Complete weird tales of.., p.736
Complete Weird Tales of Robert W Chambers, page 736
No doubt at all that he already crossed her trail at Munsell’s agency. Also, she had bid in one of the only two copies of Valdez.
First he had seen her reading it with every symptom of profound interest. Then she had gone to the sale and bid in one of the copies. Then he had heard from Munsell about a woman who had bought land along the Causeway the day before he had made his own purchase.
And now once more he had struck her swift, direct trail, only to learn that she was still one day in advance of him!
In his mental panic he remembered that his title was secure. That thought comforted him for a few moments, until he began to wonder whether the land he had acquired was really sufficient to cover a certain section of perhaps half an acre along the Causeway.
According to his calculations he had given himself ample margin in every direction, for the spot he desired to control ought to lie somewhere about midway between Lot 200 and Lot 210.
Had he miscalculated? Had she miscalculated? Why had she purchased that strip from half of Lot 210 to Lot 220?
There could be only one answer: this clever and astoundingly enterprising young girl had read Valdez, had decided to take a chance, had proved her sporting spirit by backing her judgment, and had started straight as an arrow for the terrifying territory in question.
Hers had been first choice of Mr. Munsell’s lots; she had deliberately chosen the numbers from half of 210 to 220. She was perfectly ignorant that he, White, had any serious intentions in Seminole County. Therefore, it had been her judgment, based on calculations from the Valdez map, that half of Lot 210 and the intervening territory including Lot 220, would be ample for her to control a certain spot — the very spot which he himself expected to control.
Either he or she had miscalculated. Which?
Dreadfully worried, he sat in silence beside his taciturn driver, gazing at the flanking forest through which the white road wound.
The only habitation they passed was fruit-drying ranch No. 7, in the wilderness — just this one sunny oasis in the solemn half-light of the woods.
White did not remember the road, although when a child he must have traversed it to the Causeway. Nor when he came in sight of the Causeway did he recognise it, where it ran through a glade of high, silvery grass set sparsely with tall palmettos.
But here it was, and the cracker turned his mules into it, swinging sharply to the left along Coakachee Creek and proceeding for about two miles, where a shell mound enabled him to turn his team.
A wagon could proceed no farther because the crumbling Causeway narrowed to a foot-path beyond. So here they unloaded; the cracker rested his mules for a while, then said a brief good-bye to White and shook the reins.
When he had driven out of sight, White started to drag his tent and tent-poles along the dike top toward his own property, which ought to lie just ahead — somewhere near the curve that the Causeway made a hundred yards beyond. For he had discovered a weather-beaten shingle nailed to a water-oak, where he had disembarked his luggage; and on it were the remains of the painted number 198.
Lugging tent and poles, he started along the Causeway, keeping a respectful eye out for snakes. So intent was he on avoiding the playful attentions of rattler or moccasin that it was only when he almost ran into it that he discovered another tent pitched directly in his path.
Of course he had expected to find her encamped there on the Causeway, but he was surprised, nevertheless, and his tent-poles fell, clattering.
A second later the flap of her tent was pushed aside, and his red-haired neighbour of the galleries stepped out, plainly startled.
* * *
XXVIII
SHE SEEMED TO be still more startled when she saw him: her blue eyes dilated; the colour which had ebbed came back, suffusing her pretty features. But when she recognised him, fear, dismay, astonishment, and anxiety blended in swift confusion, leaving her silent, crimson, rooted to the spot.
White took off his hat and walked up to where she stood.
“I’m sorry, Miss Sandys,” he said. “Only a few hours ago did I learn who it was camping here on the Causeway. And — I’m afraid I know why you are here.... Because the same reason that brought you started me the next day.”
She had recovered her composure. She said very gravely:
“I wondered when I saw you reading Valdez whether, by any possibility, you might think of coming here. And when you bought the other copy I was still more afraid.... But I had already secured an option on my lots.”
“I know it,” he said, chagrined.
“Were you,” she inquired, “the client of Mr. Munsell who tried to buy from me the other half of Lot 210?”
“Yes.”
“I wondered. But of course I would not sell it. What lots have you bought?”
“I took No. 200 to the northern half of No. 210.”
“Why?” she asked, surprised.
“Because,” he said, reddening, “my calculations tell me that this gives me ample margin.”
She looked at him in calm disapproval, shaking her head; but her blue eyes softened.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “You have miscalculated, Mr. White. The spot lies somewhere within the plot numbered from half of 210 to 220.”
“I am very much afraid that you have miscalculated, Miss Sandys. I did not even attempt to purchase your plot — except half of 210.”
“Nor did I even consider your plot, Mr. White,” she said sorrowfully, “and I had my choice. Really I am very sorry for you, but you have made a complete miscalculation.”
“I don’t see how I could. I worked it out from the Valdez map.”
“So did I.”
She had the volume under her arm; he had his in his pocket.
“Let me show you,” he began, drawing it out and opening it. “Would you mind looking at the map for a moment?”
Her dainty head a trifle on one side, she looked over his shoulder as he unfolded the map for her.
