He blushed but did his best. His was an agreeable, boyish voice, betraying taste and understanding. Time passed quickly — not so much in the reading but in the conversations intervening.
And now, made uneasy by chance consultation with his wrist-watch, and being rather a conscientious young man, he had risen and had informed Eve that she ought to go to sleep.
And she had denounced the idea, almost fretfully.
“Even if you go I shan’t sleep till daddy comes,” she said. “Of course,” she added, smiling at him out of gentian-blue eyes, “if you are sleepy I shouldn’t dream of asking you to stay.”
“I’m not intending to sleep.”
“What are you going to do?”
“Take a chair on the landing outside your door.”
“What!”
“Certainly. What did you expect me to do, Eve?”
“Go to bed, of course. The beds in the guest rooms are all made up.”
“Your father didn’t expect me to do that,” he said, smiling.
“I’m not afraid, as long as you’re in the house,” she said.
She looked up at him again, wistfully. Perhaps he was restless, bored, sitting there beside her half the day, and, already, half the night. Men of that kind — active, nervous young men accustomed to the open, can’t stand caging.
“I want you to go out and get some fresh air,” she said. “It’s a wonderful night. Go and walk a while. And — if you feel like — coming back to me — —”
“Will you sleep?”
“No, I’ll wait for you.”
Her words were natural and direct, but in their simplicity there seemed a delicate sweetness that stirred him.
“I’ll come back to you,” he said.
Then, in his response, the girl in her turn became aware of something beside the simpler words — a vague charm about them that faintly haunted her after he had gone away down the stairs.
That was the man she had once tried to kill! At the sudden and terrible recollection she shivered from curly head to bandaged feet. Then she trembled a little with the memory of his lips against her bruised hands — bruised by handcuffs which he had fastened upon her.
She sat very, very still now, huddled on the bed’s edge, scarcely breathing.
For the girl was beginning to dare formulate the deepest of any thoughts that had ever stirred her virgin mind and body.
If it was love, then it had come suddenly, and strangely. It had come on that day — at the very moment when he flung her against the tree and handcuffed her — that terrible instant — if it were love.
Or — what was it that so delicately overwhelmed her with pleasure in his presence, in his voice, in the light, firm sound of his spurred tread on the veranda below?
Friendship? A lonely passion for young and decent companionship? The clean youth of him in contrast to the mangy, surly louts who haunted Clinch’s Dump, — was that the appeal?
Listening there where she sat clasping the book, she heard his steady tread patrolling the veranda; caught the faint fragrance of his brier pipe in the still night air.
“I think — I think it’s — love,” she said under her breath. … “But he couldn’t ever think of me — —” always listening to his spurred tread below.
After a while she placed both bandaged feet on the rug. It hurt her, but she stood up, walked to the open window. She wanted to look at him — just a moment ——
By chance he looked up at that instant, and saw her pale face, like a flower in the starlight.
“Why, Eve,” he said, “you ought no be on your feet.”
“Once,” she said, “you weren’t so particular about my bruises.”
Her breathless little voice coming down through the starlight thrilled him.
“Do you remember what I did?” he asked.
“Yes. You bruised my hands and made my mouth bleed.”
“I did penance — for your hands.”
“Yes, you kissed them!”
What possessed her — what irresponsible exhilaration was inciting her to a daring utterly foreign to her nature? She heard herself laugh, knew that she was young, pretty, capable of provocation. And in a sudden, breathless sort of way an overwhelming desire seized her to please, to charm, to be noticed by such a man — whatever, on afterthought, he might think of the step-child of Mike Clinch.
Stormont had come directly under her window and stood looking up.
“I dared not offer further penance,” he said.
The emotion in his voice stirred her — but she was still laughing down at him.
She said: “You did offer further penance — you offered your handkerchief. So — as that was all you offered as reparation for — my lips — —”
“Eve! I could have taken you into my arms—”
“You did! And threw me down among the spruces. You really did everything that a contrite heart could suggest — —”
“Good heavens!” said that rather matter-of-fact young man, “I don’t believe you have forgiven me after all.”
