by Holman Day
CHAPTER XIII
THE RED THROAT OF POGEY
"Though it ain't for me nor for any one To say how the awful thing was done, We know that the hand of a grief-crazed man Is set to many a desperate plan."
--On _Isle au Haut._
It was a saffron dawn. It was a dawn diffuse and weird. A smear ofcopper in the east marked the presence of the sun. For the rest, the skywas a sickly monochrome, a dirty yellow, a boding yellow. It was not awind that blew; a wind has somewhat of freshness in it. It was simplysmoky air--air that rolled sullenly--choking, heavy, bitter, acrid airthat was to the nostrils what the sky was to the eye.
After they had toiled around the base of the mountain and were well intoPogey Notch, the man ahead, stumbling doggedly and stubbornly, foundwater. It was only a little puddle, cowering from the drouth. The treeshad helped it to hide away. They had scattered their autumn foliage uponit, beeches and birches which were grateful, for the pool had humblycooled their feet in the hot summer.
The man ahead, thirst giving him almost a canine scent, fell rather thankneeled beside the pool, thrust his face through the leaves, and guffledthe stale water. Then he plunged his smarting eyes, wide open, into theshallow depths.
When he faced once more the smother of the smoke and the man who stoodover him, he seemed to have a flash of new courage. His eyes blazedagain, his rumpled gray hair seemed to bristle.
But his defiance was only the desperation of the coward at bay.
"You've teamed me all night, Lane--from Withee's camp to here. I haveasked questions, and you haven't answered me; but now, by ----, say whatyou want of me, and let's have this thing over!"
It was an air that would have cowed an inferior in John Barrett's officein the city, where tyranny swelled the folds of a frock-coat and wasframed in the door of a money vault.
But this weary man in knickerbockers, his puffy face mottled by the huesof self-indulgence and haggard after a night of ceaseless tramping alonga woods trail, was not an object of awe as he squatted beside the poollike a giant frog.
The woodsman who stood over him, his gaunt face seamed and brown, hisbony frame erect to the height that had won him the sobriquet of"Ladder" Lane, seemed now the man of dignity and authority. He was ofthe woods. He was in the woods. Two nights without sleep, miles ofbitter struggle through the forest to report that conflagration roaringnorth to Misery township, and now puffing its stifling breath upon them,and the agony of recollection that John Barrett's crossing his path haddragged out--all these gave no sign in "Ladder" Lane's features andmien. Even his voice was steady with a repression almost humble.
What John Barrett did not know was that this humbleness was that of onewho stood in the presence of a mighty problem, awed by it. In the longhours of self-communion, as he had plodded on, driving the timber baronbefore him, he had pondered that problem until his weary brain reeled.Introspection had always made his simple nature dizzy.
Now the tumult and torment in his soul frightened him. Over and overagain in the darkness of the night, as he had followed at the heels ofBarrett, he had whispered, in a half-frightened manner, to himself: "Itold him to keep away! And now he's here!"
He had looked at the back of the man, stumbling ahead of him in thelantern-light, and had pitied him in a sort of dull, wondering fashion.He had pitied him because he knew that Barrett, despoiler of his home,seducer of his wife, was helpless in his hands. And because "Ladder"Lane realized that grief and isolation had made him over into such a oneas sane men flout or fear, he was afraid of himself.
"This here is as good a place as any, Mr. Barrett," he said.
By striving to be calm, even to the point of being humble, Lane tried totame the dreadful beast that he knew his inner being had become. ButBarrett, pricking his ears at this humbleness, was too foolish tounderstand. In the mystery of the night he had feared cruelly. With dayto reinforce his prestige, it occurred to him that the man was cowed byhis presence and by the reflection that a person of influence cannot bekidnapped with impunity.
"I can make it hot for you, Lane, for dragging me out of camp andrunning me all over creation," he blustered, grasping at what heconsidered his opportunity to regain mastery. "But I'm willing to settleand call quits. I've always been ready to settle. Now, out with it,man-fashion! How much will it take?"
Another of those red flashes from the sullen coals of many and longyears' hatred roared up in Lane like the torching of a pitch-tree. Hehad been trying for hours to beat those flashes down, for they made himafraid.
He trembled, blinking hard to see past the red. His hands fumblednervously at his sides, as though seeking something that they couldseize upon for steadiness. If the wind would only blow upon his face--awind of the woods, clear, cool, and hale--he felt that he might get hisgrip on manhood once more.
But the woods sent up to him only the fire-breath. It whispereddestruction.
If he only could look up to a bit of blue sky he felt that it mightcharm the red flare from his eyes.
But the yellow pall that masked the sky was the hue of combat, notpeace.
