elder Craigmile walked to the bank with a stubborn straightening of the knees at each step that always betokened irritation with him. Neither of the young men had appeared at breakfast, a matter peculiarly annoying to him. Peter Jr. he had not expected to see, as owing to his long period of recovery, he had naturally been excused from rigorous rules. But his nephew surely might have done that much out of courtesy, where he had always been treated as a son, to promote the ordeliness of the household. It was unpardonable in the young man to lie a bed in the morning, thus when a guest in that home. It was a mistake of his wife to allow Peter Jr. a night-key. It induced late hours. He would take it from him, and as for Richard, there was no telling what habits he had fallen into during these years of wandering. What if he had come home to them with a clear skin and a laughing eye? Was not the heart of a man deceitful above all things and desperately wicked? And was not Satan abroad in the world laying snares for the feet of wandering youths? It was still early enough for many of the workmen to be on their way to their day of labor, with their tin dinner-pales, and among them Mr. Walters passed him, swinging his pail with the rest, although he was master of his own foundry, and employed fifty men. He had always gone early to work and carried his tin pail when he was one of the workmen, and he still did it from choice. He, too, was a scotch-man of a slightly different class from the Elder. It is true, but he was a trustee of the Church, and a man well respected in the community. He touched his hat to the Elder, and the Elder nodded in return, but neither spoke a word. Mr. Walters smiled after he was well past. The man has a touch of the indigestion, he said. When the Elder entered his front door at noon, his first glance was at the rack in the corner of the hall, where on the left-hand hook Peter Jr.'s coat and hat had hung when he was at home, ever since he was a boy. They were not there. The Elder lifted his bushy brows one higher than the other, then drew him down to their usual straight line, and walked on into the dining-room. His wife was not there, but in a moment she entered, looking white and perturbed. Peter, she said, going up to her husband instead of taking her place opposite him. Peter! She laid a trembling hand on his arm. I haven't seen the boys this morning. Their beds have not been slept in. Quiet yourself, lass. Quiet yourself. Sit and eat in peace. Evil communications corrupt good manners. But when doom strikes him he'll maybe experience a change of heart. The Elder spoke in a tone not unkindly. He seated himself heavily. Then his wife silently took her place at the table, and he bowed his head and repeated the grace to which she had listened three times a day for nearly thirty years. Only that this time he added the request that the Lord would, in his merciful kindness, strike terror to the hearts of all evil doers and turn them from their way. When the silent meal was ended, Hester followed her husband to the door, and laid a detaining hand on his arm. He stood and looked down on that slender white hand as if it were something that too sudden a movement would juggle off, and she did not know that it was as if she had laid her hand on his very heart. Peter, tell me what happened yesterday afternoon. You should tell me, Peter. Then the Elder did an unwanted thing. He placed his hand over hers and pressed it harder on his arm, and after an instant pause he stooped and kissed her on the forehead. I spoke the lad fair, Hester, and made him an offer, but he would have none of it. He thinks he is his own master, but I have put him in the Lord's hands. Has he gone, Peter? Maybe, but the offer I made him was a good one. Comfort your heart last. If he's gone he will return. When the devil holds the whip he makes a hard bargain and drives fast. When the boy is hard-pressed he will be glad to return to his father's house. Richard's release is gone. The maid says he came late yesterday after I was gone and took it away with him. They are likely gone together. But Peter's things are all here. No, they would never go like that and not bid me good-bye. The Elder threw out his hands with his characteristic downward gesture of impatience. I have no way of knowing more than you. It is no doubt that Richard has become a ne'er-do-will. He felt shame to tell us he was going a journey on the Sabbath day. Oh, Peter, I think not. Peter, be just. You know your son was never one to let the devil drive. He is like yourself, Peter, and as for Richard, Peter Jr. would never think so much of him if he were a ne'er-do-will. Women are foolish and fond. It is their nature, and perhaps that is how we love them most. But the men should rule for their own good. A man should be master in his own house. When the lad returns the door is open to him. That is enough. With the sorrowful heart he left her, and truth to tell the sorrow was more for his wife's hurt than for his own. The one great tenderness of his life was his feeling for her, and this she felt rather than knew. But he behaved himself absolutely right, and that the hurt was inevitable, and for her was intensified by her weakness and fondness. As for Hester, she turned away from the door and went quietly about her well-ordered house, directing the maid servant and looking carefully over her husband's wardrobe. Then she did the same thing for Peter Jr., and at last, taking her basket of mending, she sat in the large lace-curtained window, looking out toward the west, the direction from which Peter Jr. would be likely to come. For how long she would sit there during the days to come waiting, she little knew. She was comforted by the thought of the talk she had had with him on the day before. She knew he was upright, and she felt that this quarrel, if it had been a quarrel, with his father would surely be healed. And then there was Betty to call him back. The love of a girl was a good thing for a man. It would be stronger to draw him and hold him than the love of home or of mother. It was the divine way for humanity, and it was a good way, and she must be patient and wait. She was glad that she had gone without delay to Mary Ballard. The two women were fond of each other, and that this had been most satisfactory. Betty she had not seen, for the maiden was still sleeping the long, heavy sleep which saves a normal healthy body from wreck, after severe emotion. Betty was so young, it might be best that matters should wait a while as they were. If Peter Jr. went to Paris now, he would have to earn his own way, of course, and possibly he had gone west with Richard, where he could earn faster than at home. Maybe that had been the grounds of the quarrel. Surely she would hear from him soon. Perhaps he had taken their talk on Sunday afternoon as a good-bye to her. Or he might yet come to her and tell her his plans. So she comforted herself in the most wholesome and natural way. Richard's actions in taking his valise away during her absence, and leaving no word of farewell for her, was more of a surprise to her. But then he might have resented the elder's attitude and sided with his cousin. Or he might have feared he would say things he would afterwards regret if he appeared, and so will have taken himself quietly away. Still, these reasons did not wholly appeal to her, and she was filled with misgivings for him even more than for her son. Peter Jr. she trusted absolutely, and Richard she loved as a son. But there was much of his father in him, and the Irish nature was erratic and wild, as the elder said. Where was that father now? No one knew. It was one of the causes for anxiety she had for the boy that his father had been lost to them all ever since Richard's birth and his wife's death. He had gone out of their lives as completely as a candle in a gale of wind. She had mothered the boy, and the elder had always been kind to him for his own dead sister's sake. But of the father they never spoke. It was while Hester Craigmail sat in her western window, thinking her thoughts, that two lads came hurrying down the bluff from the old campground, breathless and odd. One carried a straw hat and the other a stout stick, a stick with an irregular knob at the end. It was Larry Kildine's old black thorn that Peter Jr. had been carrying. The baller's home was on the way between the bluff and the village, and Mary Ballard was standing at their gate watching for the children from school. She wished Jamie to go on and air in for her. Mary noticed the agitation of the boys. They were John Walters and Charlie Dean, two chums who were always first to be around when there was anything unusual going on or to be found. It was they who discovered the fire in the foundry in time to have put it out. It was they who knew where the tramps were hiding, who had been stealing from the village stores. And now Mary wondered what they had discovered. She left the gate swinging open and walked down to meet them. What is it, boys? We—we found these, and there's something happened, panted the boys, both speaking at once. She took the hat of white straw from John's hand. Why, this is Peter Jr.'s hat. Where did you find it? She turned it about and saw dark red stains, as if it had been grasped by a bloody hand, finger marks of blood, plainly imprinted on the rim. And this Mrs. Ballard said, Charlie, putting Peter Jr.'s stick in her hand, and pointing to the same red stain stunking into the knob. We think there's been a fight, and someone's been hit with this. She took it and looked at it in a dazed way. Yes, he was carrying this in the place of his crutch, she said, as if to herself. We think somebody's been pushed over the bluff into the river, Mrs. Ballard, for there's a hunk been torn out as big as a man from the edge, and it's gone clean over and down into the river. We can see where it is gone, and it's an awfully swift place. She handed the articles back to the boys. Sit down in the shade here, and I'll bring you some sweet apples, and if anyone comes by, don't say anything about it until I have time to consult with Mr. Ballard. She hurried back and passed quickly around the house, and on to her husband, who was repairing the garden fence. Bertrand, come with me quickly. Something serious has happened. I don't want Betty to hear of it until we know what it is. They hastened to the waiting boys, and together they climbed the long path leading to the old camping place. Bertrand carried the stick and the hat carefully, for they were matters of great moment. "'This looks grave,' he said, when the boys had told him their story. "'Perhaps we ought to have brought someone with this. If anything,' said Mary, "'No, no. Better wait and see, before making a stir.' It was a good half-hour's walk up the hill, and every moment of the time seemed heavily