“I have — everything except the handkerchief — —”
“Then I’m coming up to complete my penance — —”
“I’ll lock my door!”
“Would you?”
“I ought to. … But if you are in great spiritual distress, and if you really and truly repent, and if you humble desire to expiate your sin by doing — penance — —” And hesitated: “Do you so desire?”
“Yes, I do.”
“Humbly? Contritely?”
“Yes.”
“Very well. Say `Mea culpa, mea maxima culpa.’”
“Mea maxima culpa,” he said so earnestly, looking up into her face that she bent lower over the sill to see him.
“Let me come up, Eve,” he said.
She strove to laugh, gazing down into his shadowy face — but suddenly the desire had left her, — and all her gaiety left her, too, suddenly, leaving only a still excitement in her breast.
“You - you knew I was just laughing,” she said unsteadily. “You understood, didn’t you?”
“I don’t know.”
After a silence: “I didn’t mean you to take me seriously,” she said. She tried to laugh. It was no use. And, as she leaned there on the sill, her heart frightened her with its loud beating.
“Will you let me come up, Eve?”
No answer.
“Would you lock your door?”
“What do you think I’d do?” she asked tremulously.
“You know; I don’t.”
“Are you so sure I know what I’d do? I don’t think either of us know our own minds. … I seem to have lost some of my wits. … Somehow. …”
“If you are not going to sleep, let me come up.”
“I want you to take a walk down by the pond. And while you’re walking there all by yourself, I want you to think very clearly, very calmly, and make up your mind whether I should remain awake to-night, or whether, when you return, I ought to be asleep and — and my door bolted.”
After a long pause: “All right,” he said in a low voice.
* * * * *
V
She saw him walk away — saw his shadowy, well-built form fade into the starlit mist.
An almost uncontrollable impulse set her throat and lips quivering with desire to call to him through the night, “I do love you! I do love you! Come back quickly, quickly! — —”
Fog hung over Star Pond, edging the veranda, rising in frail shreds to her window. The lapping of the water sounded very near. An owl was very mournful in the hemlocks.
The girl turned from the window, looked at the door for a moment, then her face flushed and she walked toward a chair and seated herself, leaving the door unbolted.
For a little while she sat upright, alert, as though a little frightened. After a few moments she folded her hands and sat unstirring, with lowered head, awaiting Destiny.
* * * * *
It came, noiselessly. And so
swiftly that the rush of air from her violently opened door was what first startled her.
For in the same second Earl Leverett was upon her in his stockinged feet, one bony hand gripping her mouth, the other flung around her, pinning both arms to her sides.
“The packet!” he panted, “ — quick, yeh dirty little cat, ‘r’I’ll break yeh head off’n yeh damn neck!”
She bit at the hand that he held crushed against her mouth. He lifted her bodily, flung her onto the bed, and, twisting sheet and quilt around her, swathed her to the throat.
Still controlling her violently distorted lips with his left hand and holding her so, one knee upon her, he reached back, unsheathed his hunting knife, and pricked her throat till the blood spurted.
“Now, gol ram yet!” he whispered fiercely, “where’s Mike’s packet?
Yell, and I’ll hog-stick yeh fur fair! Where is it, you dum thing!”
He took his left hand from her mouth. The distorted, scarlet lips writhed back, displaying her white teeth clenched.
“Where’s Mike’s bundle!” he repeated, hoarse with rage and fear.
“You rat!” she gasped.
At that he closed her mouth again, and again he pricket her with his knife, cruelly. The blood welled up onto the sheets.
“Now, by God!” he said in a ghastly voice, “answer or I’ll hog-stick yeh next time! Where is it? Where! where!”
She only showed her teeth in answer. Her eyes flamed.
