Complete weird tales of.., p.1169
Complete Weird Tales of Robert W Chambers, page 1169
Mike. ‘Tain’t so far to Ghost Lake, n’them Troopers might hear you.”
After a silence, Clinch spoke, his voice heavy with reaction:
“Into that there packet is my little girl’s dower. It’s all I got to give her. It’s all she’s got to make her a lady. I’ll kill any man that robs her or that helps rob her. ‘N’that’s that.”
“Are you going on after Quintana?” asked Smith.
“I am. ‘N’these fellas are a-goin with me. N’ I want you should go back to my Dump and look after my girlie while I’m gone.”
“How long are you going to be away?”
“I dunno.”
There was a silence. Then,
“All right,” said Smith, briefly. He added: “Look out for sink-holes,
Mike.”
Clinch tossed his heavy rifle to his shoulder: “Let’s go,” he said in his pleasant, misleading way, “ — and I’ll shoot the guts outa any fella that don’t show up at roll call.”
* * * * *
III
For its size there is no fiercer animal than a rat.
Rat-like rage possessed Leverett. In his headlong flight through the dusk, fear, instead of quenching, added to his rage; and he ran on and on, crashing through the undergrowth, made wilder by the pain of vicious blows from branches which flew back and struck him in the dark.
Thorns bled him; unseen logs tripped him; he heard Clinch’s bullets whining around him; and he ran on, beginning to sob and curse in a frenzy of fury, fear, and shame.
Shots from Clinch’s rifle ceased; the fugitive dropped into a heavy, shuffling walk, slavering, gasping, gesticulating with his weaponless fists in the darkness.
“Gol ram ye, I’ll fix ye!” he kept stammering in his snarlin, jangling voice, broken by sobs. “I’ll learn ye, yeh poor danged thing, gol ram ye — —”
An unseen limb struck him cruelly across the face, and a moose-bush tripped him flat. Almost crazed, he got up, yelling in his pain, one hand wet and sticky from blood welling up from his cheek-bone.
He stood listening, infuriated, vindictive, but heard nothing save the panting, animal sounds in his own throat.
He strove to see in the ghostly obscurity around him, but could make out little except the trees close by.
But wood-rats are never completely lost in their native darkness; and Leverett presently discovered the far stars shining faintly through rifts in the phantom foliage above.
These heavenly signals were sufficient to give him his directions. Then the question suddenly came, which direction?
To his own shack on Stinking Lake he dared not go. He tried to believe that it was fear of Clinch that made him shy of the home shanty; but, in his cowering soul, he knew it was fear of another kind — the deep, superstitious horror of Jake Kloon’s empty bunk — the repugnant sight of Kloon’s spare clothing hanging from its peg — the dead man’s shoes ——
No, he could not go to Stinking Lake and sleep. … And wake with the faint stench of sulphur in his throat. … And see the worm-like leeches unfolding in the shallows, and the big, reddish water-lizards, livid as skinned eels, wriggling convulsively toward their sunless lairs. …
At the mere thought of his dead bunk-mate he sought relief in vindictive rage — stirred up the smouldering embers again, cursed Clinch and Hal Smith, violently searching in his inflamed brain some instant vengeance upon these men who had driven him out from the only place on earth where he knew how to exist — the wilderness.
All at once he thought of Clinch’s step-daughter. The thought instantly scared him. Yet — what a revenge! — to strike Clinch through the only creature he cared for in all the world! … What a revenge! … Clinch was headed for Drowned Valley. Eve Strayer was alone at the Dump. … Another thought flashed like lightning across his turbid mind; — the packet!
Bribed by Quintana, Jake Kloon, lurking at Clinch’s door, had heard him direct Eve to take a packet to Owl Marsh, and had notified Quintana.
Wittingly or unwittingly, the girl had taken a packet of sugar-milk chocolate instead of the priceless parcel expected.
Again, carried in, exhausted, by a State Trooper, Jake Kloon had been fooled; and it was the packet of sugar-milk chocolate that Jake had purloined from the veranda where Clinch kicked it. For two cakes of chocolate Kloon had died. For two cakes of chocolate he, Earl Leverett, had become a man-slayer, a homeless fugitive in peril of his life.
He stood licking his blood-dried lips there in the darkness, striving to hatch courage out of the dull fury eating at a coward’s heart.
Somewhere in Clinch’s Dump was the packet that would make him rich. … Here was his opportunity. He had only to dare; and pain and poverty and fear — above all else fear — would end forever! …
* * * * *
When, at last, he came out to the edge of Clinch’s clearing, the dark
October heavens were but a vast wilderness of stars.
Star Pond, set to its limpid depths with the heavenly gems, glittered and darkled with its million diamond incrustations. The humped-up lump of Clinch’s Dump crouched like some huge and feeding night-beast on the bank, ringed by the solemn forest.
There was a kerosene lamp burning in Eve Strayer’s rooms. Another light — a candle — flickered in the kitchen.
Leverett, crouching, ran rat-like down to the barn, slid in between the ice house and the corn-crib, crawled out among the wilderness of weeds and lay flat.
The light burned steadily from Eve’s window.
* * * * *
IV
From his form among the frost-blackened rag-weeds, the trap-robber could see only the plastered ceiling of the bed chamber.
But the kerosene lamp cast two shadows on that — tall shadows of human shapes that stirred at times.
The trap-robber, scared, stiffened to immobility, but his little eyes remained fastened on the camera obscura above. All the cunning, patience, and murderous immobility of the rat were his.
Not a weed stirred under the stars where he lay with tiny, unwinking eyes intent upon the shadows on the ceiling.
* * * * *
The shadows on the ceiling were cast by Eve Strayer and her State
Trooper.
Eve sat on her bed’s edge, swathed in a lilac silk kimona — delicate relic of school days. Her bandaged feet, crossed, dangled above the rag-rug on the floor; her slim, tanned fingers were interlaced over the book on her lap.
Near the door stood State Trooper Stormont, spurred, booted, trig and trim, an undecided and flushed young man, fumbling irresolutely with the purple cord on his campaign-hat.
The book on Eve’s knees — another relic of the past — was Sigurd the Volsung. Stormont had been reading to her — they having found, after the half shy tentatives of new friends, a point d’appui in literature. And the girl, admitting a passion for the poets, invited him to inspect the bookcase of unpainted pine which Clinch had built into her bedroom wall.
Here it was he discovered mutual friends among the nobler Victorians — surprised to discover Sigurd there — and, carrying it to her bedside, looked leisurely through the half forgotten pages.
“Would you read a little?” she ventured.
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.