freighted with foreboding. They said no more until they reached the spot where the boys had found the edge of the bluff torn away. There, for the space of about two feet only, back from the brink, the sparse grass was trampled, and the earth showed marks of heels, and in places the sod was freshly torn up. "'There's been something happen here,' you see,' said Charlie Dean. "'Here is where our foot has been braced to keep from being pushed over. See, Mary, and here again.' "'I see indeed,' Mary looked, and stooping picked something from the ground that glinted through the loosened earth. She held it on her open palm toward Bertrand, and the two boys looked intently at it. Her husband did not touch it, but glanced quickly into her eyes and then at the boys. Then her fingers closed over it, and taking her handkerchief she tied it in one corner securely. "'Did you ever see anything like it, boys?' she asked. "'No, ma'am, it's a watch charm, isn't it, or what? I suppose it must be. I guess the fella that was being pushed over must have grabbed for the other fella's watch. He was trying to rob him. "'Let's see whether we can find anything else,' said John Walters, peering over the bluff. "'Don't, John, don't. You may fall over. It might have been a fall, and one of them might have been trying to save the other, you know. He might have caught at him and pulled this off. There's no reason why we should surmise the worst.' "'They might have been playing, you know, wrestling, and it might have happened so,' said Charlie. "'Nah, they've been big fools to wrestle so near the edge of the bluff, as this,' said the practical John. "'I see something white way down there, Mrs. Ballard. I can get it, I guess.' "'Take care, John. Go further around by the path.' Both boys ran along the bluff until they came to the path that led down to the river. Do be careful, boys, called Mary. "'Now let's see that again, my dear,' and Mary untied the handkerchief. "'Yes, it is what I thought. That belonged to Larry Kilding. He got it in India, although he said it was Chinese.' "'He was a year in the British service in India. I've often examined it. I should have known it anywhere. He must have left it with Hester for the boy.' "'Poor Larry, and it has come to this. I remember it on Richard Shane when he came out there to meet us in the grove.' "'Bertran, what shall we do? This must have been here and have quarreled. And what has happened? I'm going back to ask Betty.' "'Ask Betty, my dear. What can Betty know about it?' Something upset her terribly yesterday morning. She was ill and with no cause that I could see. And I believe she had a nervous shock.' "'But she seemed all right this morning. A little pale, but otherwise quite herself. Bertran turned the little charm over in his hands. He thought it was Chinese because it is Jade. But this carving is Egyptian. I don't think it's Jade, and I don't think it's Chinese.' "'But whatever it is, it was on Richard Shane Saturday,' said Mary sadly. And now what can we do?' In second thought, I'll say nothing to Betty. If a tragedy has come upon the Kregmiles, it will also fall on her now, and we must spare her all of it we can until we know.' A call came to them from below, and Bertran hastily handed the charm back to his wife, and she tied it again in her handkerchief. "'Oh, Bertran, don't go near that terrible brink. It might give way. I'm sure this has been an accident.' "'But the stick, Mary, and the marks of blood on Peter Junior's hat. I'm afraid, afraid. But they were always fond of each other. They've been like brothers. And quarrels between brothers are often the bitterest. But we've never heard of their quarreling, and they were so glad to see each other Saturday. And you know Peter Junior was always possessed to do whatever Richard planned. They were that way without enlisting, you remember, and everything else. What cause could Richard have against Peter Junior? We can't say it was Richard against Peter. You see, the stick was bloody, and it was Peter's. We must offer no opinion, no matter what we think, for the world may turn against the wrong one, and only time will tell. They both were silent as the boys came panting up the bank. Here's a handkerchief. It was what I saw. It was caught on a thornbush, and here, here's Peter Junior's little notebook with his name. This is Peter's handkerchief, PCF. Hester Craig-Mail embroidered those letters. Mary's eyes filled with tears. Bertrand, we must go to her. She may hear in some terrible way. And the book. Where was that, John? It was lying on the flat rock. John had to crawl along the ledge on his belly to get it. And here, I found this lead pencil, cried Charlie, excited and important. Faber number two. Yes, this was also Peter's. Bertrand shut it in the notebook. Sadly this looks sinister. We'd better go down. There's nothing more to learn here. Maybe we'll find the young men both safely at home. Richard was to leave early this morning. I remember. Sadly they returned, and the two boys walked with them gravely and earnestly, propounding one explanation after another. You'd better go back to the house, Mary, and I'll go to the village with the boys. We'll consult with your father, John. He's a thoughtful man, and he's a coroner, too, said John. Yes, but if there's nobody found, who's he going to sit on? They don't sit on the body. They sit on the jury, said John, with contempt. Don't I know that? But they've got to find the body, haven't they, before they can sit on anything? Guess I know that much. Now, boys, said Bertrand, this may turn out to be a very grave matter, and you must keep silent about it. It won't do to get the town all stirred up about it, and all manner of rumors afloat. It must be looked into quietly first, by responsible people, and you must keep all your opinions and surmises to yourself until the truth can be learned. Don't walk, Bertrand. Take the carry-all, and these can be put under the seat. Boys, if you go back there in the garden, you'll find some more apples, and I'll fetch you out some cookies to go with them. The boys briskly departed. I don't want Betty to see them, and we'll be silent until we know what to tell her, Mary added, as they walked slowly up the front path. Bertrand turned off to the stable carrying the sad trophies with him, and Mary entered the house. She looked first for Betty, but no Betty was to be found, and the children were at home clamoring for something to eat. They always came home from school, ravenously hungry. Mary hastily packed them a basket of fruit and cookies, and sent them to play picnic down by the brook. Still, no Betty appeared. Where is she, asked Bertrand, as he entered the kitchen after bringing up the carry-all? I don't know. She may have gone over to Clara Dean's. She spoke of going there today. I'm glad, rather. Yes, yes. A little later in the day, almost closing time at the bank, James Walters and Bertrand Ballard entered and asked to see the elder. They were shown into the director's room, and found him seated alone at the great table in the center. He pushed his papers one side, and rose, greeting them with his grave courtesy as usual. Mr. Walters, a shy man of few words, looked silently at Mr. Ballard to speak, while the elder urged them to be seated. A warm day for the season, and very pleasant to have it so. We'll hope the weather may come late this year. Yes, yes. We wish to inquire after your son, Elder Cragmile. Is he at home today? Ah, yes. He was not at home, not when I left this noon. The elder cleared his throat and looked keenly at his friend. Is it, ahem, a matter of business, Mr. Ballard? Unfortunately, no. We have come to inquire if he, when he was last at home, or if his cousin, has been with you. Not Richard, no. He came unexpectedly, and has gone with his little ceremony. But my son was here on the Sabbath, ahem. He dined that day with you, Mr. Ballard? He did. But, Elder, will you come with us? A matter with regard to him and his cousin should be looked into. It is not necessary for me to interfere in matters regarding my son any longer. He has taken the ordering of his life in his own hands hereafter. As for Richard, he is long been his own master. Elder, I beg you to come with us. We fear foul play of some sort. It is not a question now of family differences of opinion. The elder's face remained immovable, and Bertrand reluctantly added, We fear either your son or his cousin, possibly both of them, have met with disaster, maybe murder. Pallard crept over the elder's face, and without a word further he took his hat from the hook in the corner of the room, paused, and then carefully arranged the papers he had pushed aside at their entrance, and placing them in his desk, turned the key, still without a word. At the door he waited a moment with his hand on the knob, and with his characteristic lift of his brows, asked, Has anything been said to my wife? No, no, we thought best to do nothing until under your direction. Thank you, that's well. Whatever comes, I would spare her all I can. The three then drove slowly back to the top of the bluff, and on the way Bertrand explained to the elder all that had transpired. It seemed best to marry in me that you should look the ground over yourself, before any action be taken. We hoped appearances might be deceptive, and that you would have information that would set our fears at rest before news of a mystery should reach the town. Where are the boys who found these things? Mr. Walters spoke. My son was one of them, and he is now at home. They are forbidden to speak to anyone until we know more about it. Right at the top of the bluff, the three men went carefully over the ground, even descending the steep path to the margin of the river. There, said Bertrand, the notebook was picked up on that flat rock which shuts out from the narrow ledge. John Walters crawled along the ledge to get it. The handkerchief was caught on that thorn shrub, half way up, see, and the pencil was picked up down here somewhere. The elder looked up to the top of the bluff and down at the rushing river beneath, and as he looked he seemed visibly to shrink and became in an instant an old man, older by twenty years. As they climbed back again, his shoulders drooped, and his breath came hard. As they neared the top, Bertrand turned and gave him his aid to create a firm footing above. Don't forget that we can't always trust two appearances, he urged. Some heavy body, heavier than a clot of earth, has gone down there, said the elder, and his voice sounded weak and thin. Yes, yes, but even so a stone may have been dislodged, you can't be sure. Aye, the lads might have been wrestling in play or the like, and sent to rock over. It's like lads that, hazarded Mr. Walters. Wrestling on the Sabbath evening, they are men, not lads. Mr. Walters looked down in embarrassment, and