Works of Robert W Chambers

by Robert W. Chambers

  Smith, always trying to keep Clinch and Quintana’s men in view, took no part in the discussion; but Berry thought he was detaining Lily Chase and pushed him aside.

  “Hold on, young man!” exclaimed Smith sharply. “Keep your hands to yourself. If your girl don’t want to dance with you she doesn’t have to.”

  Some of Quintana’s gag came up to listen. Berry glared at Smith.

  “Say,” he said, “I seen you before somewhere. Wasn’t you in Russia?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Yes, you was. You was an officer! What you doing at Clinch’s?”

  “What’s that?” growled Clinch, shoving his way forward and shouldering the crowd aside.

  “Who’s this man, Mike?” demanded Berry.

  “Well, who do you think he is?” asked Clinch thickly.

  “I think he’s gettin’ the goods on you, that’s what I think,” yelled

  Berry.

  “G’wan home, Charlie,” returned Clinch. “G’wan, all o’you. The dance is over. Go peaceable, every one. Stop that fiddle!”

  The music ceased. The dance was ended; they all understood that; but there was grumbling and demands for drinks.

  Clinch, drunk but impassive, herded them through the door out into the starlight. There was scuffling, horse-play, but no fighting.

  The big Englishman, Harry Beck, asked for accommodations for his part over night.

  “Naw,” said Clinch, “g’wan back to the Inn. I can’t bother with you folks to-night.” And as the others, Salzar, Georgiades, Picquet and Sanchez gathered about to insist, Clinch pushed them all out of doors in a mass.

  “Get the hell out o’ here!” he growled; and slammed the door.

  He stood for a moment with head lowered, drunk, but apparently capable of reflection. Eve came from the melodeon and laid one slim hand on his arm.

  “Go to bed, girlie,” he said, not looking past her.

  “You also, dad.”

  “No. … I got business with Hal Smith.”

  Passing Smith, the girl whispered: “You look out for him and undress him.”

  Smith nodded, gravely preoccupied with coming events, and nerving himself to meet them.

  He had no gun. Clinch’s big automatic bulged under his armpit.

  When the girl had ascended the creaking stairs and her door, above, closed, Clinch walked unsteadily to the door, opened it, fished out his pistol.

  “Come on out,” he said without turning.

  “Where?” enquired Smith.

  Clinch turned, lifted his square head; and the deadly glare in his eyes left Smith silent.

  “You comin?”

  “Sure,” said Smith quietly.

  But Clinch gave him no chance to close in: it was death even to swerve. Smith walked slowly out into the starlight, ahead of Clinch — slowly forward in the luminous darkness.

  “Keep going,” came Clinch’s quiet voice behind him. And, after they had entered the woods,— “Bear to the right.”

  Smith knew now. The low woods were full of sink-holes. They were headed for the nearest one.

  * * * * *

  On the edge of the thing they halted. Smith turned and faced Clinch.

  “What’s the idea?” he asked without a quaver.

  “Was you in Roosia?”

  “Yes.”

  “Was you an officer?”

  “I was.”

  “Then you’re spyin’. You’re a cop.”

  “You’re mistaken.”

  “Ah, don’t had me none like that. You’re a State Trooper or a Secret

  Service guy, or a plain, dirty cop. And I’m a-going to croak you.”

  “I’m not in any service, now.”

  “Wasn’t you an army officer?”

  “Yes. Can’t an officer go wrong?”

  “Soft stuff. Don’t feed it to me. I told you too much anyway. I was babblin’ drunk. I’m drunk now, but I got sense. D’you think I’ll run chances of sittin’ in State’s Prison for the next ten years and leave Eve out here alone? No. I gotta shoot you, Smith. And I’m a-going to do it. G’wan and say what you want … if you think there’s some kind o’ god you can square before you croak.”

  “If you go to the chair for murder, what good will it do Eve?” asked

  Smith. His lips were crackling dry; he moistened them.

  “Sink holes don’t talk,” said Clinch. “G’wan and square yourself, if you’re the church kind.”

  “Clinch,” said Smith unsteadily, “if you kill me now you’re as good as dead yourself. Quintana is here.”

