* * * * *
Before she started she had thrown a cartridge into the breech of her rifle.
Now she pocketed her torch and seated herself between the two big pines and about three feet behind the hidden trap.
Dawn was not far away. She looked upward through high pine-tops where stars shone; and saw no sign of dawn. But the watcher by the fire beyond was astir, now, in the imminence of dawn, and evidently meant to warm himself before leaving.
Eve could hear him piling dry wood on the fire; the light on the tree trunks grew redder; a pungent reek of smoke was drawn through the forest aisles. She sniffed it, listened, and watched, her rifle across her knees.
Eve never had been afraid of anything. She was not afraid of this man. If it came to combat she would have to kill. It never entered her mind to fear Quintana’s rifle. Even Clinch was not as swift with a rifle as she. … Only Stormont had been swifter — thank God! ——
She thought of Stormont — sat there in the terrific darkness loving him, her heart of a child tremulous with adoration.
Then the memory of Darragh pushed in and hot hatred possessed her.
Always, in her heart, she had distrusted the man.
Instinct had warned her. A spy! What evil had he worked already? Where was her father? Evidently Quintana had escaped him at Drowned Valley. … Quintana was yonder by his fire, preparing the flee the wilderness where men hunted him. … But where was Clinch? Had this sneak, Darragh, betrayed him? Was Clinch already in the clutch of the State Troopers? Was he in jail?
At the thought the girl felt slightly faint, then a rush f angry blood stung her face in the darkness. Except for game and excise violations the stories they told about Clinch were lies.
He had nothing to fear, nothing to be ashamed of. Harrod had driven him to lawlessness; the Government took away what was left him to make a living. He had to live. What if he did break laws made by millionaire and fanatic! What of it? He had her love and her respect — and her deep, deep pity. And these were enough for any girl to fight for.
Dawn spread a silvery light above the pines, but Quintana’s fire still reddened the tree trunks; and she could hear him feeding it at intervals.
Finally she saw him. He came out on the edge of the ruddy ring of light and stood peering around at the woods where already a vague greyness was revealing nearer trees.
When, finally, he turned his back and looked at his fire, Eve rose and stood between the two big pines. Behind one of them she placed her rifle.
It was growing lighter in the woods. She could see Quintana in the fire ring and outside, — saw him go to the spring rivulet, lie flat, drink, then, on his knees, wash face and hands in the icy water.
It became plain to her that he was nearly ready to depart. She watched him preparing. And now she could see him plainly, and knew him to be Quintana and no other.
He had a light basket pack. He put some articles into it, stretched himself and yawned, pulled on his hat, hoisted the pack and fastened it to his back, stood staring at the fire for a long time; then, with a sudden upward look at the zenith where a slight flush stained a cloud, he picked up his rifle.
At that moment Eve called to him in a clear and steady voice.
The effect on Quintana was instant; he was behind a tree before her voice ceased.
“Hallo! Hi! You over there!” she called again. “This is Eve Strayer. I’m looking for Clinch! He hasn’t been home all night. Have you seen him?”
After a moment she saw Quintana’s head watching her, — not at the shoulder-height of a man but close to the ground and just above the tree roots.
“Hey!” she cried. “What’s the matter with you over there? I’m asking you who you are and if you’ve seen my father?”
After a while she saw Quintana coming toward her, circling, creeping swiftly from tree to tree.
As he flitted through the shadows the trees between which she was standing hid her from him a moment. Instantly she placed her rifle on the ground and kicked the pine needles over it.
As Quintana continued his encircling manoeuvres Eve, apparently perplexed, walked out into the clear space, putting the concealed trap between her and Quintana, who now came stealthily toward her from the rear.
It was evident that he had reconnoitred sufficiently to satisfy himself that the girl was alone and that no trick, no ambuscade, threatened him.
And now, from behind a pine, and startlingly near her, came Quintana, moving with a confident grace yet holding his rifle ready for any emergency.
