The King of Arcadia

by Francis Lynde

  XVI

  THE RETURN OF THE OMEN

  Loudon Bromley's principal wounding was a pretty seriously broken head,got, so said Luigi, the Tuscan river-watchman who had found and broughthim in, by the fall from the steep hill path into the rocky canyon.

  Ballard reached the camp at the heels of the Irish newsbearer shortlyafter the unconscious assistant had been carried up to the adobeheadquarters; and being, like most engineers with field experience, arough-and-ready amateur surgeon, he cleared the room of the throng ofsympathising and utterly useless stone "buckies," and fell to work. Butbeyond cleansing the wound and telegraphing by way of Denver to Aspenfor skilled help, there was little he could do.

  The telegraphing promised nothing. Cutting out all the probable delays,and assuming the Aspen physician's willingness to undertake a perilousnight gallop over a barely passable mountain trail, twelve hours at thevery shortest must go to the covering of the forty miles.

  Ballard counted the slow beats of the fluttering pulse and shook hishead despairingly. Since he had lived thus long after the accident,Bromley might live a few hours longer. But it seemed much more likelythat the flickering candle of life might go out with the next breath.Ballard was unashamed when the lights in the little bunk-room grew dimto his sight, and a lump came in his throat. Jealousy, if the sullenself-centring in the sentimental affair had grown to that, was quenchedin the upwelling tide of honest grief. For back of the sex-selfishness,and far more deeply rooted, was the strong passion of brother-loyalty,reawakened now and eager to make amends--to be given a chance to makeamends--for the momentary lapse into egoism.

  To the Kentuckian in this hour of keen misery came an angel of comfortin the guise of his late host, the master of Castle 'Cadia. There wasthe stuttering staccato of a motor-car breasting the steep grade of themesa hill, the drumming of the released engines at the door of theadobe, and the colonel entered, followed by Jerry Blacklock, who hadtaken the chauffeur's place behind the pilot wheel for the roundaboutdrive from Castle 'Cadia. In professional silence, and with no more thana nod to the watcher at the bedside, the first gentleman of Arcadia laidoff his coat, opened a kit of surgeon's tools, and proceeded to saveBromley's life, for the time being, at least, by skilfully lifting thebroken bone which was slowly pressing him to death.

  "Thah, suh," he said, the melodious voice filling the tin-roofed shackuntil every resonant thing within the mud-brick walls seemed to vibratein harmonious sympathy, "thah, suh; what mo' there is to do needn't bedone to-night. To-morrow morning, Mistuh Ballard, you'll make a rightcomfo'table litter and have him carried up to Castle 'Cadia, and amongus all we'll try to ansuh for him. Not a word, my deah suh; it's onlywhat that deah boy would do for the most wo'thless one of us. I tellyou, Mistuh Ballard, we've learned to think right much of Loudon; yes,suh--right much."

  Ballard was thankful, and he said so. Then he spoke of the Aspen-aimedtelegram.

  "Countehmand it, suh; countehmand it," was the colonel's direction."We'll pull him through without calling in the neighbuhs. Living heah,in such--ah--close proximity to youh man-mangling institutions, I've hadexperience enough durin' the past year or so to give me standing as aregular practitioneh; I have, for a fact, suh." And his mellow laugh waslike the booming of bees among the clover heads.

  "I don't doubt it in the least," acknowledged Ballard; and then hethanked young Blacklock for coming.

  "It was up to me, wasn't it, Colonel Craigmiles?" said the collegian."Otto--Otto's the house-shover, you know--flunked his job; said hewouldn't be responsible for anybody's life if he had to drive that roadat speed in the night. We drove it all right, though, didn't we,Colonel? And we'll drive it back."

  The King of Arcadia put a hand on Ballard's shoulder and pointed anappreciative finger at Blacklock.

  "That young cub, suh, hasn't any mo' horse sense than one of youh Dagomortah-mixers; but the way he drives a motor-car is simply scandalous!Why, suh, if my hair hadn't been white when we started, it would havetu'ned on me long befo' we made the loop around Dump Mountain."

  Ballard went to the door with the two Good Samaritans, saw the colonelsafely settled in the runabout, and let his gaze follow the windingcourse of the little car until the dodging tail-light had crossed thetemporary bridge below the camp, to be lost among the shoulders of theopposite hills. The elder Fitzpatrick was at his elbow when he turned togo in.

  "There's hope f'r the little man, Misther Ballard?" he inquiredanxiously.

  "Good hope, now, I think, Michael."

  "That's the brave wor-rd. The min do be sittin' up in th' bunk-shantiesto hear ut. 'Twas all through the camp the minut' they brought him in.There isn't a man av thim that wouldn't go t'rough fire and wather f'rMisther Bromley--and that's no joke. Is there annything I can do?"

  "Nothing, thank you. Tell the yard watchman to stay within call, andI'll send for you if you're needed."

  With this provision for the possible need, the young chief kept thevigil alone, sitting where he could see the face of the stillunconscious victim of fate, or tramping three steps and a turn in theadjoining office room when sleep threatened to overpower him.

  It was a time for calm second thought; for a reflective weighing of thesingular and ominous conditions partly revealed in the week agone talkwith Elsa Craigmiles. That she knew more than she was willing to tellhad been plainly evident in that first evening on the tree-pillaredportico at Castle 'Cadia; but beyond this assumption the unanswerablequestions clustered quickly, opening door after door of speculativeconjecture in the background.

  What was the motive behind the hurled stone which had so nearly bred atragedy on his first evening at Elbow Canyon? He reflected that he hadalways been too busy to make personal enemies; therefore, the attemptupon his life must have been impersonal--must have been directed at thechief engineer of the Arcadia Company. Assuming this, the chain ofinference linked itself rapidly. Was Macpherson's death purelyaccidental?--or Braithwaite's? If not, who was the murderer?--and whywas the colonel's daughter so evidently determined to shield him?

  The answer, the purely logical answer, pointed to one man--herfather--and thereupon became a thing to be scoffed at. It was more thanincredible; it was blankly unthinkable.

  The young Kentuckian, descendant of pioneers who had hewn theirbeginnings out of the primitive wilderness, taking life as they foundit, was practical before all things else. Villains of the Borgian strainno longer existed, save in the unreal world of the novelist or theplaywriter. And if, by any stretch of imagination, they might still besupposed to exist....

  Ballard brushed the supposition impatiently aside when he thought of thewoman he loved.

  "Anything but that!" he exclaimed, breaking the silence of the four barewalls for the sake of hearing the sound of his own voice. "And, besides,the colonel himself is a living, breathing refutation of any suchidiotic notion. All the same, if it is not her father she is trying toshield, who, in the name of all that is good, can it be? And why shouldColonel Craigmiles, or anyone else, be so insanely vindictive as toimagine that the killing of a few chiefs of construction will cut anyfigure with the company which hires them?"

  These perplexing questions were still unanswered when the graying dawnfound him dozing in his chair, with the camp whistles sounding the earlyturn-out, and Bromley conscious and begging feebly for a drink of water.