The Collected Westerns of William MacLeod Raine: 21 Novels in One Volume

by Unknown

  "But I can't.... It's awful.... How far do we have to go?"

  "We'll soon hit the road. Then we can go faster."

  Moya swung to her saddle again stiffly, and Billy took up the march in the driving storm, which was growing every minute more fierce and bitter. The girl did not dare give way to her own terror, for she felt if she should become panic-stricken all would be lost. She tried to remember how long people could live in a blizzard. Had she not read of some men who had been out two days in one and yet reached safety?

  The icy blast bit into her, searched through to her bones and sapped her strength. More than once she drew up the rope with her icy hands to make sure that Joyce was still in the saddle. She found her there blue from exposure, almost helpless, but still faintly responsive to the call of life.

  The horses moved faster, with more certainty, so that Moya felt they had struck a familiar trail. But in her heart she doubted whether either of the riders would come to shelter alive. The ponies traveled upward into the hills.

  Joyce, lying forward helpless across the saddle horn, slid gently to the ground. Her friend stopped. What could she do? Once she had descended, it would be impossible to get back into the saddle.

  Searching the hillside, the girl's glance was arrested by a light. She could not at first believe her good fortune. From the saddle she slipped to the ground in a huddle, stiffly found her feet again, and began to clamber up the stiff incline. Presently she made out a hut. Stumblingly, she staggered up till she reached the door and fell heavily against it, clutching at the latch so that it gave to her hand and sent her lurching into the room. Her knees doubled under her and she sank at the feet of one of two men who sat beside a table playing cards.

  The man leaped up as if he had seen a ghost. "Goddlemighty, it's a woman!"

  "My friend ... she's outside ... at the foot of the hill ... save her," the girl's white lips framed.

  They slipped on mackinaw coats and disappeared into the white swirling night. Moya crouched beside the red-hot stove, and life slowly tingled through her frozen veins, filling her with sharp pain. To keep back the groans she had to set her teeth. It seemed to her that she had never endured such agony.

  After a time the men returned, carrying Joyce between them. They put her on the bed at the far corner of the room, and one of the men poured from a bottle on the table some whisky. This they forced between her unconscious lips. With a shivering sigh she came back to her surroundings.

  Moya moved across to the group by the bed.

  "I'll take care of her if you'll look after the horses," she told the men.

  One of them answered roughly. "The horses will have to rough it. This ain't any night for humans to be hunting horses."

  "They can't be far," Moya pleaded.

  Grudgingly the second man spoke. "Guess we better get them, Dave. They were down where we found the girl. We can stable them in the tunnel."

  Left to herself, Moya unlaced the shoes of Miss Seldon. Vigorously she rubbed the feet and limbs till the circulation began to be restored. Joyce cried and writhed with the pain, while the other young woman massaged and cuddled her in turn. The worst of the suffering was past before the men returned, stamping snow from their feet and shaking it from their garments over the floor.

  "A hell of a night to be out in," the one called Dave growled to his fellow.

  "Did you get the horses?" Moya asked timidly.

  "They're in the tunnel." The ungracious answer was given without a glance in her direction.

  They were a black-a-vised, ill-favored pair, these miners upon whose hospitality fate had thrown them. Foreigners of some sort they were, Cornishmen, Moya guessed. But whatever their nationality they were primeval savages untouched by the fourteen centuries of civilizing influences since their forbears ravaged England. To the super-nervous minds of these exhausted young women there was a suggestion of apes in the huge musclebound shoulders and the great rough hands at the ends of long gnarled arms. Small shifty black eyes, rimmed with red from drink, suggested cunning, while the loose-lipped heavy mouths added more than a hint of bestiality. It lent no comfort to the study of them that the large whisky bottle was two-thirds empty.

  They slouched back to their cards and their bottle. It had been bad enough to find them sullen and inhospitable, but as the liquor stimulated their unhealthy imaginations it was worse to feel the covert looks stealing now and again toward them. Joyce, sleeping fitfully in the arms of Moya, woke with a start to see them drinking together at the table.

  "I don't like them. I'm afraid of them," she whispered.

  "We mustn't let them know it," Moya whispered in her ear.

  For an hour she had been racked by fears, had faced unflinchingly their low laughs and furtive glances.

  Now one of the men spoke. "From Goldbanks?"

  "Yes."

  "You don't live there."

  "No. We belong to the English party--Mr. Verinder's friends."

  "Oh, Verinder's friends. And which of you is his particular friend?" The sneer was unmistakable.

  "We started out this afternoon for wild flowers and the storm caught us," Moya hurried on.

  "So you're Verinder's friends, are you? Well, we don't think a whole lot of Mr. Verinder out here."

  Moya knew now that the mention of Verinder's name had been a mistake. The relations between the mine owners and the workmen in the camp were strained, and as a foreign non-resident capitalist the English millionaire was especially obnoxious. Moreover, his supercilious manners had not helped to endear him since his arrival.

  The man called Dave got to his feet with a reckless laugh. "No free lodgings here for Mr. Verinder's friends. You'n got to pay for your keep, my dears."