All out-doors seemed full of menace. The nostrils found only bitter air.The smarting eyes saw only the sickly yellow. A normal man would havecursed at the oppression of it all, without exactly knowing why everynerve was on the rack. The recluse of Jerusalem Mountain, out of gearwith all the world, with mind diseased by the chronic obsession ofbitter injury, stood there under the glowering sky of that day of ravageand ruin, and felt himself becoming a madman. And yet he set a singleidea before him for realization, and tried to keep his gaze on thatalone, and to be calm. And the idea was an idea of forcing an atonement.How crudely conceived, Lane could not realize, for his mind was passingthe stage of clear comprehension.
"I probably haven't got enough money with me," went on the timber baron,sullenly. "But my word is good in a matter like this. I don't want ittalked about--you don't want it talked about. I'll overlook--you'lloverlook! Give me your figures, and you'll get every dollar."
And still Lane was calm, and replied in a voice that quavered from anemotion that Barrett failed to understand.
"When you stole my wife away, Mr. Barrett, there were men that came tome and advised me what they would do if a rich man came along and took awoman from them, just to amuse himself for a little."
"There are people trying to stick their noses into business that doesn'tconcern them, Lane," snorted the baron, regardless that one edge of thisapothegm threatened himself.
"I've been alone a good deal since it happened," went on Lane, in acurious, dull monotone, "and I've spent most of my time thinking whatI'd say to you and do to you if you stood before me. I hoped it neverwould happen that you'd stand before me, man to man. I didn't hunt youup to find out what I'd do or say, for I was afraid."
He shivered, and Barrett, in his fool's blindness, stiffened hisshoulders with a sudden air of importance, and allowed himself to scowlwith a suggestion that perhaps Lane was wise to avoid him.
"You see, I was always making it end up in my mind that I should killyou. There didn't seem to be any other natural end to it. I had to killyou to square it. And that's why I was afraid. It was always one way inmy thoughts. I never could--never can plan out any other way to end it;and murder is an awful thing, sir."
Barrett, who had been straightening, crouched farther back on hishaunches and lost his important air.
"In my thoughts I always gave you half an hour to think it over, andstayed looking at you, and then killed you." There was a suddenconvulsion of Lane's features, a smoulder in his eyes, that thrilledBarrett as though some one had whispered in his ear--"Lunatic."
The warden's groping hands had clutched the heavy lineman's climbersdangling from his belt, and were now set about them so tightly thatmuscles were ridged on the bony surface. Barrett became gray with fear.But Lane's ferocity disappeared as suddenly as it had flared.
"It all goes to show that in this world most men don't do what they
think they'll do, when it comes to a big matter. I don't want to killyou, now that I have you where I want you." He looked down on thefrightened man with a sort of pitying scorn. "It would be like batting asheep to death. I don't want even to talk about your taking her away.It--it chokes in my throat! She's dead--and I guess she wanted to goaway with you that time or she wouldn't have gone. That's just the wayit seems to me now! And that's why I don't want to talk about it. Itseems funny to feel that way, after all the thinking I've done aboutwhat I would do to you."
"The idea is, you're taking the sensible, business man's view of it,"stammered Barrett. "I was young then, and up here in the woods, and--oh,as you say, it is better not to talk it over. We all make mistakes." Hewas pulling his wallet out of his corduroy coat. He evidently felt thatthe sight of money would prolong this "sensible, business man's view" ofthe situation. He did not want to take any more chances that the otherand vengeful view would return, which had shown its flame in Lane'scontorted face. "Now, I've got here--"
"To hell with your dirty money!" shrieked the warden, in a frenzy thatwas a veritable explosion out of his calmness. He kicked the wallet fromthe hands of the amazed timber baron. And when Barrett tried to stammersomething, Lane leaned down and yelled, cracking his fists in theother's shrinking face:
"That's the way you and your kind want to cure everything--a dollarbill greased with a grin and stuck onto the sore place! Put that kind ofa plaster on your city sneaks if you want to. But do you think I wantit--here?" He swung his arm in a huge gesture and embraced the woods."Your money is no good, John Barrett--here!" Another sweep of the longarm. Then he stooped and scrabbled up a handful of dry leaves. He pushedthem into Barrett's face. "Here, sell me your soul and your decency forthat! You won't? Why not? You get your handfuls of greasy money just aseasy! You only grab out and take! I don't sell for any stuff that's comeat as easy as that."
"Say what you want, Lane," stuttered the timber baron, huddling backfrom this madman.
"You'll pay in the way I'll tell you to pay," raged the creditor,thrusting his fierce face close. "You'll pay out of your pride and yourheart instead of your pocket. That's the kind of coin you've stripped meof! You stole my wife. She's dead. Settle your accounts with her in hellwhen you meet her there. But the girl--your young one--yours andhers--that you threw into the woods like you'd leave a blind kitten--"
"She was left with people who were paid well--" Barrett broke in, butLane slapped him across the mouth.
"I know where she was left--left with a nest of skunks, so that youcould hide your disgrace in the woods. I've watched her all these years.I've been waiting for the right time to come. It's here. Your girl is upthere on the top of Jerusalem Mountain in my camp, Barrett. An idiot--adog on two legs--is guarding her. He's the only friend she's got. That'syour daughter. Now, you're going to take her!"