  “Say, don’t hand me that,” retorted Clinch. “Do you square yourself or no?”

  “I tell you Quintana’s gang were at the dance to-night — Picquet,

  Salzar, Georgiades, Sard, Beck, Jose Sanchez — the one who looks like a

  French priest. Maybe he had a beard when you saw him in that cafe

  wash-room — —”

  “What!” shouted Clinch in sudden fury. “What yeh talkin’ about, you poor dumb dingo! Yeh fixin’ to scare me? What do you know about Quintana? Are you one of Quintana’s gang, too? Is that what you’re up to, hidin’ out at Star Pond. Come on, out with it! I’ll have it all out of you now, Hal Smith, before I plug you — —”

  He came lurching forward, swinging his heavy pistol as though he meant to brain his victim, but he halted after the first step or two and stood there, a shadowy bulk, growling, enraged, undecided.

  And, as Smith looked at him, two shadows detached themselves from the trees behind Clinch — silently — silently glided behind — struck in utter silence.

  Down crashed Clinch, black-jacked, his face in the ooze. His pistol flew from his hand, struck Smith’s leg; and Smith had it at the same instance and turned it like lightning on the murderous shadows.

  “Hands up! Quick!” he cried, at bay now, and his back to the sink-hole.

  Pistol levelled, he bent one knee, pushed Clinch over on his back, lest the ooze suffocate him.

  “Now,” he said coolly, “what do you bums want out of Mike Clinch?”

  “Who are you?” came a sullen voice. “This is none o’ your bloody business. We want Clinch, not you.”

  “What do you want of Clinch?”

  “Take your gun off us!”

  “Answer, or I’ll let go at you. What do you want of Clinch?”

  “Money. What do you think?”

  “You’re here to stick up Clinch?” enquired Smith.

  “Yes. What’s that to you?”

  “What has Clinch done to you?”

  “He stuck us up, that’s what! Now, are you going to keep out of this?”

  “No.”

  “We ain’t going to hurt Clinch.”

  “You bet you’re not. Where’s the rest of your gang?”

  “What gang?”

  “Quintana’s,” said Smith, laughing. A wild exhilaration possessed him. His flanks and rear were protected by the sink-hole. He had Quintana’s gang — two of them — over his pistol.

  “Turn your backs and sit down,” he said. As the shadowy forms hesitated, he picked up a stick and hurled it at them. They sat down hastily, hands up, backs toward him.

  “You’ll both die where you sit,” remarked Smith, “if you yell for help.”

  Clinch sighed heavily, stirred, groped on the damp leaves with his hands.

  “I say,” began the voice which Smith identified as Harry Beck’s, “if you’ll come in with us on this it will pay you, young man.”

  “No,” drawled Smith, “I’ll go it alone.”

  “It can’t be done, old dear. You’ll see if you try it on.”

  “Who’ll stop me? Quintana?”

  “Come,” urged Beck, “and be a good pal. You can’t manage it alone. We’ve got all night to make Clinch talk. I now how, too. You’ll get your share — —”

  “Oh, stow it,” said Smith, watching Clinch, who was reviving. He sat up presently, and put both hands over his head. Sm
ith touched him silently on the shoulder and he turned his heavy, square head in a dazed way. Blood striped his visage. He gazed dully at Smith for a little while, then, seeming to recollect, the old glare began to light his pale eyes.

  The next instant, however, Beck spoke again, and Clinch turned in astonishment and saw the two figures sitting there with backs toward Smith and hands up.

  Clinch stared at the squatting forms, then slowly moved his head and looked at Smith and his levelled pistol.

  “We know how to make a man squeal,” said Harry Beck suddenly. “He’ll talk. We can make Clinch talk, no fear! Leave it to us, old pal. Are you with us?” He started to look around over his shoulder and Smith hurled another stick and hit him in the face.

  “Quiet there, Harry,” he said. “What’s my share if I go in with you?”

  “One sixth, same’s we all get.”

  “What’s it worth?” asked Smith, with a motion of caution toward Clinch.

  “If I say a million you’ll tell me I lie. But it’s nearer three — or you can have my share. Is it a go?”