  Miss Dwight looked at him with unflinching eyes which refused to understand his meaning. "We'll pay whatever you ask and double the amount after we reach camp."

  "Don't want your dirty money. Gi' us a kiss, lass. That's fair pay. We ain't above kissing Verinder's friends if he is a rotten slave driver."

  Moya rose to her slender height, and the flash of courage blazed in her eyes.

  "Sit down," she ordered.

  The man stopped in his tracks, amazed at the resolution of the slim tall girl.

  "Go on, Dave. Don't let her bluff you," his companion urged.

  The miner laughed and moved forward.

  "You coward, to take advantage of two girls driven to you by the storm. I didn't think the man lived that would do it," panted Moya.

  "You'n got a bit to learn, miss. Whad's the use of gettin' your Dutch up. I ain't good enough for 'ee, like enough."

  The girl held up a hand. "Listen!"

  They could hear only the wild roar of the storm outside and the low sobs of Joyce as she lay crouched on the bed.

  "Well?" he growled. "I'm listenin'. What, then?"

  "I'd rather go out into that white death than stay here with such creatures as you are."

  "Doan't be a fool, lass. Us'n won't hurt 'ee any," the second man reassured roughly.

  "You'll stay here where it's warm. But you'll remember that we're boss in this shack. You'n came without being asked. I'm domned if you'll ride your high horse over me."

  "Go on, Dave. Tak' your kiss, man."

  Then the miracle happened. The door opened, and out of the swirling wind-tossed snow came a Man.

  CHAPTER XII

  OUT OF THE STORM A MAN

  He stood blinking in the doorway, white-sheeted with snow from head to heel. As his eyes became accustomed to the light they passed with surprise from the men to the young women. A flash of recognition lit in them, but he offered no word of greeting.

  Plainly he had interrupted a scene of some sort. The leer on the flushed face of Dave, the look of undaunted spirit in that of the girl facing him, the sheer panic-stricken terror of her crouching companion, all told him as much. Nor was it hard to guess the meaning of that dramatic moment he had by chance chosen for his entrance. His alert eyes took in every detail, a
sked questions but answered none, and in the end ignored much.

  "What are you doing here?" demanded one of the miners.

  "Been out to the Jack Pot and was on my way back to town. Got caught in the storm and struck for the nearest shelter. A bad night out, Trefoyle." He closed the door, moved forward into the room, and threw off his heavy overcoat.

  Moya had recognized him from the first instant. Now Joyce too saw who he was. She twisted lithely from the bed, slipped past Moya, past the miners, and with the sob of a frightened child caught at his hand and arm.

  "Oh, Mr. Kilmeny, save us ... save us!"

  Jack nodded reassuringly. "It's all right. Don't worry."

  She clung to him, shivering back to self-control. This man's presence spelled safety. In the high-laced boots of a mining man, he showed a figure well-knit and graceful, springy with youth, but carrying the poise of power. His clean-cut bronzed face backed the promise; so too did the ease of his bearing.

  Moya gave a deep sigh of relief and sat down on the edge of the bed, grown suddenly faint. At last her burden was lifted to stronger shoulders.

  "You ain't wanted here, Jack Kilmeny," the standing miner said sourly. He was undecided what to do, perplexed and angry at this unexpected hindrance.

  "Seems to be a difference of opinion about that, Peale," retorted the newcomer lightly, kicking snow from the spurs and the heels of his boots.

  "Trefoyle and me own this cabin. You'll sing small, by Goad, or you'll get out."

  "You wouldn't put a dog out on a night like this, let alone a man. It would be murder," Kilmeny answered mildly.

  "There's horses in the tunnel. You can bed wi' them."

  Jack glanced around, took in the whisky bottle and their red-rimmed eyes. He nodded agreement.

  "Right you are, boys. We three will move over to the tunnel and leave the house to the women."

  "You ain't got the say here, not by a domned sight, Jack Kilmeny. This'll be the way of it. You'll git out. We'll stay. Understand?" Peale ground out between set teeth.

  Jack smiled, but his eyes were like steel. "Suppose we go over to the shaft-house and talk it over, boys. We'll all understand it better then."

  Kilmeny still stood close to the red-hot stove. He was opening and closing his fingers to take the stiffness of the frost out of them.

  "By Goad, no! You go--we stay. See?"

  The young man was now rubbing industriously the thumb and forefinger of his right hand with the palm of his left.

  "No, I don't see that, Peale. Doesn't sound reasonable to me. But I'll talk it over with you both--in the shaft-house."

  Jack's eyes were fastened steadily on Peale. The man was standing close to a shelf in a corner of the cabin. The shelf was in the shadow, but Kilmeny guessed what lay upon it. He was glad that though his legs were still stiff and cold the fingers of his right hand had been massaged to a supple warmth.

  "You be warm now, lad. Clear out," warned the big Cornishman.

  "Build 'ee a fire in the tunnel, mon," suggested Trefoyle.

  "We'll all go or we'll all stay. Drop that, Peale."

