Works of robert w chambe.., p.1011
Works of Robert W Chambers, page 1011
“No.”
“He came here Saturday night.”
“Who says so?”
“A guide from Ghost Lake.”
“He’s a liar.”
“You know,” said Lannis, “it won’t do you any good if hold-up men can hide here and make a getaway.”
“G’wan and search,” said Clinch, calmly.
* * * * *
They searched the “hotel” from garret to cellar. They searched the barn, boat-shed, out-houses.
While this was going on, Clinch went into the kitchen.
“Eve,” he said coolly, “the State Troopers are after that fellow, Hal
Smith, who came here Saturday night. Where is he?”
“He went into Harrod’s to get us a deer,” she replied in a low voice.
“What has he done?”
“Stuck up a man on the Ghost Lake road. He ought to have told me. Do you think you could meet up with him and tip him off?”
“He’s hunting on Owl Marsh. I’ll try.”
“All right. Change your clothes and slip out the back-door. And look out for Harrod’s patrols, too.”
“All right, dad,” she sad. “If I have to be out to-night, don’t worry.
I’ll get word to Smith somehow.”
Half an hour later Lannis and Stormont returned from a prowl around the clearing. Lannis paid the reckoning; his comrade led out the horses. He said again to Lannis:
“I’m sure it was the girl. She wore men’s clothes and she went into the woods on a run.”
As they started to ride away, Lannis said to Clinch, who stood on the veranda:
“It’s still the blue-jay and the squirrel talk between us, Mike, but the show-down is sure to come. Better go straight while the going’s good.”
“I go straight enough to suit me,” said Clinch.
“But it’s the Government that is to be suited, Mike. And if it gets you right you’ll be in dutch.”
“Don’t let that worry you,” said Clinch.
* * * * *
About three o’clock the two State Troopers, riding at a walk, came to the forks of the Ghost Lake road.
“Now,” said Lannis to Stormont, “if you really believe you saw the girl beat it out of the back door and take to the woods, she’s probably somewhere in there — —” he pointed into the western forest. “But” he added, “what’s your idea in following her?”
“She wore men’s clothes; she was in a hurry and trying to keep out of sight. I wondered whether Clinch might have sent her to warn this hold-up fellow.”
“That’s rather a long shot, isn’t it?”
“Very long. I could go in and look about a bit, if you’ll lead my horse.”
“All right. Take your bearings. This road runs west to Ghost Lake. We sleep at the Inn there — if you mean to cross the woods on foot.”
Stormont nodded, consulted his map and compass, pocketed both, unbuckled his spurs.
When he was ready he gave his bridle to Lannis.
“I’d just like to see what she’s up to,” he remarked.
“All right. If you miss me come to the Inn,” said Lannis, starting on with the led horse.
* * * * *
The forest was open amid a big stand of white pine and hemlock, and
Stormont traveled easily and swiftly. He had struck a line by compass
that must cross the direction taken by Eve Strayer when she left
Clinch’s. But it was a wild chance that he would ever run across her.
And probably he never would have if the man that she was looking for had not fired a shot on the edge of that vast maze of stream, morass and dead timber called Owl Marsh.
Far away in the open forest Stormont heard the shot and turned in that direction.
But Eve already was very near when the young man who called himself Hal Smith fired at one of Harrod’s deer — a three-prong buck on the edge of the dead water.
* * * * *
Smith had drawn and dressed the buck by the time the girl found him.
He was cleaning up when she arrived, squatting by the water’s edge when he heard her voice across the swale:
“Smith! The State Troopers are looking for you!”
He stood up, dried his hands on his breeches. The girl picked her way across the bog, jumping from one tussock to the next.
When she told him what had happened he began to laugh.
“Did you really stick up this man?” she asked incredulously.
“I’m afraid I did, Eve,” he replied, still laughing.
The girl’s entire expression altered.
“So that’s the sort you are,” she said. “I thought you different. But you’re all a rotten lot — —”
“Hold on,” he interrupted, “what do you mean by that?”