“Where! Quick! Gol ding yeh, I’ll shove this knife in behind your ear if you don’t tell! Go on. Where is it? It’s in this Dump som’ers. I know it is — don’t lie! You want that I should stick you good? That what you want — you dirty little dump-slut? Well, then, gol ram yeh — I’ll fix yeh like Quintana was aimin’ at — —”
He slit the sheet downward from her imprisoned knees, seized one wounded foot and tried to slash the bandages.
“I’ll cut a coupla toes off’n yeh,” he snarled, “ — I’ll hamstring yeh fur keeps!” — struggling to mutilate her while she flung her helpless and entangled body from side to side and bit at the hand that was almost suffocating her.
Unable to hold her any longer, he seized a pillow, to bury the venomous little head that writhed, biting, under his clutch.
As he lifted it he saw a packet lying under it.
“By God!” he panted.
As he seized it she screamed for the first time: “Jack! Jack Stormont!” — and fairly hurled her helpless little body at Leverett, striking him full in the face with her head.
Half stunned, still clutching the packet, he tried to stab her in the stomach; but the armour of bed-clothes turned the knife, although his violence dashed all breath out of her.
Sick with the agony of it, speechless, she still made the effort; and, as he stumbled to his feet and turned to escape, she struggled upright, choking, blood running down from the knife pricks in her neck.
With the remnant of her strength, and still writhing and gasping for breath, she tore herself from the sheets and blankets, reeled across the room to where Stormont’s rifle stood, threw in a cartridge, dragged herself to the window.
Dimly she saw a running figure in the night mist, flung the rifle across the window sill and fired. Then she fired again — or thought she did. There were two shots.
“Eve!” came Stormont’s sharp cry, “what the devil are you trying to do to me?”
His cry terrified her; the rifle clattered to the floor.
The next instant he came running up the stars, bare headed, heavy pistol swinging, and halted, horrified at sight of her.
“Eve! My God!” he whispered, taking her blood-wet body into his arms.
“Go after Leverett,” she gasped. “He’s robbed daddy. He’s running away — out there — somewhere—”
“Where did he hurt you, Eve — my little Eve — —”
“Oh, go! go!” she wailed,— “I’m not hurt. He only pricked me with his knife. I’m not hurt, I tell you. Go after him! Take your pistol and follow him and kill him!”
“Oh,” she cried hysterically, twisting and sobbing in his arms, “don’t lose time here with me! Don’t stand here while he’s running away with dad’s money!” And, “Oh — oh — oh!!” she sobbed, collapsing in his arms and clinging to him convulsively as he carried her to her tumbled bed and laid her there.
He said: “I couldn’t risk following anybody now, after what has happened to you. I can’t leave you alone here! Don’t cry, Eve. I’ll get your man for you, I promise! Don’t cry, dear. I was all my fault for leaving this room even for a minute — —”
“No, no, no! It’s all my fault. I sent you away. Oh, I wish I hadn’t. I wish I had let you come back when you wanted to. … I was waiting for you. … I left the door unbolted for you. When it opened I thought it was you. And it was Leverett! — it was Leverett! — —”
Stormont’s face grew very white: “What did he do to you, Eve? Tell me, darling. What did he do to you?”
“Dad’s money was under my pillow,” she wailed. “Leverett tried to make me tell where it was. I wouldn’t, and he hurt me — —”
“How?”
“He pricked me with his knife. When I screamed for you he tried to choke me with the pillow. Didn’t you hear me scream?”
“Yes. I came on the jump.”
“It was too late,” she sobbed; “ — too late! He saw the money packet under my pillow and he snatched it and ran. Somehow I found your rifle and fired. I fired twice.”
Her only bullet had torn his campaign hat from his head. But he did not tell her.
“Let me see your neck,” he said, bending closer.
She bared her throat, making a soft, vague complaint like a hurt bird, — lay there whimpering under her breath while he bathed the blood away with lint, sterilised the two cuts from his emergency packet, and bound them.