  The last words rang out in sharp command. Quicker than the eye could follow Kilmeny's hand had brushed up past his hip and brought with it a shining thirty-eight.

  Taken by surprise, Peale stood stupidly, his hand still on the shelf. His fingers had closed on a revolver, but they had found the barrel instead of the butt.

  "Step forward to the table, Peale--with your hand empty. That's right. Now listen. These young women have got to sleep. They're fagged to exhaustion. We three are going over to the shaft-house. Anything you've got to say to me can be said there. Understand?"

  The man stood in a stubborn sullen silence, but his partner spoke up.

  "No guns along, Kilmeny, eh?"

  "No. We'll leave them here."

  "Good enough, eh, Peale?"

  Trefoyle's small eyes glittered. Slyly he winked to his partner to agree, then got a lantern, lit it clumsily, and shuffled out with Peale at his heels.

  Joyce clung to Jack's arm, bewitchingly helpless and dependent. A queer thrill went through him at the touch of her soft finger tips.

  "You won't leave us," she implored. "You wouldn't, would you?"

  "Only for a little while. Bolt the door. Don't open it unless I give the word." He stepped across to Moya and handed her his revolver. In a very low voice he spoke to her. "Remember. You're not to open unless I tell you to let me in. If they try to break the door shoot through it at them waist high. Shoot to kill. Promise me that."

  Her dark eyes met and searched his. The faintest quiver of the lip showed that she knew what was before him. "I promise," she said in the same low voice.

  Moya bolted the door after him and sat down trembling by the table, the revolver in her shaking hand. She knew he had gone to fight for them and that he had left his weapon behind according to agreement. He was going against odds just as his father had done before him in that memorable fight years ago. If they beat him they would probably kill him. And what chance had one slender man against two such giants. She shuddered.

  "What are they going to do, Moya?" whispered Joyce.

  Her friend looked at her steadily. "Didn't you hear? They said they wanted to talk over the arrangements."

  "Yes, but--didn't it seem to you----? Why did he give you that pistol?"

  "Oh, just so that we wouldn't be afraid."

  Hand in hand they sat. Their hearts beat like those of frightened rabbits. The wail of the wind screaming outside seemed the cry of lost souls. Was murder being done out there while they waited?

  Kilmeny strode after the Cornishmen with the light-footed step of a night nurse. Beside the huge miners he looked slight, but the flow of his rippling muscles was smooth and hard as steel. He had been in many a rough and tumble fray. The saying went in Goldbanks that he "had the guts" and could whip his weight in wildcats. There was in him the fighting edge, that stark courage which shakes the nerve of a man of lesser mettle. He knew that to-night he needed it if ever he did. For these men were strong as bears and had as little remorse.

  Inside the shaft-house, his quick glance swept the dimly lighted room and took in every detail.

  Trefoyle put the lantern down on a shelf and turned to the man who had interfered with them. "Is't a fight ye want, mon?"

  Kilmeny knew the folly of attempting argument or appeal to their sense of right. Straight to business he cut. "I'm not hunting one. But I reckon this is up to me. I'll take you one at a time--unless you'd rather try it two to one and make sure."

  His sneer stung. Peale tore off his coat with an angry roar.

  "By Goad, I'm good enough for you."

  Head down like a bull, he rushed at his foe. Jack sidestepped and lashed out at him as he shot past. Peale went down heavily, but scrambled awkwardly to his feet and flung himself forward again. This time Kilmeny met him fairly with a straight left, tilted back the shaggy head, and crossed with the right to the point of the jaw.

  As the fellow went to the floor the second time Jack was struck heavily on the side of his face and knocked from his feet upon the body of the Cornishman. Even as he fell Kilmeny knew that Trefoyle had broken faith. He rolled over quickly, so that the latter, throwing himself heavily on top of him, kneed his partner instead of Jack.

  His great hands gripped the young man as he wriggled away. By sheer strength they dragged him back. Kilmeny wrapped his legs around Trefoyle to turn over. He heard a groan and guessed the reason. The muscular legs clenched tighter the man above him, moved slowly up and down those of his foe. With a cry of pain the Cornishman flung himself to one side and tore loose. His trouser legs were ripped from thigh to calf and blood streamed down the limb. The sharp rowels of Kilmeny's spurs had sunk into the flesh and saved their owner.

  Jack staggered to his feet half dazed. Peale was slowly rising, his murderous eyes fixed on the young man. The instinct of self-preservation sent the latter across the room to a pile of steel drills. As
the two men followed he stooped, caught up one of the heavy bars, and thrust with a short-arm movement for Trefoyle's head. The man threw out his hands and keeled over like a stuck pig.

  Kilmeny threw away his drill and fought it out with Peale. They might have been compared to a rapier and a two-handed broadsword. Jack was more than a skilled boxer. He was a cool punishing fighter, one who could give as well as take. Once Peale cornered him, bent evidently on closing and crushing his ribs with a terrific bear hug. It would have been worth a dozen lessons from a boxing master to see how the young man fought him back with jabs and uppercuts long enough to duck under the giant's arm to safety.