"Take her?" echoed the cringing millionaire.
"Take her--that's what I said. It belongs to her. Now give it to her."
Barrett misinterpreted Lane's interest. His face lighted with a suddenthought that to him seemed a happy one.
"Look here, Lane," he said, eagerly, "I didn't realize but what the girlwas getting on all right. I ought to have inquired. But I didn't dareto. A man in my position has to be careful. Now she needs some one totake care of her. I'll admit it. I'm sorry it hasn't been attended tobefore. Let this matter rest between us two without any stir. I'll giveyou ten thousand dollars to act as the girl's guardian. Take her out ofthese woods. And I'll put ten thousand more at interest for her."
"I take that spawn--_I_ take her?" demanded Lane, beating his thin handon his breast. "I'd as soon pick up a wood adder! Take _her_--the livingreminder of what's made me what I am? Do you suppose I hate you anyworse than I hate her for being what she is?" But he checked himself; asudden emotion--a strange emotion--mastered him, and he sobbed as hemuttered, "Poor little girl!" Then his anger flamed again. "By ----,Barrett, I ought to kill you now, anyway!" He clutched the irons at hisbelt. But after a moment, with a wrench of his shoulders, he pulledhimself out of his frenzy.
"You are going to take that girl to your home. You are going toacknowledge her as your daughter. You are going to give her what belongsto her." He was grim now, not frenetic.
Barrett's whole body quivered. His voice was husky with appeal.
"I want to talk to you, man to man. I'm going to show you that I haveconfidence in you, Lane. I'm not saying this to any one else--only toyou. It's a big matter, Lane. It will prove that I want to be squarewith you."
"You're going to take her, I say!"
"For ten years, Lane, the big lumber interests in this State have beentrying to get the right man into the governor's chair. You areinterested in timber. You are a State employe. We all need certainthings, and now we are in a way to get them. I'm going to be the nextgovernor of this State, Lane. I've got the pledges, from the Statecommittee down through the ranks. I'm going to be nominated in the nextState convention. I've spent fifty thousand already. Now, you see, I'mbeing frank and honest with you." His voice had a quaver. He wasexplaining as he would explain to a child. "All the timber interests arebehind me. See what it means if I am turned down? A scandal would do it.It's the petty scandal that kills a man in this State quicker thananything else--scandal or a laugh! I can't carry that girl out of thewoods and declare her to be my daughter. It would kill all my chancesfor nomination. The papers would be full of it. And think of my family!"
Lane's crude idea of an atonement was not so vague now. His brainwhirled more dizzily, for the problem was bigger--and so was therevenge. He chuckled. It was the spirit of revenge, after all, that wasdriving him, and his madman's soul now realized it and relished it. Helooked up at the saffron sky and snuffed the scorching air. He felt theimpulse seething up from the ruin of the forest, and with almost a senseof relief loosed the grip that had been holding him above the tide ofhis soul's fire and blood.
He ran and recovered Barrett's wallet from among the leaves, andsearched it hastily. He found among the papers a few folded blank sheetsbearing John Barrett's name and monogram. There was a fountain-penstuck in a loop. The paper and the pen he shoved into Barrett's hands.
"Write it!" he screamed. "Write it that she is your daughter, and agreeto take her and do right by her. Write it! I wouldn't take your word. Iwant a paper. You've got to take her."
Barrett went pale, but his thick lips pinched themselves in desperateresolve. With the aspiration of his life close to realization he knewall that such a document could do to him. He stood up and tossed thepaper away.
"I'm willing to do right by the girl in the best way I can," he said,firmly; "but as to cutting my throat for her, I won't do it. You've gotmy word. That's all I'll do for you."
"It's all?" asked Lane, with bitter menace. "All, after what you've doneto me?"
"I won't do it," he repeated, stiffly.
The next instant, and so quickly that a cat could not have dodged, Lanestruck forward with one of the irons. Barrett saw the flash and felt theimpact; his brain clanged once like a great bell, and he crumbledtogether rather than fell.
He was standing when he revived. But his hands were lashed by strips ofhis torn corduroy coat--drawn behind him around the trunk of a birch andtied securely. Other strips of the cloth bound legs and body close tothe tree. Lane mouthed and leaped in front of him--a maniac.
"Enjoy it!" he screamed. "There's a thousand-acre fire out in thatlevel. Here's its chimney-flue. It's going through here on its way toEnchanted. It's going fast when it comes along, and it will be yourfirst taste of what's laid up for you in eternity. Burn! And when you'reburning just remember that your daughter set it--set it because youleft her to grow up a hyena instead of a woman."
He whirled and started away at Barrett's first wild appeal.
"I wouldn't take your word! You wouldn't write it! You didn't intend tokeep it!"