  “You’ll not hurt Clinch when he comes to?”

  “We’ll make him talk, that’s all. It may hurt him some.”

  “You won’t kill him?”

  “I swear by God — —”

  “Wait! Isn’t it better to shoot him after he squeals? Here’s a lovely sink-hole handy.”

  “Right-o! We’ll make him talk first and then shove him in. Are you with us?”

  “If you turn your head I’ll blow the face off you, Harry,” said Smith, cautioning Clinch to silence with a gesture.

  “All right. Only you better make up your mind. That cove is likely to wake up now any time,” grumbled Beck.

  Clinch looked at Smith. The latter smiled, leaned over, and whispered:

  “Can you walk all right?”

  Clinch nodded.

  “Well, we better beat it. Quintana’s whole gang is in these woods, somewhere, hunting for you, and they might stumble on us here, at any moment.” And, to the two men in front: “Lie down flat on your faces. Don’t stir; don’t speak; or it’s you for the sink-hole. … Lie down, I tell you! That’s it. Don’t move till I tell you to.”

  Clinch got up from where he was sitting, cast one murderous glance at the prostrate forms, then followed Smith, noiselessly, over the stretch of sphagnum moss.

  * * * * *

  When they reached the house they saw Eve standing on the steps in her night-dress and bare feet, holding a lantern.

  “Daddy,” she whimpered, “I was frightened. I didn’t know where you had gone — —”

  Clinch put his arm around her, turned his bloody face and looked at

  Smith.

  “It’s this,” he said, “that I ain’t forgetting, young fella. What you done for me you done for her.

  “I gotta live to make a lady of her. That’s why,” he added thickly,

  “I’m much obliged to you, Hal Smith. … Get to bed, girlie — —”

  “You’re bleeding, dad?”

  “Aw, a twig scratched me. I been in the woods with Hal. G’wan to bed.”

  He went to the sink and washed his face, dried it, kissed the girl, and gave her a gentle shove toward the stairs.

  “Hal and I is sittin’ up talkin’ business,” he remarked, bolting the door and all the shutters.

  * * * * *

  When the girl had gone, Clinch went to a closet and brought back two

  Winchester rifles, two shot guns, and a box of ammunition.

  “Goin’ to see it out with me, Hal?”

  “Sure,” smiled Smith.

  “Aw’ right. Have a drink?”

  “No.”

  “Aw’ right. Where’ll you set?”

  “Anywhere.”

  “Aw’ right. Set over there. They may try the back porch. I’ll jest set here a spell, n’then I’ll kind er mosey ‘round. … Plug the first fella that tries a shutter, Hal.”

  “You bet.”

  Clinch came over and held out his hand.

  “You said a face-full that time when you says to me, `Clinch,’ you says,

  `Eve is a lady.’ … I gotta fix her up. I gotta be alive to do it.

  … That’s why I’m greatly obliged to yeh, Hal.”

  He took his rifle and walked slowly toward the pantry.

  “You bet,” he muttered, “she is a lady, so help me God.”

  * * * * *

  Episode Three

  On Star Peak

  * * * * *

  I

  Mike Clinch regarded the jewels taken from Jose Quintana as legitimate loot acquired in war. He was prepared to kill anybody who attempted to take the gems from him.

  At the very possibility his ruling passion blazed — his mania to make of Eve Strayer a grand lady.

  But now, what he had feared for years had happened. Quintana had found him, — Quintana, after all these years, had discovered the identity and dwelling place of the obscure American soldier who had robbed him in the wash-room of a Paris cafe. And Quintana was now in America, here in this very wilderness, tracking the man who had despoiled him.

  * * * * *

  Clinch, in his shirt-sleeves, carrying a rifle, came out on the log veranda and sat down to think it over.

  He began to realise that he was likely to have trouble with a man as cold-blooded and as dogged as himself.

  Nor did he doubt that those with Quintana were desperate men.

  On whom could he count? On nobody unless he paid their hire. None among the lawless men who haunted his backwoods “hotel” at Star Pond would lift a finger to help him. Almost any among them would have robbed him, — murdered him, probably, — if it were known that the jewels were hidden in the house.