“I mean that the only men who ever come to Star Pond are crooks,” she retorted bitterly. “I didn’t believe you were. You look decent. But you’re as crooked as the rest of them — and it seems as if I — I couldn’t stand it — any longer — —”
“If you think me so rotten, why did you run all the way form Clinch’s to warn me?” he asked curiously.
“I didn’t do it for you; I did it for my father. They’ll jail him if they catch him hiding you. They’ve got it in for him. If they put him in prison he’ll die. He couldn’t stand it. I know. And that’s why I came to find you and tell you to clear out — —”
The distant crack of a dry stick checked her. The next instant she picked up his rifle, seized his arm, and fairly dragged him into a spruce thicket.
“Do you want to get my father into trouble!” she said fiercely.
The rocky flank of Star Peak bordered the marsh here.
“Come on,” she whispered, jerking him along the thicket and up the rocks to a cleft — a hole in the sheer rock overhung by shaggy hemlock.
“Get in there,” she said breathlessly.
“Whoever comes,” he protested, “will see the buck yonder, and will certainly look in here — —”
“Not if I go down there and take your medicine. Creep into that cave and lie down.”
“What do you intend to do?” he demanded, interested and amused.
“If it’s one of Harrod’s game-keepers,” said the girl, drily, “it only means a summons and a fine for me. And if it’s a State Trooper, who is prowling in the woods yonder hunting crooks, he’ll find nobody here but a trespasser. Keep quiet. I’ll stand him off.”
* * * * *
IV
When State Trooper Stormont came out on the edge of Owl Marsh, the girl was kneeling by the water, washing deer blood from her slender, sun-tanned fingers.
“What are you doing here?” she enquired, looking up over her shoulder with a slight smile.
“Just having a look around,” he said pleasantly. “That’s a nice fat buck you have there.”
“Yes, he’s nice.”
“You shot him?” asked Stormont.
“Who else do you suppose shot him?” she enquired, smilingly. She rinsed her fingers again and stood up, swinging her arms to dry her hands, — a lithe, grey-shirted figure in her boyish garments, straight, supple, and strong.
“I saw you hurrying into the woods,” said Stormont.
“Yes, I was in a hurry. We need meat.”
“I didn’t notice that you carried a rifle when I saw you leave the house — by the back door.”
“No; it was in the woods,” she said indifferently.
“You have a hiding place for your rifle?”
“For other things, also,” she said, letting her eyes of gentian-blue rest on the young man.
“You seem to be very secretive.”
“Is a girl more so than a man?” she asked smilingly.
Stormont smiled too, then became grave.
“Who else was here with you?” he asked quietly.
She seemed surprised. “Did you see anybody else?”
He hesitated, flushed, pointed down at the wet sphagnum. Smith’s foot-prints were there in damning contrast to her own. Worse than that, Smith’s pipe lay on an embedded log, and a rubber tobacco pouch beside it.
She said with a slight catch in her breath: “It seems that somebody has been here. … Some hunter, perhaps, — or a game warden. …”
“Or Hal Smith,” said Stormont.
A painful colour swept the girl’s face and throat. The man, sorry for her, looked away.
After a silence: “I know something about you,” he said gently. “And now that I’ve seen you — heard you speak — met your eyes — I know enough about you to form an opinion. … So I don’t ask you to turn informer. But the law won’t stand for what Clinch is doing — whatever provocation he has had. And he must not aid or abet any criminal, or harbour any malefactor.”
The girl’s features were expressionless. The passive, sullen beauty of her troubled the trooper.
“Trouble for Clinch means sorrow for you,” he said. “I don’t want you to be unhappy. I bear Clinch no ill will. For this reason I ask him, and I ask you too, to stand clear of this affair.
“Hal Smith is wanted. I’m here to take him.”
As she said nothing, he looked down at the foot-print in the sphagnum. Then his eyes moved to the next imprint; to the next. Then he moved slowly along the water’s edge, tracking the course of the man he was following.
