Never shall I forget that candle-lit scene as I saw it: Mount, dumb with grief, sitting there in his buckskins, rifle on knee and fox-skin cap twisted in his great brown hands; Foxcroft, his black smalls splashed with clay, his heavy, red face set in careworn lines; and the little, shabby Weasel, in his mended finery, shrunken fingers interlocked on his knee, smiling vacantly at us over a cracked glass of spring-water, and dispensing hospitality with a mild benevolence which was truly ghastly in its unconscious irony.
“What in God’s name is he doing here?” I whispered to Foxcroft.
“Quiet,” motioned Foxcroft, turning his head to listen. I, too, had caught the sound of a light footfall on the stair. Instinctively we all rose; the Weasel, muttering and smiling, ambled to the dark entry.
Then, out of the wavering shadows, into the candle-light, stepped a young girl, whose clear hazel eyes met ours with perfect composure. Her face was deadly white; her fingers rested in the Weasel’s withered palm; she saluted us with a slow, deep reverence, then raised her steady eyes to mine.
“Silver Heels! Silver Heels!” I whispered.
Her eyes closed for a moment and she quivered from head to foot.
“My daughter, gentlemen,” said the Weasel, tenderly; bending, he touched her fingers with his shrivelled lips, smiling to himself.
Her gray eyes never left mine; I stepped forward; she gave a little gasp as I took her hand.
“Who is this young man?” said the Weasel, mildly. “He is not Captain Butler, dear — or my memory fails — ay,” he babbled on, “it fails me strangely now, and I had best sit quiet while younger heads think for me. Yet, this young man is not Captain Butler, dear?”
“No, father.”
In the silence I heard my heart beat heavily. A minute passed; the Weasel peered at me with his dim eyes and clasped his daughter’s hand closely.
“Silver Heels! Silver Heels!” I cried, with a sob.
“Do you want me — now?” she whispered.
I caught her fiercely in my arms; she hung to me with closed eyes and every limb a-tremble.
And, as I stood there, with my arms around her, and her face against mine, far away I heard the measured gallop of a horse on the highway, nearer, nearer, turning now close outside the house, and now thundering up to the porch.
Instantly Jack Mount glided from the room; Foxcroft, listening, silently drew his pistol; I reached out for my rifle which leaned against the chair, and, striking the butt heavily 464 against the floor, glanced at the pan. The rifle had primed itself.
Then I turned smiling to Silver Heels.
“Do you know who is coming?” I asked.
“Yes.”
I stepped to the centre of the room; the door opened gently; a motionless shape stood there in the moonlight, the shape of my enemy, Walter Butler.
CHAPTER XXVII
He hesitated, poised on the threshold, his yellow eyes contracting, dazzled by the candle; then, like lightning, his sword glittered in his hand, but Mount, behind him, tore the limber blade from his grip and flung it ringing at my feet. Now, weaponless and alone, Butler stood confronting us, his blank eyes travelling from one to another, his thin lips twitching in an ever-deepening sneer. Nor did the sneer leave his face when Mount slammed and locked the door behind him, and unsheathed his broad hunting-knife.
“Something is dreadfully wrong, gentlemen,” quavered poor Cade Renard; “this is Captain Butler, my daughter’s affianced. I pray you follow no ancient quarrel under my roof, gentlemen. I cannot suffer this affront — I cannot permit this difference between gentlemen in my daughter’s presence—”
Mount quietly drew the little man aside to the door and led him out, saying tenderly: “All is well, old friend; you have forgotten much in these long days. You will remember soon. Go, dream in the moonlight, Cade. She was ever a friend to us, the moon.”
Suddenly Butler turned on Silver Heels, his darkening face distorted.
“You have played the game well!” he whispered, between his teeth.
“What game?” I asked, with deadly calmness. “Pray say what you have to say at once, Mr. Butler.”
Again his evil gaze shifted from face to face; there was no mercy in the eyes that met his; his visage grew loose and pallid.
“That she-devil swore to wed me!” he broke out, hoarsely, pointing a shaking finger full at Silver Heels. “She — swore it!” His voice sank to a hiss.