He was still bending low over her when her blue eyes unclosed on his.
“That is the second time I’ve tried to kill you,” she whispered. “I thought it was Leverett. … I’d have died if I had killed you.”
There was a silence.
“Lie very still,” he said huskily. “I’ll be back in a moment to rebandage your feet and make you comfortable for the night.”
“I can’t sleep,” she repeated desolately. “Dad trusted his money to me and I’ve let Leverett rob me. How can I sleep?”
“I’ll bring you something to make you sleep.”
“I can’t!”
“I promise you you will sleep. Lie still.”
He rose, went away downstairs and out to the barn, where his campaign hat lay in the weed, drilled through by a bullet.
There was something else lying there in the weeds, — a flat, muddy, shoeless shape sprawling grotesquely in the foggy starlight.
One hand clutched a hunting knife; the other a packet.
Stormont drew the packet from the stiff fingers, then turned the body over, and, flashing his electric torch, examined the ratty visage — what remained of it — for his pistol bullet had crashed through from ear to cheek-bone, almost obliterating the trap-robber’s features.
* * * * *
Stormont came slowly into Eve’s room and laid the packet on the sheet beside her.
“Now,” he said, “there is no reason for you to lie awake any longer.
I’ll fix you up for the night.”
Deftly he unbandaged, bathed, dressed, and rebandaged her slim white feet — little wounded feet so lovely, so exquisite that his hand trembled as he touched them.
“They’re doing fine,” he said cheerily. “You’ve half a degree of fever and I’m going to give you something to drink before you go to sleep — —”
He poured out a glass of water, dissolved two tablets, supported her shoulders while she drank in a dazed way, looking always at him over the glass.
“Now,” he said, “go to sleep. I’ll b on the job outside your door until your daddy arrives.”
“
How did you get back dad’s money?” she asked in an odd, emotionless way as though too weary for further surprises.
“I’ll tell you in the morning.”
“Did you kill him? I didn’t hear your pistol.”
“I’ll tell you all about it in the morning. Good night, Eve.”
As he bent over her, she looked up into his eyes and put both arms around his neck.
It was her first kiss given to any man, except Mike Clinch.
After Stormont had gone out and closed the door, she lay very still for a long while.
Then, instinctively, she touched her lips with her fingers; and, at that contact, a blush clothed her from brow to ankle.
The Flaming Jewel in its morocco casket under her pillow burned with no purer fire than the enchanted flame glowing in the virgin heart of Eve Strayer of Clinch’s Dump.
Thus they lay together, two lovely flaming jewels burning softly, steadily through the misty splendour of the night.
Under a million stars, Death sprawled in squalor among the trampled weeds. Under the same high stars dark mountains waited; and there was a silvery sound of waters stirring somewhere in the mist.
* * * * *
Episode Seven
Clinch’s Dump
* * * * *
I
When Mike Clinch bade Hal Smith return to the Dump and take care of Eve,
Smith already had decided to go there.
Somewhere in Clinch’s Dump was hidden the Flaming Jewel. Now was his time to search for it.
There were two other reasons why he should go back. One of them was that Leverett was loose. If anything had called Trooper Stormont away, Eve would be alone in the house. And nobody on earth could forecast what a coward like Leverett might attempt.
But there was another and more serious reason for returning to Clinch’s. Clinch, blood-mad, was headed for Drowned Valley with his men, to stop both ends of that vast morass before Quintana and his gang could get out.
It was evident that neither Clinch nor any of his men — although their very lives depended upon familiarity with the wilderness — knew that a third exit from Drowned Valley existed.
But the nephew of the late Henry Harrod knew.
When Jake Kloon was a young man and Darragh was a boy, Kloon had shown him the rocky, submerged game trail into Drowned Valley. Doubtless Kloon had used it in hootch running since. If ever he had told anybody else about it, probably he had revealed the trail to Quintana.
Works of Robert W Chambers Page 1019