The girl watched him in silence until the plain trail led him to the spruce thicket.
“Don’t go in there!” she said sharply, with an odd tremor in her voice.
He turned and looked at her, then stepped calmly into the thicket. And the next instant she was among the spruces, too, confronting him with her rifle.
“Get out of these woods!” she said.
He looked into the girl’s deathly white face.
“Eve,” he said, “it will go hard with you if you kill me, I don’t want you to live out your life in prison.”
“I can’t help it. If you send my father to prison he’ll die. I’d rather die myself. Let us alone, I tell you! The man you’re after is nothing to us. We didn’t know he had stuck up anybody!”
“If he’s nothing to you, why do you point that rifle at me?”
“I tell you his is nothing to us. But my father wouldn’t betray a dog. And I won’t. That’s all. Now get out of these woods and come back to-morrow. Nobody’ll interfere with you then.”
Stormont smiled: “Eve,” he said, “do you really think me as yellow as that?”
Her blue eyes flashed a terrible warning, but, in the same instant, he had caught her rifle, twisting it out of her grasp as it exploded.
The detonation dazed her; then, as he flung the rifle into the water, she caught him by neck and belt and flung him bodily into the spruces.
But she fell with him; he held her twisting and struggling with all her superb and supple strength; staggered to his feet, still mastering her; and, as she struggled, sobbing, locked hot and panting in his arms, he snapped a pair of handcuffs on her wrists and flung her aside.
She fell on both knees, got up, shoulder deep in spruce, blood running from her lip over her chin.
The trooper took her by the arm. She was trembling all over. He took a thin steel chain and padlock from his pocket, passed the links around her steel-bound wrists, and fastened her to a young birch tree.
Then, drawing his pistol from its holster, he went swiftly forward through the spruces.
When he saw the cleft in the rocky flank of Star Peak, he walked straight to the black hole which confronted him.
“Come out of there,” he said distinctly.
After a few seconds Smith came out.
“Good God!” said Stormont in a low voice. “What are you doing here,
Darragh?”
Darragh came close and rested one hand on Stormont’s shoulder:
“Don’t crab my game, Stormont. I never dreamed you were in the
Constabulary or I’d have let you know.”
“Are you Hal Smith?”
“I sure am. Where’s the girl?”
“Handcuffed out yonder.”
“Then for God’s sake go back and ac as if you hadn’t found me. Tell
Mayor Chandler that I’m after bigger game than he is.”
“Clinch?”
“Stormont, I’m here to protect Mike Clinch. Tell the Mayor not to touch him. The men I’m after are going to try to rob him. I don’t want them to because — well, I’m going to rob him myself.”
Stormont stared.
“You must stand by me,” said Darragh. “So must the Mayor. He knows me through and through. Tell him to forget that hold-up. I stopped that man Sard. I frisked him. Tell the Mayor. I’ll keep in touch with him.”
“Of course,” said Stormont, “that settles it.”
“Thanks, old chap. Now go back to that girl and let her believe that you never found me.”
A slight smile touched their eyes. Both instinctively saluted. Then they shook hands; Darragh, alias Hal Smith, went back into the hemlock-shaded hole in the rocks; Trooper Stormont walked slowly down through the spruces.
When Eve saw him returning empty handed, something flashed in her pallid face like sunlight across snow.
Stormont passed her, went to the water’s edge, soaked a spicy handful of sphagnum moss in the icy water, came back and wiped the blood from her face.
The girl seemed astounded; her face surged in vivid colour as he unlocked the handcuffs and pocketed them and the little steel chain.
Her lip was bleeding again. He washed it with wet moss, took a clean handkerchief from the breast of his tunic and laid it against her mouth.
“Hold it there,” he said.
Mechanically she raised her hand to support the compress. Stormont went back to the shore, recovered her rifle from the shallow water, and returned with it.
As she made no motion to take it, he stood it against the tree to which he had tied her.