the old man continued. Would a stone leave a handkerchief clinging to a thorn? Would it leave a notebook thrown down on yonder rock? The elder lifted his head and looked to the sky, holding one hand above his head. He shook it toward heaven. Would a stone leave a hat marked with a bloody hand? My son's hat? There has been fall play here. May the curse of God fall on him who has robbed me of my son, be he stranger or my own kin. His voice broke, and he reeled backwards, and would have fallen over the brink, but for Bertrand's quickness. Then, trembling and bowed, his two friends led him back to the carry-all, and no further word was spoken until they reached the village, when the elder said, Will you kindly drive me to the bank, Mr. Ballard? They did so. No one was there, and the elder quietly unlocked the door, and carried the articles found on the bluff into the room beyond, and locked them away. Bertrand followed him, loath to leave him thus, and anxious to make a suggestion. The elder opened the door of a cupboard and recessed into a wall, and laid the hat on a high shelf. Then he took the stick and looked at it with sudden awakening in his eyes, as if he saw it for the first time. This stick, this blackthorn stick, accursed. How came it here? I thought it had been burned. It was left years ago in my front hall by Richard's father. I condemned it to be burned. Peter Jr. was using that in place of his crutch, no doubt because of his strength. He had it at my house, and I recognize it now, as one Larry brought over with him. Peter was using it? My God, my God! The blow was struck with this. It is my son who is the murderer. And I have called down the curse of God on him? It falls. It falls on me. He sank in his chair, the same in which he had sat when he talked with Peter Jr., and bowed his head in his arms. It is enough, Mr. Ballard. Will you leave me? I can't leave you, sir. There is more to be said. We must not be hasty in forming conclusions. If anyone was thrown over the bluff, it must have been your son, for he was lame and could not have saved himself. If he struck anyone, he could not have killed him, for evidently he got away, unless he also went over the brink. If he got away, he must be found. There is something for you to do, Elder Cragmile. The old man lifted his head and looked in Bertrand's face, pitiably seeking there for help. You are a good man, Mr. Ballard. I need your counsel and help. First we'll go below the rapids and search. The sooner the better, for in the strong current there's no telling how far—yes, we will search. The elder lifted himself to his full height, inspired by the thought of action. We'll go now. He looked down on his shorter friend, and Bertrand looked up to him, his genial face saddened with sympathy, yet glowing with kindness. Wait a little, Elder, let us consider further. Mr. Walters, sit down. Elder Cragmile, for a moment. Mr. Walters is capable, and he can organize the search. For if you keep this from your wife, you must be discreet. Here is something I haven't shown you before. It is the charm from Richard's watch. It was almost covered with earth where they had been struggling, and Mary found it. You see, there is a mystery, and let us hope whatever happened was an accident. The evidences are so—so mingled that no one may know whom to blame. The elder looked down on the charm without touching it, as it lay on Bertrand's palm. That belonged—his lips twitched. That belonged to the man who took from me my twin sister. The shadow—forever the shadow of Larry Kilding hangs over me. He was silent for some moments, and then he said, Mr. Ballard, if after the search my son is found to be murdered, I will put a detective on the trail of the man who did the deed. And be he whom he may, he shall hang. Hush, Elder Cragmile, in Wisconsin, men are not hanged. I tell you, be he whom he may, he shall suffer what is worse than to be hanged. He shall enter the living grave of a life imprisonment. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. The Eye of Dread by Payne Erskine. CHAPTER XIII. CONFESSION By Monday evening there were only two people in all the small town of Lubit, who had not heard of the tragedy, and these were Hester, Cragmile, and Betty Ballard. Mary doubted if it was wise to keep Hester thus in ignorance, but it was the elder's wish, and at his request, she went to spend the evening, and, if necessary, the night with his wife, to fend off any officious neighbour while he personally directed the search. It was the elder's firm belief that his son had been murdered, yet he thought if no traces should be found of Peter Jr., he might be able to spare Hester the agony of that belief. He preferred her to think his son had gone off in anger and would sometime return. He felt himself justified in this concealment, fearing that if she knew the truth, she might grieve herself into her grave, and his request to Mary to help him had been made so pitifully and humbly that her heart melted at the sight of the old man's sorrow, and she went to spend those weary hours with his wife. As the elder sometimes had meetings of impulsiveness to take him away of an evening, Hester did not feel surprise at his absence, and she accepted Mary's visit as one of sweet friendliness and courtesy because of Peter's engagement to Betty. Nor did she wonder that the visit was made without Bertrand, as Mary said he and the elder had business together, and she thought she would spend the time with her friend until their return. That was all quite as it should be and very pleasant, and Hester filled the moments with cheerful chat, showing Mary certain pieces of cloth, from which she proposed to make dainty garments for Betty, to help Mary with the girl's wedding outfit. To Mary it all seemed like a dream, as she locked the sad secret in her heart and listened. Her friend's sorrow over Peter Junior's disagreement with his father and his sudden departure from the home was tempered by the glad hope, and after all the years of anxiety, she was some time to have a daughter to love, and that her boy and his wife would live near them, and her home might again know the sound of happy children's voices. The sweet thought brought her gladness and peace of mind, and Mary's visit made the dream more sure of ultimate fulfillment. Mary felt the elder's wish lie upon her with the imperative force of a law, and she did not dare disregard his request that her no account was Hester to be told the truth. So she gathered all her bolditude and courage to carry her through this ordeal. She examined the fine linen that had been brought to Hester years ago from Scotland by Richard's mother, and while she praised it, she listened for steps about the heavy tread of men bringing a sorrowful and terrible burden, but the minutes wore on and though such sounds came, and the hour grew late. They may have gone out of time, Bertrand said something about it, and told me to stay until he called for me If I stayed all night, Mary tried to laugh over it, and Hester seized the fort gaily. We'll go to bed anyway, and your husband may just go home without you when he comes, and after a little longer wait they went to bed, and Hester slept, but Mary named wakeful and fearing, until in the early morning, while it was yet dark, she heard the elder slowly climb the stairs and go to his room, then she also slept, hoping against hope that they had found nothing. Bertrand's pride and shame had caused her to keep her trouble to herself. She knew Richard had gone forever, and she dreaded Peter Jr's next visit. What should she do? What should she do? Should she tell Peter she did not love him, and that all had been a mistake? She must humble herself before him, and what excuse had she to make for all the hours she had given him, and the caresses she had accepted? If only she could make the last week as if it had never been. She was ashamed before her mother, who had seen him kiss her. She was ashamed, even in her own room in the darkness, to think of all Peter Jr had said to her, and the love he had lavished on her, ought she to break her word to him and beg him to forget? Ah, neither he nor she could ever forget. Her brothers had been forbidden to tell her a word of the reports that were already abroad in the town, and now they were both in bed and asleep, and little Janie was cuddled in Betty's bed, also in Dreamland. At last, when neither her father nor her mother returned, and she could bear her own thoughts no longer, she brought drawing materials down from the studio, and spread them out in the dining room table. She had decided she would never marry anyone, never. How could she? But she would study in earnest and be an illustrator. If a woman could never become great artists, as Peter Jr said, at least they might illustrate books, and sometimes, maybe, when her heart was not so sad, she might write books, and she could illustrate them herself. That would almost make up for what she must go about for her life. For a while she worked painstakingly, but all the time it seemed as though she could hear Richard Royce, and the words he had said to her Sunday morning kept repeating themselves over and over in her mind. Then the tears fell one by one, and blurred her work, until at last she put her head down on her arms and wept. Then the door opened very softly, and Richard entered. Swiftly he came to her and knelt at her side. He put his head on her knee, and his whole body shook with tearless sobs he could not restrain. He was faint and weak. She could not know the whole cause of his grief, and thought he suffered because of her. She must comfort him, but alas, what could she say? How could she comfort him? She put her trembling hand on his head, and found the hair matted and stiff. Then she saw a wound above his temple, and knew he was hurt, and cried out, You are hurt! You are hurt! Oh Richard! Let me do something for you! He clasped to her in his arms, but still did not look up at her, and Betty forgot all his shame, and her lessons in propriety. She lifted his head to her bosom, and laid her cheek upon his, and said all the comforting things that came into her heart. She begged him to let her wash his wound, and to tell her how he came by it. She forgot everything, except that she loved him, and told him over and over the sweet confession. At last he found strength to speak to her brokenly. No, never love me any more, Betty. I've committed a terrible crime, oh my God, and you won't hear of it. Give me a little milk. I've eaten nothing since yesterday morning, when I saw you. Then I'll try to tell you what you must know, what all the world will tell you soon. He rose and staggered to a chair, and she brought him milk and bread and meat, but she would not let him talk to her until he had her loud to wash the wound on his head and bind it up. As she worked, the