  He could not trust Jake Kloon; Leverett was as treacherous as only a born coward can be; Sid Hone, Harvey Chase, Blommers, Byron Hastings, — he knew them all too well to trust them, — a sullen, unscrupulous pack, partly cowardly, always fierce, — as are any creatures that live furtively, feed only by their wits, and slink through life just outside the frontiers of law.

  And yet, one of this gang had stood by him — Hal Smith — the man he himself had been about to slay.

  Clinch got up from the bench where he had been sitting and walked down to the pond where Hal Smith sat cleaning trout.

  “Hal,” he said, “I been figuring some. Quintana don’t dare call in the constables. I can’t afford to. Quintana and I’ve got to settle this on our own.”

  Smith slit open a ten-inch trout, stripped it, flung the entrails out into the pond, soused the fish in water, and threw it into a milk pan.

  “Whose jewels were they in the beginning?” he enquired carelessly.

  “How do I know?”

  “If you ever found out — —”

  “I don’t want to. I got them in the way, anyway. And it don’t make no difference how I got ‘em; Eve’s going to be a lady if I go to the chair for it. So that’s that.”

  Smith slit another trout, gutted it, flung away the viscera but laid back the roe.

  “Shame to take them in October,” he remarked, “but people must eat.”

  “Same’s me,” nodded Clinch; “I don’t want to kill no one, but Eve she’s gotta be a lady and ride in her own automobile with the proudest.”

  “Does Eve know about the jewels?”

  Clinch’s pale eyes, which had been roving over the wooded shores of Star

  Pond, reverted to Smith.

  “I’d cut my own throat before I’d tell her,” he said softly.

  “She wouldn’t stand for it?”

  “Hal, when you said to me, `Eve’s a lad, by God!’ you swallered the hull pie. That’s the answer. A lady don’t stand for what you and I don’t bother about.”

  “Suppose she learns that you robbed the man who robbed somebody else of these jewels.”

  Clinch’s pale eyes were fixed on him: “Only you and me know,” he said in his pleasant voice.

 
“Quintana knows. His gang knows.”

  Clinch’s smile was terrifying. “I guess she ain’t never likely to know nothing, Hal.”

  “What do you purpose to do, Mike?”

  “Still hunt.”

  “For Quintana?”

  “I might mistake him for a deer. Them accidents is likely, too.”

  “If Quintana catches you it will go hard with you, Mike.”

  “Sure. I know.”

  “He’ll torture you to make you talk.”

  “You think I’d talk, Hal?”

  Smith looked up into the light-coloured eyes. The pupils were pin points. Then he went on cleaning fish.

  “Hal?”

  “What?”

  “If they get me, — but no matter; they ain’t a-going to get me.”

  “Were you going to tell me where those jewels are hidden, Mike?” enquired the young man, still busy with his fish. He did not look around when he spoke. Clinch’s murderous gaze was fastened on the back of his head.

  “Don’t go to gettin’ too damn nosey, Hal,” he said in his always agreeable voice.

  Smith soused all the fish in water again: “You’d better tell somebody if you go gunning for Quintana.”

  “Did I ask your advice?”

  “You did not,” said the young man, smiling.

  “All right. Mind your business.”

  Smith got up from the water’s edge with his pan of trout:

  “That’s what I shall do, Mike,” he said, laughing. “So go on with your private war; it’s no button off my pants if Quintana gets you.”

  He went away toward the ice-house with the trout. Eve Strayer, doing chamber work, watched the young man from an upper room.

  The girl’s instinct was to like Smith, — but that very instinct aroused her distrust. What was a man of his breeding and education doing at Clinch’s dump? Why was he content to hang around and do chores? A man of his type who had gone crooked enough to stick up a tourist in an automobile nourishes higher- though probably perverted — ambitions than a dollar a day and board.

  She heard Clinch’s light step on the uncarpeted stair; went on making up Smith’s bed; and smiled as her step-father came into the room, still carrying his rifle.

  He had something else in his hand, too, — a flat, thin packet wrapped in heavy paper and sealed all over with black wax.