Eve’s horrified stare was natural; she had not realised that any man could wear so evil a smile.
Quintana stopped a short dozen paces away. The dramatic in him demanded of the moment its full value. He swept off his hat with a flourish, bowed deeply where he stood.
“Ah!” he cried gaily, “the happy encounter, Senorita. God is too good to us. And it was but a moment since my thoughts were of you! I swear it! — —”
It was not fear; it was a sort of slow horror of this man that began to creep over the girl. She stared at his brilliant eyes, at his thick mouth, too red — shuddered slightly. But the toe of her right foot touched the stock of her rifle under the pine needles.
She held herself under control.
“So it’s you,” she said unsteadily. “I thought out people had caught you.”
Quintana laughed: “Charming child,” he said, “it is I who have caught your people. And now, my God! — I catch you! … It is ver’ funny. Is it not?”
She looked straight into Quintana’s black eyes, but the look he returned sent the shamed blood surging into her face.
“By God,” he said between his white, even teeth,— “by God!”
Staring at her he slowly disengaged his pack, let it fall behind him on the pine needles; rested his rifle on it; slipped out his mackinaw and laid that across his rifle — always keeping his brilliant eyes on her.
His lips tightened, the muscles in his face grew tense; his eyes became blazing insult.
For an instant he stood there, unencumbered, a wiry, graceful shape in his woollen breeches, leggings, and grey shirt open at the throat. Then he took a step toward her. And the girl watched him, fascinated.
One pace, two, a third, a fourth — the girl’s involuntary cry echoed the stumbling crash of the man thrashing, clawing, scrambling in the clenched jaws of the bear-trap amid a whirl of flying pine needles.
He screamed once, tried to rise, turned blindly to seize the jaws that clutched him; and suddenly crouched, loose-jointed, cringing like a trapped wolf — the true fatalist among our lesser brothers.
Eve picked up her rifle. She was trembling violently. Then, mastering her emotion, she walked over to the pack, placed Quintana’s rifle and mackinaw in it, coolly hoisted it to her shoulders and buckled it there.
Over her shoulder she kept an eye on Quintana who crouched where he had fallen, unstirring, his deadly eyes watching her.
She placed the muzzle of her rifle against his stomach, rested it so, holding it with one hand, her finger at the trigger.
At her brief order he turned out both breeches pockets. She herself stooped and drew the Spanish clasp-knife from its sheath at his belt, took a pistol from the holster, another out of his hip pocket. Reaching up and behind her, she dropped these into the pack.
“Maybe,” she said slowly, “your ankle is broken. I’ll send somebody from Ghost Lake to find you. But whether you’ve a broken bone or not you’ll not go very far, Quintana. … After I’m gone you’ll be able to free yourself. But you can’t get away. You’ll be followed and caught. … So if you can walk at all you’d better go in to Ghost Lake an give yourself up. … It’s that or starvation. … You’ve got a watch. … Don’t stir or touch that trap for half an hour. … And that’s all.”
As she moved away toward the Drowned Valley trail she looked back at him. His face was bloodless but his black eyes blazed.
“If ever you come into this forest again,”
she said, “my father will surely kill you.”
To her horror Quintana slowly grinned at her. Then, still grinning, he placed the forefinger of his left hand between his teeth and bit it.
Whatever he meant by the gesture it seemed unclean, horrible; and the girl hurried on, seized with an overwhelming loathing through which a sort of terror pulsated like evil premonition in a heavy and tortured heart.
Straight into the fire of dawn she sped. A pale primrose light glimmered through the woods; trees, bushes, undergrowth turned a dusky purple. Already the few small clouds overhead were edged with fiery rose.
Then, of a sudden, a shaft of flame played over the forest. The sun had risen.
Hastening, she searched the soft path for any imprint of her father’s foot And even in the vain search she hoped to find him at home — hurried on burdened with two rifles and a pack, still all nervous and aquiver from her encounter with Quintana.