touch of her hands seemed to bring him same force in spite of the horror of himself that possessed him, and he was enabled to speak more coherently. If I had not been crazed when I looked through the window and saw you crying, Betty, I would never have let you see me or touch me again. It's only adding one crime to another to come near you. I meant just to look in, and see if I could catch one glimpse of you, and then was going to lose myself to all the world, or give myself up to be hung. Then he was silent, and she began to question him. Don't, Richard Pung? What have you done? What do you mean? When was it? Sunday night. But you had to start for chaining earlier this morning. Where have you been all day? I thought you had gone forever, dear. I hid myself down by the river. I lay there all day, and heard them talking, but I couldn't see them, nor they me. It was a hiding place we knew of when our camp was there. Peter, Junior, and I. He's gone. I did it. I did it with murder in my heart. Oh, my God! Don't, Richard! You must tell me nothing, except as I ask you. It is not as if we did not love each other. What you have done, I must help you bear as, as wives help their husbands. But I will never marry. But all my life, my heart will be married to yours. He reached for her hands, and covered them with kisses and mound. No, Richard, don't. Eat the bread and meat I have brought you. You have eaten nothing for two days, and everything may seem worse to you than it is. Oh, no. Richard, I will go away from you and leave you here alone if you don't eat. Yes, I must eat, not only now, but all the rest of my life. I must eat to live and repent. He was my dearest friend. I taunted him and said bitter things. I goaded him. I was insane with rage, and at last so was he. He struck me, and, and I, I was trying to push him over the bluff. Slowly it dawned on Betty what Richard's talk really meant. Not Peter! Oh, Richard! Not Peter! She shrank from him wide-eyed in terror. He would have killed me, for I know what was in his heart, as well as I knew what was in my own, and we were both seeing red. I felt it sometimes in battle, and the feeling makes a man drunker. A man would do anything then. We'd been always friends, and yet they were drunker with hate, and now he, he is better off than I. I must live, unless, for the disgrace to my relatives, I would give myself up to be hanged. It would be better to take the punishment than to live in such torture as this. The tears crossed fast than Betty's cheeks. Slowly she drew nearer him, and bent down to him as he sat, until she could look into his eyes. What were you quarrelling about, Richard? Don't ask me, darling Betty. What was it, Richard? All my life you will be the sweet help to me, the help that may keep me from death in life. To carry in my soul the remembrance of last night will need all the help God will let me have. If I had gone away quietly, you and Peter Jr would have been married, and have been happy, but no, no, Richard, no. I knew in a moment when you came. Yes, Betty dear, Peter Jr was good and faithful, and he might have been able to undo all the harm I had done. He could have told you to love him. I had done the devil's work, and then I killed him. Oh my God, oh my God. How do you know you pushed him over? He may have fallen over. You don't know it. He may have pushed, dearest. I did it. When I came to myself, it was in the night, and it must have been late, for the moon was set. I could only see faintly that something white lay near me. I felt of it, and it was Peter Jr's hat. Then I felt all about for him, and he was gone, and I crawled to the edge of the bluff. But although I knew he was gone over there, and washed by the terrible current far down the river by that time, I couldn't follow him, whether from cowardice or weakness. I tried to get on my feet and had not. Then I must have faded again, for all the world faded away, and I thought maybe the blow had done for me, and I might not have to leap over there, after all. I could feel myself slipping away. When I awoke, the sun was shining, and a bird was singing, just as if nothing had happened, and I thought I had been dreaming an awful dream. But there was the wood on my head, and I was alive. Then I went further down the river, and came back to the hiding place, and kept in there to wait and think. Then, after a long while, the boys came, and I was terrified for fear they were searching for me. That is the shameful truth, Betty. I feared. I never knew what fear was before. Betty, fear is shameful. There I have been all day waiting, for what I do not know. But it seemed that if I could only have one little glimpse of you, I could go bravely, and give myself up. I will now know, Richard, it would too look good for you to die such a death. It would undo nothing, and change nothing. Peter was angry too, and he struck you, and if he could have his way, he would not want you to die. I say maybe he is living now. He may not have gone over. It is no use, Betty. He went down. I pushed him into that terrible river. I did it. I, I, I. Richard only moved the words in a whisper of despair. And the horror of it all began to deepen and crush down upon Betty. She retreated step by step, until she backed against the door leading to her chamber. And there she stood, gazing at him, with her hand pressed over her lips, to keep herself from crying out. Then she saw him rise and turn toward the door, without looking at her again. His head bowed in grief, and the sight roused her. As the door closed between them, she ran and threw it open, and followed him out into the darkness. I can't, Richard. I can't let you go like this. She clung to him, sobbing her heart out on his bosom. And he clasped her, and held her warm, little body close. I'm like a drowning man, hauling you under with me. Your tears drown me. I would not have entered the house if I had not seen you crying. Never cry again for me, Betty. Never. I will cry. I tell you, I will cry. I will. I don't believe you are a murderer. You must believe it. I am. I've loved Peter Jr., and you loved him. You did not mean to do it. I did it. If you did it, it is as if I did it too. We both killed him, and I am a murderer too. It was because of me you did it, and if you give yourself up to be hung, I will give myself up. Poor Peter. Oh, Richard, I do not believe he fell over. For a long moment she sobbed thus. Where are you going, Richard? She asked, lifting her head. Don't know, Betty. I may be taken and can go nowhere. Yes, you must go. Quick, quick now. Someone may come and find you here. No one will find me. Cain was a wanderer over the face of the earth. Will you let me know where you are after you're gone? No, Betty. You must never think of me, nor let me darken your life. Then I must live all the rest of the years without even knowing where you are. Yes, love. Hurt me out of your life from now on, and it will be enough for me that you loved me once. I will help you a tone, Richard. I will try to be brave, and help Peter's mother to bear it. I will love her for Peter and for you. God's blessing on you forever, Betty. He was gone, striding away in the darkness, and Betty, with trembling steps, entered the house. Carefully she removed every sign of his having been there, the bowl of water and the cloth from which she had torn strips to bind his head she carried away, and the glass from which he had taken his milk. She washed, and even the crumbs of bread, which had fallen to the floor, she picked up one by one, so that not a trace remained. Then she took her drawing materials back to the studio, and after kneeling long at her bedside, only saying, God, help Richard, help him, over and over, she crept in beside her little sister, and still weeping and praying chockingly clasped the sleeping child in her arms. From that time it seemed to Bertrand and Mary that a strange and subtle change had taken place in their beloved little daughter, for which they tried to account as the result of the mysterious disappearance of Peter Jr. He was not found, and Richard also was gone, and the matter, after being for a long time the wonder of the village, became a thing of the past. Only the elder cherished the thought that his son had been murdered, and quietly set a detective at work to find the guilty man, whom he would bring back to vengeance. Her parents were forced to acquaint Betty with the suspicious nature of Peter's disappearance, knowing she might hear of it soon, and be more shocked than if told by themselves. Mary wondered not a little at her dry-eyed and silent reception of it, but that was a part of the change in Betty. Chapter 14 Out of the Desert Good horse! Good horse! Good boy, gold-bug! Go it! I know you're dying, but so am I. Keep it up a little while longer. Good boy! The young man encouraged his horse while half asleep from utter weariness and faint with hunger and thirst. The poor beast scrambled over the rocks up a steep trail that seemed to have been long unused, or indeed it might not be a trail at all, but only a channel worn by fierce, narrow torrents during the rainy season, now sunbaked and dry. The fall rains were late this year, and the yellow plains below furnished neither food nor drink for either man or beast. The herds of Buffalo had long since wandered to fresher spaces nearer the riverbeds. The young man's flask was empty, and it was 27 hours since either he or his horse had tasted anything. Now they had reached the mountains, he hoped to find water in game if he could only hold out a little longer. Up and still up the lean horse scrambled with nose to earth and quivering flanks, and the young man, leaning forward and clinging to his seat as he reeled like one drunken, still murmured words of encouragement. Good boy, go, bug! Go it! Good horse, keep it up! All at once the way opened out on a jutting crest and made a sharp turn to the right, and the horse paused on the verge so suddenly that his rider lost his hold and fell headlong over into a scrub oak that caught him and held him suspended in his tough and twisted branches above a chasm so deep that the buzzard sailed on widespread wings round and round in the blue air beneath him. He lay there still and white as death, mercifully unconscious, while an eagle with a wild scream circled about and perched on a lightning-blasted tree far above and looked down on him. For a moment the yellow horse swayed weakly on the brink, then feeling himself relieved of his burden he stiffened himself to a great last effort and held on along the path which turned abruptly away from the edge of the cliff and broadened out among low bushes and stunted trees. Here again the horse paused and stretched his neck and bit off the tips of the dry twigs near him, then turned his head and whinnied to call his master and pricked his ears to listen. But