“To save my father from a highwayman’s death!” said Silver Heels, deathly white.
She turned to me, quivering. “Michael, I am a thief’s daughter. This is what I am come to! — to buy my father’s life with my own body — and fling my soul at that man’s feet! Now will you wed me?”
A cold fury blinded me so I could scarcely see him. I cocked my rifle and drew my hand across my eyes to clear them.
“This is not your quarrel!” he said, desperately; “this woman is the daughter of Cade Renard, a notorious highwayman known as the Weasel! I doubt that Sir Michael Cardigan — for your uncle is dead, whether you know it or not! — would care to claim kinship in this house!”
He turned like a snake and measured Mount from head to foot.
“Give me my sword!” he said, harshly, “and I will answer for myself against this other thief!” His glaring eyes fell on Foxcroft.
“What the devil are you doing here?” he snarled. “Are you knave or fool, that you stand there listening to this threat on my life? You know that this woman is Renard’s child! You have Sir John’s papers to prove it! Are you not his attorney, man? Then tell these gentlemen that I speak the truth, and that I will meet them both, singly, and carve it on their bodies lest they forget it!”
“It is too late,” I said; “a gentleman’s sword can never again be soiled by those hands.”
“Ay!” cried Foxcroft, suddenly, “it is too late! You say I have papers to prove the truth? I have; and you shall hear the truth, you cursed scoundrel!”
“She is the Weasel’s child!” cried Butler, hoarsely.
“If she were the child of Tom o’ Bedlam, she is still betrothed to me! God knows,” I said, “whether you be human or demon, and so perhaps you may not burn in hell, but I shall send you thither, with God’s help!”
And I laid my hand on his arm, and asked him if he was minded to die quietly in the garden; while Mount, knife at his throat, pushed him towards the door.
“Do you mean it?” he burst out, shuddering. “Am I 467 not to have a chance for life? This is murder, Mr. Cardigan!”
“So dealt you by me at the Cayuga stake,” I said.
“Yet — it is murder you do. If my hands are not clean, would you foul your own?”
“So dealt you by me in Queen Street prison,” I said, slowly.
“Yet, nevertheless, it is murder. And you know it. This is no court of law, to sit in judgment. Are the Cardigans the public hangmen?”
“Give him his sword!” I cried, passionately. “I cannot breathe while he draws breath! Give him his sword, or I will slay him with naked hands!”
“No!” roared Foxcroft, hurling me back.
Butler scowled at the lawyer; Foxcroft scowled at him, and placed his heavy shoe on the fallen sword. Then he suddenly stooped, seized the gilded hilt, and snapped the blade in two, casting the fragments from him in contempt.
“The sword of a scoundrel,” he said; “the sword of a petty malefactor — a pitiful forger—”
“Liar!” shrieked Butler, springing at him. Mount flung the maddened man into a chair, where he lay, white and panting, staring at Foxcroft, who now stood by the table, coolly examining a packet of documents.
“It is all here,” he said— “the story of two cheap dabblers in petty crime — Sir John Johnson and Mr. Walter Butler — how they did conspire to steal from Miss Warren her wealth, her fair fame, and the very name God gave her. A shameful story, gentlemen, but true on the word of an honourable man.”
“Lies!” muttered Butler, between ashen lips. His c
heeks became loose and horrible; his lips shrivelled up above his teeth. Foxcroft turned to me, purple with passion.
“Sir William Johnson, your honourable kinsman, left Miss Warren property in his will. Sir John found, in the same box which held the will, a packet of documents and letters addressed to Sir William, apparently proving that Miss Warren was the child of a certain lady who had left her husband to follow the fortunes of Captain Warren — her child by her own husband, Cade Renard, a gentleman of Cambridge.”
“The Weasel!” burst out Jack Mount.