“Here,” he said, plucking a dead grass stem and tracing the Causeway on the map, “here lie my lots — including, as you see, the spot marked by Valdez with a Maltese cross.... I’m sorry; but how in the world could you have made your mistake?”
He turned to glance at the girl and saw her amazement and misunderstood it.
“It’s too bad,” he added, feeling profoundly sorry for her.
“Do you know,” she said in a voice quivering with emotion, “that a very terrible thing has happened to us?”
“To us?”
“To both of us. I — we — oh, please look at my map! It is — it is different from yours!”
With nervous fingers she opened the book, spread out the map, and held it under his horrified eyes.
“Do you see!” she exclaimed. “According to this map, my lots include the Maltese cross of Valdez! I — I — p-please excuse me — —” She turned abruptly and entered her tent; but he had caught the glimmer of sudden tears in her eyes and had seen the pitiful lips trembling.
On his own account he was sufficiently scared; now it flashed upon him that this plucky young thing had probably spent her last penny on the chance that Bangs had told the truth about “The Journal of Pedro Valdez.”
That the two maps differed was a staggering blow to him; and his knees seemed rather weak at the moment, so he sat down on his unpacked tent and dropped his face in his palms.
Lord, what a mess! His last cent was invested; hers, too, no doubt. He hadn’t even railroad fare North. Probably she hadn’t either.
He had gambled and lost. There was scarcely a chance that he had not lost. And the same fearful odds were against her.
“The poor little thing!” he muttered, staring at her tent. And after a moment he sprang to his feet and walked over to it. The flap was open; she sat inside on a camp-chair, her red head in her arms, doubled over in an attitude of tragic despair.
“Miss Sandys?”
She looked up hastily, the quick colour dyeing her pale cheeks, her long, black lashes glimmering with tears.
“Do you mind talking it over with me?” he asked.
“N-no.”
“May I come in?”
“P-please.”
He seated himself cross-legged on the threshold.
“There’s only one thing to do,” he said, “and that is to go ahead. We must go ahead. Of course the hazard is against us. Let us face the chance that Bangs was only a clever romancer. Well, we’ve already discounted that. Then let us face the discrepancy in our two maps. It’s bad, I’ll admit. It almost knocks the last atom of confidence out of me. It has floored you. But you must not take the count. You must get up.”
He paused, looking around him with troubled eyes; then somehow the sight of her pathetic figure — the soft, helpless youth of her — suddenly seemed to prop up his back-bone.
“Miss Sandys, I am going to stand by you anyway! I suppose, like myself, you have invested your last dollar in this business?”
“Y-yes.”
He glanced at the pick, shovel and spade in the corner of her tent, then at her hands.
“Who,” he asked politely, “was going to wield these?”
She let her eyes rest on the massive implements of honest toil, then looked confusedly at him.
“I was.”
“Did you ever try to dig with any of these things?”
“N-no. But if I had to do it I knew I could.”
He said, pleasantly: “You have all kinds of courage. Did you bring a shot-gun?”
“Yes.”
“Do you know how to load and fire it?”
“The clerk in the shop instructed me.”
“You are the pluckiest girl I ever laid eyes on.... You camped here all alone last night, I suppose?”
“Yes.”
“How about it?” he asked, smilingly. “Were you afraid?”
She coloured, cast a swift glance at him, saw that his attitude was perfectly respectful and sympathetic, and said:
“Yes, I was horribly afraid.”
“Did anything annoy you?”
“S-something bellowed out there in the swamp — —” She shuddered unaffectedly at the recollection.
“A bull-alligator,” he remarked.
“What?”
“Yes,” he nodded, “it is terrifying, but they let you alone. I once heard one bellow on the Tomoka when I was a boy.”
After a while she said with tremulous lips:
“There seem to be snakes here, too.”
“Didn’t you expect any?”
“Mr. Munsell said there were not any.”
“Did he?”
“Not,” she explained resolutely, “that the presence of snakes would have deterred me. They frighten me terribly, but — I would have come just the same.”
“You are sheer pluck,” he said.
“I don’t know.... I am very poor.... There seemed to be a chance.... I took it — —” Tears sprang to her eyes again, and she brushed them away impatiently.
“Yes,” she said, “the only way is to go on, as you say, Mr. White. Everything in the world that I have is invested here.”
“It is the same with me,” he admitted dejectedly.
They looked at each other curiously for a moment.
“Isn’t it strange?” she murmured.
“Strange as ‘The Journal of Valdez.’... I have an idea. I wonder what you might think of it.”
She waited; he reflected for another moment, then, smiling:
“This is a perfectly rotten place for you,” he said. “You could not do manual labour here in this swamp under a nearly vertical sun and keep your health for twenty-four hours. I’ve been in Trinidad. I know a little about the tropics and semi-tropics. Suppose you and I form a company?”
“What?”
“Call it the Valdez Company, or the Association of the Maltese Cross,” he continued cheerfully. “You will do the cooking, washing, housekeeping for two tents, and the mending. I will do the digging and the dynamiting. And we’ll go ahead doggedly, and face this thing and see it through to the last ditch. What do you think of it? Your claim as plotted out is no more, no less, valuable than mine. Both claims may be worthless. The chances are that they are absolutely valueless. But there is a chance, too, that we might win out. Shall we try it together?”