he only heard the scream of the eagle overhead and again he walked on, guided by an instinct as mysterious and unerring as the call of conscience to a human soul. Good ol' beast he had not much farther to go. Soon there was a sound of water in the air, a continuous roar muffled and deep. The path wound upward then descended gradually until it led him to an open grassy space bordered by green trees. Again he turned his head and gave his intelligent call. Why did not his master respond? Why did he linger behind when here was grass and water, surely water, for the smell of it was fresh and sweet. But it was well he called, for his friendly knicker fell on human ears. A man of stalwart frame, well built and spare, hairy and grizzled, but ruddy with health, sat in a cabin hidden among the trees not forty paces away, and prepared his meal of roasting quail suspended over the fire in his chimney and potatoes baking in the ashes. He lifted his head with a jerk and swung the quail away from the heat, leaving it still suspended, and taking his rifle from its pegs stood for a moment in his door listening. For months he had not heard the sound of a human voice, nor the knicker of any horse other than his own. He called a word of greeting. Hello, stranger! But receiving no response he ventured farther from his door. Goldbug was eagerly brazing, too eagerly for his own good. The man recognized the signs of starvation and led him to a tree where he brought him a little water in his own great tin dipper. Then he relieved him of saddle and bridle, and left him tied, while he hastily stowed a few hard tack and a flask of whiskey in his pocket, and taking the lasso under his arm started up the trail on his own horse. Some poor guy has lost his way and gone over the cliff, he muttered. The young man still lay as he had fallen, but now his eyes were open and staring at the sky. Had he not been too weak to move he would have gone down. As it was he waited, not knowing if he were dead or in a dream, seeing only the blue above him and hearing only the scream of the eagle. Lie still, don't you move, don't you stir a hair, I'll get you. Still now, still! The big man's voice came to him as out of a great chasm, scarcely heard for the roaring in his head, although he was quite near. His arms hung down and one leg swung free, but his body rested easily balanced in the branches. Presently he felt something fall lightly across his chest, slipped down to his hand, and then crossed slowly up his arm to the shoulder where it tightened and gripped. A vague hope woken him. Now wait, I'll get you, don't move. I'll have a noose around your leg next, so. The voice had grown clearer and seemed nearer, but the young man could make no response with his parched throat. Now if I hurt you a bit try to stand it. The man carried the long loop of his lasso around the cliff and wound it securely around another scrub oak, and then began slowly and steadily to pull until the young man moaned with pain. To cry out was impossible. I'll have you in a minute. I'll have you. There. Catch it, my hand. Poor boy. Poor boy, you can't. Hold on. Just a little more. There. Strong arms reached for him. Strong hands gripped his clothing and lifted him from the terrible chasm's edge. He's more dead than alive, said the big man, as he strove to pour a little whiskey between the stranger's set teeth. Well, I'll pack him home and do for him there. He lifted his weight easily, and placing him on his horse led the animal to the cabin where he laid him in his own bunk. There was cool water and whiskey carefully administered. The big man restored him enough to know that he was conscious. There, now. You'll come out of this all right. You've got a good body and a good head young man. Lay for a little, and I'll give you some broth. The man took a small stone jar from a shelf, and putting in a little water took the half-cooked quail from the fire, and putting it in the jar set it on the coals among the ashes and covered it. From time to time he lifted the cover and stirred it about, sprinkling in a little cornmeal, and when the steam began to rise with savory odor he did not wait for it to be wholly done, but taking a very little of the broth in a tin cup he cooled it and fed it to his patient drop by drop until the young man's eyes looked gratefully into his. Then, while the young man dozed, he returned to his own uneaten meal, and dined on dried venison and roasted potatoes and salt. The big man was a good housekeeper. He washed his few utensils and swept the hearth with a broom worn almost to the handle. Then he removed the jar containing the quail and broth from the embers and set it aside in reserve for his guest. Whenever the young man stirred he fed him again with the broth, until at last he seemed to sleep naturally. Seeing his patient quietly sleeping, the big man went out to the starving horse and gave him another taste of water and allowed him to graze a few minutes, then tied him again and returned to the cabin. He stood for a while looking down at the pallid face of the sleeping stranger. Then he lighted his pipe and busied himself about the cabin, returning from time to time to study the young man's countenance. His pipe went out. He lighted it again and then sat down with his back to the stranger and smoked and gazed in the embers. The expression of his face was peculiarly gentle as he gazed. Perhaps the thought of having rescued a human being worked on his spirit kindly, or what not. But something brought him a vision of a pale face with soft dark hair waving back from the temples and large gray eyes looking up into his. It came and was gone, and came again, even as he summoned it and he smoked on. One watching him might have thought that it was his custom to smoke and gaze and dream thus. At last he became aware that the stranger was trying to speak to him in husky whispers. He turned quickly. Feeling more fit, are you? Well, take another sip of broth. Can't let you eat anything solid for a bit, but you can have all of the broth now, if you want it. As he stooped over him the young man's fingers caught at his shirt sleeve and pulled him down to listen to his whispered words. Pull me out of this quickly, quickly. There's a party down the mountain, dying of thirst. Is this Higgins' camp? I—I tried to get there for—for help. He panted and could say no more. The big man whistled softly. Thought you'd get to Higgins' camp? You're sixty miles out of the way, or more. Twice that, where you've come. You took the wrong trail, and you've gone forty miles one way when you should have gone as far on the other. I did it myself once, and never undid it. The patient looked hungrily at the tin cup from which he had been taking the broth. Can you give me a little more? Yes, drink it all. It won't hurt ya. I've got to get up. They'll die. He struggled and succeeded in lifting himself to his elbow, and with the effort he spoke more strongly. May I have another taste of the whisky? I'm coming stronger now. I left him yesterday with all the food—only a bit—and a little water. Not enough to keep them alive much longer. Yesterday—God helped him. Was it yesterday? Or days ago? The older man had a slow, meditative manner of speech, as if he had long been in the way of speaking only to himself, unhurried, and at peace. It's no use you're trying to think that out, young man. And I can't tell ya. Nor you won't be able to go for them in a while, nor. I must. I must if I die. I don't care if I die, but they—I must go. He tried again to raise himself. But fell back. Great drops stood out on his forehead, and into his eyes crept a look of horror. It's there! He said, and pointed with his finger. What's there, man? The eye. See? It's gone. Never mind. It's gone. He relaxed, and his face turned gray, and his eyes closed for a moment. Then he said again, I must go to them. You can't go! You're delirious, man! Then the stranger's lips twitched, and he almost smiled. Because I saw it? I saw it watching me. It often is, and it's not delirium. I can go. I am quite myself. The half-smile on the young man's face was reassuring and appealing. The big man could not resist it. See here? Are you enough yourself to take care of yourself? If I leave you and go after them, whoever they are. Yes. Oh, yes. Will you be prudent? Stay right here, and eat very sparingly? Are they back on the plane? If so, there is a long right ahead of me. But my horse is fresh. If they're not off the trail by which you came, I can reach them. I did not once leave the trail after. There was no other way I could take. Would they likely stay right where you left them? They couldn't move if they tried. Oh, my God! If I were only myself again! Never waste words wishing, young man. I'll get them. But you must give me your promise to wait here. Will you be prudent and wait? Yes. Yes. Yes. You'll be stronger before you know it, and then you'll want to leave, you know, and go for them yourself. Don't do that. I'll give your horse a bit more to eat and drink, and tie him again. Then there'll be no need for you to leave this bunk till tomorrow. I'm to follow the trail you came up by, and not leave it until I come to… whoever it is. Right? Do you give me your word, no matter how long gone I may be? Not to leave my place here till I return, or send. Oh, yes, yes. Good. I'll trust you. There's a better reason than I care to give you for this, promised young man. It's not a bad one. The big man then made his preparations rapidly, pausing now and then to give the stranger instructions as to where to find provisions, and how to manage there by himself, and inquiring carefully as to the party he was to find. He packed saddlebags with supplies and water-flasks, and as he moved about continued to question and admonish. By the time I get back, you'll be as well as ever you were. A couple of days and you'll be fuming around instead of waiting in patience. That's what I tell you. I'll fetch them, do you hear? I'll do it. Now what's your name? Harry King. Harry King? Very well. I have it. And the party. Father and mother and daughter. Family party. I see. Big fools, no doubt. No description needed, I guess. Bird. Name Bird? No. McBride. Very good. Any name with a mac to it goes on this mountain. That means me. I'm the mountain. Anyone I don't want here, I pack off down the trail, and vice versa. Harry King lay still and heard the big man right away. He heard his own horse stamping and knickering, and heaving a great sigh of relief his muscles relaxed, and he slept soundly on his hard bed. For hours he had fought off this terrible langer, with a desperation born of terror for those he had left behind him, who looked to him as their only hope. Now he resigned their fate to the big man whose eyes had looked so kindly into his, with a childlike feeling of rest and content. He lay thus, until