“But she is not, sir!” cried Foxcroft, turning on Mount. “She is Captain Warren’s own child; I journeyed to England and proved it; I have papers here in my pocket to prove it!” he said, slapping the flaps of his brass-buttoned coat. “It was a lie from beginning to end; the letters supposed to have been written to Sir William by Sir Peter Warren were forged; the documents supposed to have been unearthed from the flooring in the captain’s cabin of his Majesty’s ship Leda were forged. I can prove it! I can prove that Walter Butler was the forger! I can prove that Sir John Johnson knew it! And to that end Sir John and Captain Butler conspired to make her believe herself to be the child of a half-crazed forest-runner who had been besetting Sir John with his mad importunities, calling himself Cade Renard, and vowing that Miss Warren was his own child!”
He glared at Butler; the wretched man’s lips moved to form the word, “Lies!” but no sound came. Then Foxcroft turned to me.
“In my presence these three men broke the news to her; they hoodwinked me, too. By God, sir, I had never suspected villany had not that contemptible fool, Sir John, attempted to bribe silence, should anything ever occur to cast doubt on the relationship betwixt this fellow Renard and Miss Warren!”
The lawyer paused, grinding his teeth in rage.
“I accepted the bribe! I did, gentlemen! I did it to quiet suspicion. Sir John believes me to be his creature. But I set out to follow the matter to the bitter end, and I have done it! It’s a falsehood from A to Zed! I shall have the pleasure of flinging Sir John’s bribe into his face!”
He laid his hand on my arm, speaking very gently and gravely.
“Mr. Cardigan, Miss Warren is the truest, bravest, sweetest woman I have ever known. She received the news of her dreadful position as a gallant soldier receives the fire of the enemy. When it was made hopelessly clear to her that this lunatic Renard was her father, and that she was not a Warren, not an heiress, that she must now give up all thought of the family on which she had so long imposed — and give up all pretensions to you, sir — she acquiesced with a dignity 469 that might have become a princess of the blood, sir! No whining there, Mr. Cardigan! Not a whimper, sir; not a reproach, not a tear. Her first thought was of pity for her father — this little, withered lunatic, who sat there devouring her with his eyes of a sick hound. She went to him before us all; she took his hand — his hard, little claw — and kissed it. By God, gentlemen, blood tells!”
After a long silence I repeated, “Blood tells.”
Mount, head in his hands, was weeping.
“Then came Butler, the forger,” said Foxcroft, pointing at him. “And when he found that, after all, Miss Warren honoured herself too highly to seek a rehabilitation through his name, he came here and threatened this poor old man’s life — threatened to denounce him as a thief, and have him hung at a cross-roads, unless she gave herself to him! Then — then she consented.”
Butler was sitting forward in his chair, his bloodless face supported between his slim fingers, his eyes on vacancy. He did not seem to hear the words that branded him; he did not appear to see us as we drew closer around him.
“In the orchard,” muttered Mount; “we can hang him with his own bridle.”
We paused for an instant, gazing silently at the doomed man. Then Mount touched him on the shoulder.
At the voiceless summons he looked up at us as though stunned.
“You must hang,” said Mount, gravely.
“Not that! No!” I stammered; “I can’t do it! Give him a sword — give him something to fight with! Jack — I can’t do it. I am not made that way!”
There was a touch on my arm; Silver Heels stood beside me.
“Let them deal with him,” she murmured, “you cannot fight with him; there is no honour in him.”
“No! — no honour in him!” I repeated.
He had risen, and now stood, staring vacantly at me.
“Damnation!” cried Mount, “are you going to let him loose on the world again?”
“I cannot slay him,” I said.
“But a rope can!” said Mount.
“Do you then draw it,” I replied, “and never rail more at the hangman!”
After a moment I unlocked and opened the door. As in a trance, Butler passed out into the moonlight; Mount stole close behind him, and I saw his broad knife glimmer as he followed.
“Let him go,” I said, wearily. “I choke with all this foul intrigue. Is there no work to do, Jack, save the sheriff’s? Faugh! Let him go!”
Butler slowly set foot to stirrup; Mount snatched the pistol from the saddle-holster with a savage sneer.
“No, no,” he said. “Trust a scoundrel if you will, lad, but draw his fangs first. Oh, Lord above! — but I hate to let him go! Shall I? I’ll give him a hundred yards before I fire! And I’ll not aim at that! Shall I?”
If Butler heard him he made no sign. He turned in his saddle and looked at Silver Heels.