She did not answer.
“And,” he continued, “if the Maltese cross happens to be included within my claim, I share equally with you. If it chances to lie within your claim, perhaps I might ask a third — —”
“Mr. White!”
“Yes?”
“You will take two thirds!”
“What?”
“Two thirds,” she repeated firmly, “because your heavier labour entitles you to that proportion!”
“My dear Miss Sandys, you are unworldly and inexperienced in your generosity — —”
“So are you! The idea of your modestly venturing to ask a third! And offering me a half if the Maltese cross lie inside your own territory! That is not the way to do business, Mr. White!”
She had become so earnest in her admonition, so charmingly emphatic, that he smiled in spite of himself.
She flushed, noticing this, and said: “Altruism is a luxury in business matters; selfishness of the justifiable sort a necessity. Who will look out for your interests if you do not?”
“You seem to be doing it.”
Her colour deepened: “I am only suggesting that you do not make a foolish bargain with me.”
“Which proves,” he said, “that you are not much better at business than am I. Otherwise you’d have taken me up.”
“I’m a very good business woman,” she insisted, warmly, “but I’m too much of the other kind of woman to be unfair!”
“Commercially,” he said, “we both are sadly behind the times. To-day the world is eliminating its appendix; to-morrow it will be operated on for another obsolete and annoying appendage. I mean its conscience,” he added, so seriously that for a moment her own gravity remained unaltered. Then, like a faint ray of sunlight, across her face the smile glimmered. It was a winning smile, fresh and unspoiled as the lips it touched.
“You will take half — won’t you?” she asked.
“Yes, I will. Is it a bargain?”
“If you care to make it so, Mr. White.”
He said he did, and they shook hands very formally. Then he went out and pitched his tent beside hers, set it in order, lugged up the remainder of his equipment, buried the jars of spring water, and, entering his tent, changed to flannel shirt, sun-helmet, and khaki.
* * *
XXIX
A LITTLE LATER he called to her: she emerged from her tent, and together they sat down on the edge of the Causeway, with the two maps spread over their knees.
That both maps very accurately represented the topography of the immediate vicinity there could be no doubt; the only discrepancy seemed to lie in the situation of the Maltese cross. On White’s map the cross fell well within his half of Lot 210; in Jean Sandys’ map it was situated between her half of 210 and 220.
Plot it out as they might, using Mr. Munsell’s diagram, the result was always the same; and after a while they gave up the useless attempt to reconcile the differences in the two maps.
From where they were sitting together on the Causeway’s edge, they were facing due west. At their feet rippled the clear, deep waters of the swamp, lapping against the base of the Causeway like transparent little waves in a northern lake. A slight current disclosed the channel where it flowed out of the north western edges of the swamp, which was set with tall cypress trees, their flaring bases like silvery pyramids deep set in the shining ooze.
East of them the Coakachee flowed through thickets of saw-grass and green brier, between a forest of oak, pine, and cedar, bordered on the western side by palm and palmetto — all exactly as drawn in the map of Pedro Valdez.
The afternoon was cloudless and warm; an exquisite scent of blossoms came from the forest when a light breeze rippled the water. Somewhere in those green and tangled depths jasmine hung its fairy gold from arching branches, and wild oranges were in bloom. At intervals, when the breeze set from the east, the heavenly fragrance of magnolia grew more pronounced.
After a little searching he discovered the huge tree, far towering above oak and pine and palm, set with lustrous clusters, ivory and palest gold, exhaling incense.
“Wonderful,” she said under her breath, when he pointed it out to her. “This enchanted land is one endless miracle to me.”
“You have never before been in the South?”
“I have been nowhere.”
“Oh. I thought perhaps when you were a child — —”
“We were too poor. My mother taught piano.”
“I see,” he said gravely.
“I had no childhood,” she said. “After the public school, it was the book section in department stores.... They let me go last week. That is how I came to be in the Heikem galleries.”
He clasped his hands around one knee and looked out across the semi-tropical landscape.
Orange-coloured butterflies with wings like lighted lanterns fluttered along the edges of the flowering shrubs; a lovely purplish-black one with four large, white polka dots on his wings flitted persistently about them.
Over the sun-baked Causeway blue-tailed lizards raced and chased each other, frisking up tree trunks, flashing across branches: a snowy heron rose like some winged thing from Heaven, and floated away into the silvery light. And like living jewels the gorgeous wood-ducks glided in and out where the water sparkled among the cypress trees.
“Think,” he said, “of those men in armour toiling through these swamps under a vertical sun! Think of them, starved, haggard, fever racked, staggering toward their El Dorado! — their steel mail scorching their bodies, the briers and poison-grass festering their flesh; moccasin, rattler, and copperhead menacing them with death at every step; the poisoned arrows of the Indians whizzing from every glade!”
“Blood and gold,” she nodded, “and the deathless bravery of avarice! That was Spain. And it inflamed the sunset of Spanish glory.”