the sun rose high in the heavens the next morning, when he was awakened by the insistent name of his horse, which had risen almost to a cry of fear. Poor beast, poor beast, he muttered. His vocal cords seemed to have stiffened and dried, and his attempt to call out to reassure the animal resulted only in a horse croak. He devoured the meat of the little quail left in the jar, and drank the few remaining drops of broth, then crawled out to look after the needs of his horse before making further search for food for himself. He gathered all his little strength to hold the frantic creature, maddened with hunger, and tethered him where he could graze for half an hour, then fetched him water as the big man had done, a little at a time in the great dipper. After these efforts he rested sitting in the doorway in the sun, and then searched out a meal for himself. The big man's larder was well stocked, and although Harry King did not appear to be a western man, he was a good camper, and could bake a corn dodger or toss a flapjack with a fair amount of skill. As he worked everything seemed like a dream to him, the murmuring of the trees far up the mountainside, the distant roar of falling water that made him feel as if a little way off he might find the sea, filled his senses with an impression of unseen forces at work all about him, and the peculiar clearness and lightness of the atmosphere made him feel as if he were swaying over the ground and barely touching his feet to the earth instead of walking. He might indeed be in an enchanted land where it not for his hunger and the reality of his still-hungry horse. After eating he again stretched himself on the earth, and again slept until his horse awakened him. It was well. The sun was setting in the golden notch of the hills, and once more he set himself to the same task of laboriously giving his horse water and tethering him where the grass was lush and green, then preparing food for himself, then sitting in the doorway and letting the peace of the place sink into his soul. The horror of the situation when the big man found him had made no impression for he had mercifully been unconscious and too stupefied with weirdness to realize it. He had even no idea of how he had come to the cabin or from which direction. Inertly he thought it over. A trail seemed to lead away to the southwest. He supposed he must have come by it, but he had not. It was only the path made by his rescuer in going to and fro between his garden patch and his cabin. In the loneliness and peace of the dusk he looked up and saw the dome above filled with stars and all things were so vast and inexplicable that he was minded to pray. The longing and necessity of prayer was upon him, and he stood with arms uplifted and eyes fixed on the stars. Then his head sank on his breast and he turned slowly into the cabin and lay down on the bunk with his hands pressed over his eyes and moaned. Far into the night he lay thus, unsleeping, now and again uttering that low moan. Toward morning he again slept until far into the day and thus past the first two days of his stay. Strength came to him rapidly, as the big man had said, and soon he was restlessly searching the short paths, all about for a way by which he might find the plain below. He did not forget the promise which had been exacted from him to remain, no matter how long, until the big man's return, but he wished to discover whence he might arrive and perhaps journey to meet him on the way. The first trail he followed led him to the fall that ever roared in his ears. He stood amazed at his height and volume and its wonderful beauty. It lured him and drew him again and again to the spot from which he had first viewed it. Midway of its height he stood wherever he could find the mist of the fall in his face. Behind him lay the garden, ever watered thus by the windblown spray. Smoothly the water fell over a notch, worn by its never-ceasing motion, in what seemed the very crest of the mountain far above him. Smoothly it fell into the rainbow mists that lost its base in a wonderful iridescence of shadows and quivering, never resting on the ground. He caught his breath and remembered the big man's words. You missed the trail to Higgins's camp a long way back. He's easily done. I did it myself once and never undid it. He could not choose but return over and over to that spot, a wonderful ending to a lost trail for a lost soul. The next path he followed took him to a living spring, a place where he could not find a place to rest. The next path he followed took him to a living spring, where the big man was wont to lead his own horse to water, and from whence he led the water to his cabin in a small flume to always drip and trickle past his door. It was at the end of this flume that Harry King had filled the large dipper for his horse. Now he went back and washed that utensil carefully and hung it beside the door. The next trail he followed led by a bare and more forbidding route to the place where the big man had rescued him, and he knew it must be the one by which he had come. A sense of what had happened came over him terrifyingly, and he shrank from the abyss, his body quivering, and his head reeling. He would not look down into the blue depth, knowing that if he did so, by that way his sanity would leave him. But he crawled cautiously around the projecting cliff and wandered down the stony trail. Now and again he called, WHOO-PEE! WHOO-PEE! But only his own voice came back to him many times repeated. Again and again he called and listened. WHOO-PEE! WHOO-PEE! And was regretful at the thought that he did not even know the name of the man who had saved him. Could he also save the others? The wild trail drew him and fascinated him. Each day he followed a little farther, and morning and evening he called his lonely cry, WHOO-PEE! WHOO-PEE! And still was answered by the echo in diminuendo of his own voice. He tried to resist the lure of that narrow, sun-baked and stony descent which he felt led to the nethermost hell of hunger and burning thirst. But always it seemed to him as if a cry came up for help. And if it were not that he knew himself bound by a promise, he would have taken his horse and returned to the horror below. Each evening he reasoned with himself and repeated the big man's words for reassurance. I'll fetch them, do you hear? I'll fetch them. And again. I am the mountain. Anyone I don't want here I pack off down the trail. Perhaps he had taken them off to Higgins' camp, instead of bringing them back with him. What then? Harry King bowed his head at the thought. Then he understood the lure of the trail. What then? Why, then, he would follow, follow, follow, until he found again the woman for whom he had dared the unknown, and to whom he had given all but a few drops of water that were needed to keep him alive long enough to find more for her. He would follow her back into that hell below the heights. But how long should he wait? How long should he trust the man to whom he had given his promise? He decided to wait a reasonable time, long enough to allow for the big man's going and slow returning, long enough indeed for them to use up all the provisions he had packed down to them, and then he would break his promise and go. In the meantime, he tried to keep himself sane by doing what he found to do. He gathered the ripe corn in the big man's garden patch, and husk it and stored it in the shed which was built against the cabin. Then he stored the fodder in a sort of stable built of logs, one side of which was formed by a huge boulder, or projecting part of the mountain itself not far from the spring, where evidently it had been stored in the past, and where he supposed the man kept his horse in winter, he judged the winters must be very severe, for the care with which this shed was covered, and the wind-holes stopped, and all the time he worked each day seemed a month of days, instead of a day of hours. At last he felt he was justified in trying to learn the cause of the delay at least, and he baked many cakes of yellow cornmeal and browned them well on the hearth, and roasted a side of bacon-hole as it was. And packed strips of dried venison, and filled his water-flask at the spring. After a long hunt he found empty bottles which he wrapped round with husks, and filled also with water. These he purported to hang on the sides of his saddle. He had carefully washed and mended his clothing, and searching among the big man's effects, he found a razor, dull, and long unused. He sharpened and polished and stroked the wood, he sharpened and polished and stropped it, and removed a vigorous growth of beard from his face, before a little-framed mirror. Tomorrow he would take the trail down into the horror from which he had come. Now it only remained for him to look well to the good yellow horse, and sleep one more night in the friendly big man's bunk, then up before the sun and go. The nights were cold, and he thought he would replenish the fire on his hearth, for he always had the feeling that at any moment they might come wearily climbing up the trail, famished and cold. Any night he might hear the, HELLO! of the big man's voice. In the shed where he had piled the husk-corn lay wood cut in lengths for the fireplace, and taking a pine torch, he stooped to collect a few sticks, when by the glare of the light he held, he saw what he had never seen in the dim daylight of the windowless place. A heavy iron ring lay at his feet, and as he kicked at it, he discovered that it was attached to something covered with earth beneath. Impelled by curiosity, he thrust this torch between the logs and removed the earth, and found a huge bin of hewn logs carefully fitted and smoothed on the inside. The cover was not fastened, but only held in place by the weight of stones and earth piled above it. This bin was half filled with finely broken ore, and as he lifted it in his hands, yellow dust sifted through his fingers. Quivering with a strange excitement, he delved deeper, lifting the precious particles by handfuls, feeling of it, sifting it between his fingers, and holding the torch close to the mass to catch the dull glow of it. For a long time he knelt there, wondering at it, dreaming over it, and feeling of it. Then he covered it all as he had found it, and taking the wood for which he had come, he replenished the fire and laid himself down to sleep. What was gold to him? What were all the riches of the earth, and of the caves of the earth? Only one thought absorbed him, the woman whom he had left waiting for him on the burning plain, and a haunting memory that would never leave him, never be stilled. End of Chapter 14 Chapter 15 of The Eye of Dread This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Mary Herndon Bell. The Eye of Dread by Payne Erskine Chapter 15 The Big Man's Return The night was