Should I let him loose on the world once more? God knows I am no prophet, nor pretend to see behind the veil; yet, as I stood there, looking on Walter Butler, I thought the haze that the moon spun in the garden grew red like that fearsome light which tinges the smoke of burning houses, and I remembered that dream I had of him, so long ago, when I saw him in the forest, with blood on him, and fresh scalps at his belt — and the scalps were not of the red men.
Should I, who had him in my power, and could now forever render the demon in him powerless — should I let him go free into the world, or send him forever to the dreadful abode of lost souls?
War was at hand. War would come at dawn when the Grenadiers marched into Concord town. To slay him, then, would be no murder. But now?
Mount, watching me steadily, raised his rifle.
“No,” I said.
What was I to do? There was no prison to hale him to; the jails o’ Boston lodged no Tories. Justice? There was no justice save that mockery at Province House. Law? Gage was the law — Gage, the friend of this man. What was I to do? Once again Mount raised his rifle.
“No,” I said.
So passed Walter Butler from among us, riding slowly out into the shadowy world, under the calm moon. God witness that I conducted as my honour urged, not as my hot blood desired — and He shall deal with me one day, face to face, that I let loose this man on the world, yet did not dream of the hell he should make of Tryon County ere his red soul was fled again to the hell that hatched it!
So rode forth mine enemy, Walter Butler, invulnerable for me in his armour of dishonour, unpunished for the woe that he had wrought, unmarked by justice which the dawn had not yet roused from her long sleep in chains.
Again Mount raised his rifle.
“No,” I said.
A little breeze began stirring in the moonlit orchard; our horses tossed their heads and stamped; then silence fell.
After a long while the voice of Mount recalled me to myself; he had drawn poor Renard to a seat on the rotting steps of the porch.
“Now do you know me, Cade?” asked Mount, again and again.
The Weasel folded his withered hands in his lap and looked up, solemnly.
“Cade? Cade, old friend?” persisted Mount, piteously, drawing his great arm about the Weasel’s stooping shoulders.
The Weasel’s solemn eyes met his in silence.
Mount forced a cheerful laugh that rang false in the darkness.
“What! Forget the highway, Cade? The King’s highway, old f
riend? The moon at the cross-roads? Eh? You remember? Say you remember, Cade.”
The blank eyes of the Weasel were fixed on Mount.
“The forest? Eh, Cade? Ho! — lad! The rank smell o’ the moss, and the stench of rotting logs? The quiet in the woods, the hermit-bird piping in the pines? Say you remember, old friend!” he begged; “tell me you remember! Ho! lad, have you forgot the tune the war-arrow sings?”
And he made a long-drawn, whispering whimper with his lips.
In pantomime he crouched and pointed; the Weasel’s mild eyes turned.
“The Iroquois!” whispered Mount, anxiously. “They wear O-Kwen-cha! — red paint! Hark to the war-drums! Do you not hear them chanting:
“Ha-wa-sa-say!
Ha-wa-sa-say!”
The Weasel’s eyes grew troubled; he looked up at Mount trustfully, like a child who refuses to be frightened.
“I hear Che-ten-ha, the mouse; he gnaws, gnaws, gnaws.”
“No, it is the Iroquois!” urged Mount. “You have fought them, Cade; you remember? Say that you remember!”
“I — I have fought the Iroquois,” repeated the Weasel, passing his hand over his brow; “but it was years ago — years ago — too long ago to remember—”
“No, no!” cried Mount, “it was but yesterday, old friend — yesterday! And who went with you on the burnt trail, Cade? Who went with you by night and by day, by starlight and by sun, eating when you ate, starving when you starved, drinking deep when you drank, thirsting when you thirsted? It was I, Cade!” cried Mount, eagerly; “I!”
“It was Tah-hoon-to-whe, the night-hawk,” murmured the little man.
“It was I, Jack Mount!” repeated the forest-runner, in a loud voice. “Hark! The Iroquois drums! The game’s afoot, Cade! Rouse up, old friend! The trail is free!”
But the Weasel only stared at him with his solemn, aged eyes, and clasped his trembling hands in his lap.
Works of Robert W Chambers Page 131