Then he came close to her where she stood holding his handkerchief against her mouth and looking at him out of steady eyes as deeply blue as gentian blossoms.
“Eve,” he said, “you win. But you won’t forgive me. … I wish we could be friends, some day. … We never can, now. … Good-bye.”
Neither spoke again. Then, of a sudden, the girl’s eyes filled; and Trooper Stormont caught her free hand and kissed it; — kissed it again and again, — dropped it and went striding away through the underbrush which was now all rosy with the rays of the sunset.
* * * * *
After he had disappeared, the girl, Eve, went to the cleft in the rocks above.
“Come out,” she said contemptuously. “It’s a good thing you hid, because there was a real man after you; and God help you if he ever finds you!”
Hal Smith came out.
“Pack in your meat,” said the girl curtly, and flung his rifle across her shoulder.
Through the ruddy afterglow she left the way homeward, a man’s handkerchief pressed to her wounded mouth, her eyes preoccupied with the strangest thoughts that ever had stirred her virgin mind.
Behind her walked Darragh with his load of venison and his alias, - and his tongue in his cheek.
Thus began the preliminaries toward the ultimate undoing of Mike Clinch.
Fate, Chance, and Destiny had undertaken the job in earnest.
* * * * *
Episode Two
The Ruling Passion
* * * * *
I
Nobody understood how Jose Quintana had slipped through the Secret
Service net spread for him at every port.
The United States authorities did not know why Quintana had come to America. They realised merely that he arrived for no good purpose; and they had meant to arrest and hold him for extradition if requested; for deportation as an undesirable alien anyway.
Only two men in America knew that Quintana had come to the United States for the purpose of recovering the famous “Flaming Jewel,” stolen by him from the Grand Duchess Theodorica of Esthonia; and stolen from Quintana, in turn, by a private soldier in an American Forestry Regiment, on leave in Paris. This soldier’s name, probably, was Michael Clinch.
One of the men who knew why Quintana might come to America was James Darragh, recently of the Military Intelligence, but now passing as a hold-up man under the name of Hal Smith, and actually in the employment of Clinch at his disreputable “hotel” at Star Pond in the North Woods.
The other man who knew why Quintana had come to America was Emanuel
Sard, a Levantine diamond broker of New York, Quintana’s agent in
America.
* * * * *
Now, as the October days passed without any report of Quintana’s detention, Darragh, known as Hal Smith at Clinch’s dump, began to suspect that Quintana had already slid into America through the meshes of the police.
If so, this desperate international criminal could be expected at
Clinch’s under some guise or other, piloted thither by Emanuel Sard.
So Hal Smith, whose duty was to wash dishes, do chores, and also to supply Clinch’s with “mountain beef” — or deer taken illegally — made it convenient to prowl every day in the vicinity of the Ghost Lake road.
He was perfectly familiar with Emanuel Sard’s squat features and parrot nose, having robbed Mr. Sard of Quintana’s cipher and of $4,000 at pistol point. And one morning, while roving around the guide’s quarters at Ghost Lake Inn, Smith beheld Sard himself on the hotel veranda, in company with five strangers of foreign aspect.
During the midday dinner Smith, on pretense of enquiring for a guide’s license, got a look at the Inn ledger. Sard’s signature was on it, followed by the names of Henri Picquet, Nicolas Salzar, Victor Georgiades, Harry Beck, and Jose Sanchez. And Smith went back through the wilderness to Star Pond, convinced that one of these gentlemen was Quintana, and the remainder, Quintana’s gang; and that they were here to do murder if necessary in their remorseless quest of “The Flaming Jewel.” Two million dollars once had been offered for the Flaming Jewel; and had been refused.
Clinch probably possessed it. Smith was now convinced of that. But he was there to rob Clinch of it himself. For he had promised the little Grand Duchess to help recover her Erosite jewel; and now that he had finally traced its probably possession to Clinch, he was wondering how this recovery was to be accomplished.