bitter cold after a day of fierce heat. Three people climbed the long winding trail from the plains beneath, slowly, carefully, and silently. A huge mountaineer walked ahead, leading a lean brown horse. Seated on the horse was a woman with long pale face and deeply sunken dark eyes, that looked out from under arched dark brows with a steady gaze that never wandered from some point just ahead of her. Not as if they perceived anything beyond, but more as if they looked backward upon some terror. Behind them on a sorrel horse, a horse slenderer and evidently of better stock than the brown, rode another woman, also with dark eyes, now heavy-litted from weariness, and pale skin, but younger and stronger and more alert to the way they were taking. Her face was built on different lines, a smooth, delicately modeled oval, wide at the temples and level of brow, with heavy dark hair growing low over the sides of the forehead, leaving the center high and the arch of the head perfect. Trailing along in the rear, a small mule followed, bearing a pack. Sometimes the big man walking in front looked back and spoke a word of encouragement, to which the younger of the two women replied in low tones as if the words were spoken under her breath. We'll stop and rest a while now, he said at last, and led the horse to one side, where a level space made it possible for them to dismount and stretch themselves on the ground to give their weary limbs the needed relaxation. The younger woman slipped to the ground and led her horse forward to where the elders sat rigidly, stiff, declining to move. It is better we rest, mother. The kind man asked us. No, Amalia. No. No. We go on. It is best that we not wait. Then the daughter spoke rapidly in their own tongue, and the mother bowed her head and allowed herself to be lifted from the saddle. Her daughter then unrolled her blanket, and speaking still in her own tongue, with difficulty persuaded her mother to lie down on the mountain side as they were directed, and the girl lay beside her, covering her tenderly and pillowing her mother's head on her arm. The big man led the animals farther on and sat down with his back against a great rock and waited. They lay thus until the mother slept the sleep of exhaustion. Then Amalia rose cautiously not to awaken her and went over to him. Her teeth chattered with the cold, and she drew a little shawl closer across her chest. This is a very hard way, so warm in the day and so cold in the night. It is not possible that I sleep. The cold drives me to move. You ought to have put part of that blanket over yourself. It's going to be a long pull up the mountain, and you ought to sleep a little. Walk about a bit to warm yourself, and then try again to sleep. Yes, I try. She turned docilely and walked back and forth, then very quietly crept under the blanket beside her mother. He watched them a while, and when he deemed she also must be sleeping, he removed his coat and gently laid it over the girl. By that time darkness had settled heavily over the mountain. The horses ceased browsing among the chaperrill and lay down, and the big man stretched himself for warmth close beside his sorrel horse on the stony ground. Thus in the stillness they all slept. At last over the mountaintop the moon rose. Higher and higher it crept up in the sky, and the stars waned before its brilliant whiteness. The big man roused himself then, and looked at the blanket under which the two women slept, and with a muttered word of pity began gathering weeds and brush with which to build a fire. It should be a very small fire, hidden by chaperrill from the plains below, and would be well stamped out, and the charred place covered with stones and brush when they left it. Soon he had steeped a pot of coffee, and fried some bacon. Then he quickly put out his fire and woke the two women. The younger sprang up, and finding his coat over her, took it to him and thanked him with rapid utterance. Oh, you are too kind. I am sorry you have deprived yourself of your coat and put it over me. That is why I have been so warm. The mother rose and shook out her skirt, and glanced furtively about her. It is not the morning. It is the moon. That is well. We go early. She drank the coffee hurriedly, and scarcely tasted the bacon and hard biscuit. It is no twilight we have here to make, so we go more quickly, so is good. But you must eat the food, mother. You will be stronger for the long hard ride. You have not here to hurry. No one follows us here. Your father may be already by the campamalia to bring us help, yes. But of those men rouge if they follow and rob us. The two women spoke English out of deference to the big man, and only dropped into their own language, or into fluent French when necessity compelled them, or they thought themselves alone. Ah, but those red men, mother, they do not come here, so the kind man told us, for now they are also kind. Sit here, and eat the biscuit. I will ask him. She went over to where he stood by the animals, pouring a very little water from the cans carried by the pack mule for each one. They'll have to hold out on this for the day, but they may only have half of it now, he said. What shall I do? Amalia looked with wide distressed eyes in his face. She believes it yet that my father lives and has gone to the camp for help. She thinks we go to him, to the camp. How can I tell her? I cannot. I dare not. Let her think what satisfies her most. We can tell her as much as is best for her to know, a little at a time, and there will be plenty of time to do it in. We'll be snowed up on this mountain all winter. The young woman did not reply, but stood perfectly still, gazing off into the moonlit wilderness. When people get low-code this way, the only thing is to humor them and give them a chance to rest satisfied in something, no matter what much, only so they are not hectored. No mind can get well when it is being hectored. Hectored? That is to mean... tortured? Yes. I understand. It is that we not suffer the mind to be tortured. About that, yes. Thank you. I try to comfort her, but it is to lie to her. It is not a sin when it is for the healing. I am not an authority on that, Miss, but I know Lyons a blessing sometimes. If I could make her see the marvellous beauty of this way we go, but she will not look. Me, I can hardly breathe for the wonder. Yet, I do not forget my father is dead. I am starting off now, because it will not be so hard on either you or the horses to travel by night, as long as it is light enough to see the way. Then, when the sun comes out hot, we can lie for a bit, as we did yesterday. Then is no fear of the red men we met on the plains. They are not likely to follow us up here, not at this season, and now the railroad is going through. They are attracted by that. Do they never come to you at your home? Not often. They think I am a sort of white medicine man, kind of a hoodoo, and they leave me alone. She looked at him with mystification in her eyes, but did not ask what he meant and returned to her mother. I have eaten. Now we go, is not? Yes, mother. The kind man says we go on, and the red men will not follow us. Good! I have afraid of the men rouge. Your father knows not fear. Only I know it. Soon they were mounted and traveling up the trail as before, the little pack mule following in the rear. No breeze stirred to make the frosty air bite more keenly, and the women rode in comparative comfort, with their hands wrapped in their shawls to keep them warm. They did not try to converse, or only uttered a word now and then in their own tongue. Amalia's spirit was enwrapped in the beauty around and above and below her, so that she could not have spoken more than the merest word for a reply had she tried. The moonlight brought all the immediate surroundings into sharper leaf, and the distant hills in receding gradations seemed to be created out of molten silver touched with paleless gold. Above the vault of the heavens was almost black, and the stars were few but clear. Even the stones that impeded the horse's feet seemed to be made of silver. The depths below them seemed as vast and black as the vault above, except for the silver bath of light that touched the tops of the gigantic trees at the bottom of the canyon around which they were climbing. The silence of this vastness was as fraught with mystery as the scene, and was broken only by the scrambling of the horses over the stones and their heavy breathing. Thus throughout the rest of the night they winded steadily upward, only pausing now and then to allow the animals to breathe and then on. At last a thing occurred to break the stillness and strike terror to Amalia's heart. It had occurred once the day before when the silence was most profound. A piercing cry rent the air that began in a scream of terror, and ended in a long-drawn wail of despair. Amalia slipped from her horse and stumbled over the rough ground to her mother's side, and poured forth a stream of words in her own tongue, and clasped her arms about the rigid form that did not bend toward her, but only sat staring into the white night as if her eye perceived a sight from which she could not turn away. Look at me, mother! Oh, try to make her look at me! The big man lifted her from the horse, and she relaxed into trembling. There! It is gone now! Walk with me, mother! And the two walked for a while, holding hands, and Amalia talked unceasingly in low, soothing tones. After a little time longer the moon paled and the stars disappeared, and soon the sky became overspread with the changing coloring and the splendor of dawn. Then the sun rose out of the glory, but still they kept on their way until the heat began to overcome them. Then they halted where some pines and high rocks made a shelter, but this time the big man did not build a fire. He gave them a little coffee which he had saved for them from what he had steeped during the night, and they ate and rested, and the mother fell quickly into the sleep of exhaustion as before. Thus during the middle of the day they rested, Amalia and the big man sometimes sleeping and sometimes conversing quietly. I don't know why mother does this. I never knew her to until yesterday. Father never used to let her look straight ahead of her as she does now. She has always been very brave and strong. She has done wonderful things, but I was not there. When troubles came on my father I was put in a convent. I know now it was to keep me from harm. I did not know then why I was sent away from them, for my father was not of the religion of the good sisters at the convent, but now I know it was to save me. Why did troubles come on your father? What he did I do not know, but I am very sure it was nothing wrong. In my country sometimes men have to break the law to do right. My mother has told me so. He was in prison a long time when I was