Surely, surely, she thought, if he had missed Quintana in Drowned Valley he would not linger in that ghastly place; he’d come home, call in his men, take counsel perhaps ——
* * * * *
Mist over Star Pond was dissolving to a golden powder in the blinding glory of the sun. The eastern window-panes in Clinch’s Dump glittered as though the rooms inside were all on fire.
Down through withered weeds and scrub she hurried, ran across the grass to the kitchen door which swung ajar under its porch.
“Dad!” she called, “Dad!”
Only her own frightened voice echoed in the empty house. She climbed the stairs to his room. The bed lay undisturbed as she had made it. He was not in any of the rooms; there were no signs of him.
Slowly she descended to the kitchen. He was not there. The food she had prepared for him had become cold on a chilled range.
For a long while she stood staring through the window at the sunlight outside. Probably, since Quintana had eluded him, he’d come home for something to eat. … Surely, now that Quintana had escaped, Clinch would come back for some breakfast.
Eve slipped the pack from her back and laid it on the kitchen table. There was kindling in the wood-box. She shook down the cinders, laid a fire, soaked it with kerosene, lighted it, filled the kettle with fresh water.
In the pantry she cut some ham, and found eggs, condensed milk, butter, bread, and an apple pie. After she had ground the coffee she placed all these on a tray and carried them into the kitchen.
Now there was nothing more to do until her father came, and she sat down by the kitchen table to wait.
Outside the sunlight was becoming warm and vivid. There had been no frost after all — or, at most, merely a white trace in the shadow — on a fallen plank here and there — but not enough to freeze the ground. And, in the sunshine, it all quickly turned to dew, and glittered and sparkled in a million hues and tints like gems — like that handful of jewels she had poured into her father’s joined palms — yesterday — there at the ghostly edge of Drowned Valley.
At the memory, and quite mechanically, she turned in her char and drew
Quintana’s basket pack toward her.
First she lifted out his rifle, examined it, set it against the window sill. Then, one by one, she drew out two pistols, loaded; the murderous Spanish clasp-knife; an axe; a fry-pan and a tin pail, and the rolled-up mackinaw.
Under these the pack seemed to contain nothing except food and ammunition; staples in sacks and a few cans — lard, salt, tea — such things.
The cartridge boxes she piled up on the table; the food she tossed into a tin swill bucket.
About the effects of this man it seemed to her as though something unclean lingered. She could scarcely bear to handle them, — threw them from her with disgust.
The garment, also — the heavy brown and green mackinaw — she disliked to touch. to throw it out doors was her intention; but, as she lifted the coat, it unrolled and some things fell form the pockets to the kitchen table, — money, keys, a watch, a flat leather case ——
She looked stupidly at the case. It had a coat of arms emblazoned on it.
Still, stupidly and as though dazed, she laid one hand on it, drew it to her, opened it.
The Flaming Jewel blazed in her face amid a heap of glittering gems.
Still she seemed slow to comprehend — as though understanding were paralysed.
It was when her eyes fell upon the watch that her heart seemed to stop.
Suddenly her stunned senses were lighted as by an infernal flare. …
Under the awful blow she swayed upright to her feet, sick with fright,
her eyes fixed on her father’s watch.
It was still ticking.
She did not know whether she cried out in anguish or was dumb under it.
The house seemed to reel around her; under foot too.
When she came to her senses she found herself outside the house, running with her rifle, already entering the woods. But, inside the barrier of trees, something blocked her way, stopped her, — a man — her man!
“Eve! In God’s name! — —” he said as she struggled in his arms; but she fought him and strove to tear her body from his embrace:
“They’ve killed Dad!” she panted,— “Quintana killed him. I didn’t know — oh, I didn’t know! — and I let Quintana go! Oh, Jack, Jack, he’s at the Place of Pines! I’m going there to shoot him! Let me go! — he’s killed Dad, I tell you! He had Dad’s watch — and the case of jewels — they were in his pack on the kitchen table — —”
“Eve!”