living in the convent, sheltered and cared for, and mother, mother was working all alone to get him out, all alone suffering. How could they keep you there if she had to work so hard? My father had a friend. He was not of our country. He was most kind and good. I think he was of Scotland or maybe of Ireland. I was so little I do not know. He saved for my mother some of her money so the government did not get it. I think my mother gave it to him once before the trouble came. Maybe she knew it would come. Anyway, so it was. I do not know if he was Irish or of Scotland, but he must have been a good man. Ben? Is he dead? Yes, it was of a fever he died. My mother told me. He gave us his name and to my father his papers to leave our country, for he knew he would die, or my father never could have got out of the country. I never saw him at once. When I saw you, I thought of him. He was grand and good as are you. My mother came for me at the convent in Paris, and in the night we went to my father, and in the morning we went to the great ship. We said McBride, and all was well. If we had said Minovska when we took the ship, we would have been sent back, and my father would have been killed. In the prison we would have died. It was hard to get on the ship, but when we got to this country nobody cared who got off. How long ago was that? It was at the time of your great war we came. My mother wore the dress of our peasant women, and I did the same. And were you quite safe in this country? For a long time we lived very quietly, and we thought we were. But after a time someone came and father took him in, and then others came and went away again, and came again. I don't know why. They did not tell me. But this I know. Someone had a great enmity against my father, and at last mother took me in the night to a strange place where we knew no one, and then we went to another place, and to still another. It was very weary-some. What was your father's business? My father had no business. He was what you call a nobleman. He had very much land, but he was generous, and gave it nearly all away to his poor people. My father was very learned and studied much. He made much music. Very beautiful, and not for money. Never for that. Only after we came to this country did he so, to live. Once he played in a great orchestra. It was then those men found him, and came so often that he had again to go away and hide. I think they brought him papers, very important, to be sacredly guarded, until a right time should come to reveal them. And you have no knowledge why he was followed and persecuted. I was so little at the beginning I do not know. If it was that in his religion he was different, or if he was trying to change in the government the laws? For we are not of Russia. I know that when he gave away his land the other noblemen were very angry with him, and at the court where my father was sent by his people for reasons there was a prince. I think it was about my mother he hated my father so. But for what? That I never heard. But he had my father in prison, and there in the prison they—what was that word? Hector'd. Yes, in that prison they Hector'd him greatly. So greatly that never more was he straight. It was very sad. I don't think we would say Hector'd for that. I think we would say Torcher'd. Oh yes, I see. Two Hector's of the mind, but Torcher's of the body. It is that I mean, for they were very terrible to him. My mother was there, and they made her look at it to bring him more quickly to tell for her sake what he would not for his own. I think when she looks long before her at nothing she is seen again the tortures of my father, and so she cries out in that terrible way. I think so. What were they trying to get out of him? Amalia looked up in his face with a puzzled expression for a moment. Get out of him, she asked. I mean, what did they want him to tell? Ah, that I know not. It was never told. If they could find him I think they would try again to learn of him something which he only can tell. I think if they could find my mother they would now try to learn from her, what my father knew. But her lips are like the grave. At that time he had told her nothing, but since then when we were far out in the wilderness I do not know. I hope my mother will never be found. Is it a very secret place to which we go? I am, I call it that, yes. I have lived there for twenty years, and no white man has found me yet until the young man, Harry King, was pitched over the edge of eternity and only saved by a—well, a chance, likely. The young woman gazed at him wide-eyed and drew in her breath. You saved him? If he obeyed me I did. And all the twenty years were you alone? I always had a horse. But for a companion? Had you never won? Never. Are you, too, a good man who has done a deed against the law of your land? The big man looked off a moment, then down at her with a little smile playing about his lips. I never did a deed against the law of any land that I know of. But as for the good part—that's another thing—I may be fairly good as goodness goes. Goodness goes? She repeated after him, as if it were one word from which she was trying to extract a meaning. Was it then to flee from the wicked world that you lived all the twenty years thus alone? Hardly that, either. To tell the truth it may be only a habit with me. Will you forgive me that I ask? It was only that to me it has been terrible to live always in hiding and fear. I love people, and desire greatly to have kind people near me. But of the world where my father and mother lived, and at the court, and of the nobles, of all these I am afraid. Yes, yes, a fancy you were. A grim look settled about his mouth, although his eyes twinkled kindly. He marveled to think how trustingly they accompanied him into the wilderness. But then—poor babes, what else could they do? You'll be safe from all the courts and nobles in the world where I'm taking you. That is why my eyes do not weep for my father. He is now gone where none can find him but God. It is very terrible that a good man should always hide, hide and live in fear, always, even from his own kinsmen. I understand some of the sorrows of the world. You'll forget it all up there. I will try if my mother recovers. She drew in her breath with a little quivering catch. Will wake her now and start on. It won't do to waste day light any longer. Secretly he was afraid that they might be followed by Indians, and was sorry he had made the fire in the night, but he reasoned that he could not have brought them on without some refreshment. Women are different from men. He could eat raw bacon and hard tack and go without coffee when necessary, but to ask women to do so was quite another thing. For long hours now they travelled on, even after the moon had set in the darkness. It was just before the dawn where the trail wound and doubled on itself that the sorrel horse was startled by a small rowing stone that had been loosened on the trail above them. Instantly the big man halted where they were. Are you brave enough to wait here for a bit by your mother's horse while I go on? That stone did not loosen itself. It may be nothing but some little beast. If it were a bear the horses would have made a fuss. He mounted the sorrel and went forward, leaving her standing on the trail, holding the leading strap of her mother's horse, which tossed its head and stepped about restlessly trying to follow. She petted and soothed the animal and talked in low tones to her mother. Then with beating heart she listened. Two men's voices came down to her, one the big man's and the other? Yes, she had heard it before. It is Ari King, mother, surely has come down to meet us, she said joyfully. She would have hurried on, but bethought herself she would better wait as she had been directed. Soon the big man returned, looking displeased and grim. Young chap couldn't wait. He gave me his promise, but he didn't keep it. It was Ari King? He made no reply, and they resumed their ways before. It was a long wait and nothing to do. She pleaded, divining his mood. I had good reasons, miss. No matter. I sent him back. No need of him here. We'll make it before morning now, and he will have the cabin warm and hot coffee for us, if you can stand to go on for a goodish long pull. A goodish long pull it surely was in the darkness, but the women bore up with courage, and their guide led them safely. The horse Amalia rode, being his own horse, knew the way well. Don't try to guide him. He'll take you quite safely, he called back to her. Let the rains hang. And in the dusk of early morning they safely turned the curve where Ari King had fallen, never knowing the danger. Ari King, standing in the doorway of the cabin, with the firelight right behind him, saw them winding down the trail and hurried forward. They were almost stupefied with fatigue. He lifted the mother in his arms without a word, and carried her into the cabin, and laid her in the bunk which he had prepared to receive her. He greeted Amalia with a quiet word as the big man led her in, and went out to the horses, relieved them of their burdens, and led them away to the shed by the spring. Soon the big man joined him and began rubbing down the animals. I will do this. You must rest, said Harry. I need none of your help, he said, not surly as the words might sound, but colorlessly. I needed yours when I came here, or you saved me and brought me here, and now whatever you wish I'll do. But for tonight you must take my help. I'm not apologizing for what I did, because I thought it right, but—Peace, man, peace. I have lived a long time with no man to gain, say me. I'll take what comes now and thank the Lord, it's no worse. We'll leave the cabin to the women, after I see that they have no fright about it, and will sleep in the fodder. There have been worse beds. I have coffee on the hearth, hot and corn-dodgers, such as we used to make in the army. I've made them often before. Turn the beasts free. There isn't room for them all in the shed, and I'll go get a bite and join you soon. So Harry King did not return to the cabin that night, much as he desired to see Amalia again, but lay down on the fodder and try to sleep. His heart throbbed gladly at the thought of her safety. He had not dared to inquire about her father. Although he'd seen so little of the big man, he understood his mood, and having received such great kindness at his hands, he was truly sorry at the invasion of his peace. Undoubtedly he did not like to have a family, gathered from the Lord only you where, suddenly quartered on him for none you how long. The cabin was only meant for a hermit of a man, and little suited to women and their needs. A mixed household required more rooms. He tried to think the matter through and to plan, but the effort brought drowsiness, and before the big man returned he was asleep.