“Let me go! — —”
“Eve!” He held her rigid a moment in his powerful grip, compelled her dazed, half-crazed eyes to meet his own:
“You must come to your senses,” he said. “Listen to what I say: they are bringing in your father.”
Her dilated blue eyes never moved from his.
“W found him in Drowned Valley at sunrise,” said Stormont quietly. “The men are only a few rods behind me. They are carrying him out.”
Her lips made a word without sound.
“Yes,” said Stormont in a low voice.
There was a sound in the woods behind them. Stormont turned. Far away down the trail the men came into sight.
Then the State Trooper turned the girl very gently and placed one arm around her shoulders.
Very slowly they descended the hill together. His equipment was shining in the morning sun: and the sun fell on Eve’s drooping head, turning her chestnut hair into fiery gold.
* * * * *
An hour later Trooper Stormont was at the Place of Pines.
There was nothing there except an empty trap and the ashes of the dying fire beyond.
* * * * *
Episode Twelve
Her Highness Intervenes
* * * * *
I
Toward noon the wind changed, and about one o’clock it began to snow.
Eve, exhausted, lay on the sofa in her bedroom. Her step-father lay on a table in the dance hall below, covered by a sheet from his own bed. And beside him sat Trooper Stormont, waiting.
It was snowing heavily when Mr. Lyken, the little undertaker from Ghost Lake, arrived with several assistants, a casket, and what he called “swell trimmings.”
Long ago Mike Clinch had selected his own mortuary site and had driven a section of iron pipe into the ground on a ferny knoll overlooking Star Pond. In explanation he grimly remarked to Eve that after death he preferred to be planted where he could see that Old Harrod’s ghost didn’t trespass.
Here two of Mr. Lyken’s able assistants dug a grave while the digging was still good; for it Mike Clinch was to lie underground that season there might be need of haste — no weather prophet ever having successfully forecast Adirondack weather.
Eve, exhausted by shock an a sleepless night, was spared the more harrowing details of the coroner’s visit and the subsequent jaunty activities of Mr. Lyken and his efficient assistants.
She had managed to dress hersel
f in a black wool gown, intending to watch by Mike, but Stormont’s blunt authority prevailed and she lay down for an hour’s rest.
The hour lengthened into many hours; the girl slept heavily on her sofa under blankets laid over her by Stormont.
All that dark, snowy day she slept, mercifully unconscious of the proceedings below.
In its own mysterious way the news penetrated the wilderness; and out of the desolation of forest and swamp and mountain drifted the people who somehow existed there — a few shy, half wild young girls, a dozen silent, lank men, two or three of Clinch’s own people, who stood silently about in the falling snow and lent a hand whenever requested.
One long shanked youth cut hemlock to line the grave; others erected a little fence of silver birch around it, making of the enclosure a “plot.”
A gaunt old woman from God knows where aided Mr. Lyken at intervals: a pretty, sulky-eyed girl with her slovenly, red-headed sister cooked for anybody who desired nourishment.
When Mike was ready to hold the inevitable reception everybody filed into the dance hall. Mr. Lyken was master of ceremonies: Trooper Stormont stood very tall and straight by the head of the casket.
Clinch wore a vague, indefinable smile and his best clothes, — that same smile which had so troubled Jose Quintana.
Light was fading fast in the room when the last visitor took silent leave of Clinch and rejoined the groups in the kitchen, where were the funeral baked meats.
Eve still slept. Descending again from his reconnaissance, Trooper
Stormont encountered Trooper Lannis below.
“Has anybody picked up Quintana’s tracks?” inquired the former.
“Not so far. An Inspector and two state Game Protectors are out beyond Owl Marsh. The Troopers from Five Lakes are on the job, and we have enforcement men along Drowned Valley from The Scaur to Harrod Place.”
“Does Darragh know?”
“Yes. He’s in there with Mike. He brought a lot of flowers from Harrod
Place.”
Works of Robert W Chambers Page 1029
