IN WHICH I SPAR WITH DEATH
The past week, culminating on the night in I which I sit and write with barred door and shuttered windows, has been a hard and dangerous one for me. Three times have I escaped death so narrowly it would seem Providence had a hand in the game. On no occasion was the would-be assassin visible, but I knew well chance had not aimed these well directed blows at my life. I can't understand Buck's tactics. They are hidden, merciless, savage in their deadly intention. I had not thought he would stoop to this. I had eliminated this contingency when considering my plan of action. It was incredible, but no doubt lingers in my heart to-night. Buck Steele is trying to murder me secretly, and in such a way that it would seem the result of an accident. His plots suggest the cunning of an unsettled mind, but, while it certainly is strained under the force of his mad passion, I do not believe Buck's brain is unbalanced. He wants me out of the way, but at the same time he wants to avoid any odium, and be free to live his life here at Hebron. He knows that if he kills me openly it will mean, at the least, exile. I have thought long and often over the problem, and I am sure I have come upon the right solution. That he does not compel a meeting which could result in a fair fight, from which no especial blame would revert to him should he prove the victor, is simply because he is afraid to undergo the risk—to accept the possibility of being killed instead of killing. I do not mean by this that he is a coward, but his desire for Celeste has so wrought upon him that he is casting aside all chances for defeat, though his sense of honor and fair play, if he had any, goes with them. He has become a scheming machine, and a most formidable one, I must confess. Now I will make a brief record of what has taken place the last seven days.
Saturday night, at bedtime, I debated the question of closing the Lodge, following the discovery of the final, crimson warning. I hesitated to confess to myself that I had begun to feel fear, but something had waked within me that whispered I must be careful from that hour. I don't think I would have known this feeling had my enemy been open and fair in his movements. But it is human nature to dread the invisible terror which lurks in the dark, and I knew that I was doing the sensible thing when I barred my door and dropped the shutter of the window next my cot. I made this shutter secure by a long hook which fitted into a large staple. Before I blew out the lamp, I looked at the other window for a long time. At last I decided that Buck could not squeeze his bulk through the opening, and went to bed.
I fell asleep quickly, although my mind was not at ease. This mental condition must have led to my waking about midnight, which was an unprecedented thing. I lay and listened. I heard something, and it was not the wind; for, though a breeze was soughing in the pines without, the sound of footsteps was distinctly audible. They paused at the door, passed on to the closed window, paused again, then went around to the open window. Quietly I slid my hand under my pillow and drew out my revolver. Luckily, I lay facing the small opening. Otherwise I would have feared to turn, on account of the noise the act would have involved. The square aperture was barely discernible, and I judged from this the night was cloudy. Fixing my gaze on the window with the utmost intensity, I raised my weapon and waited, determining at the same time not to fire until I saw that my life was in danger. A formless shape blotted the square of less dense gloom, and for a time there was silence. I think the prowler was trying to locate me, and I breathed softly, making no sound. The wait was interminable to me, though in reality I suppose it was not over a minute. Then the shape at the window swayed from side to side, noiselessly, sank down, to reappear at once. I heard a rustling, a muffled tattoo like a dry bean pod makes in an autumn gust, and while my mind was yet filled with wonder as to what was going to happen, the shape twisted grotesquely and I heard a slithering as of one body over another. The next instant something cold and crawly struck my upheld wrist, slid across it, and dropped with a fleshy thud on the floor. Horror gripped me then. Horror supreme and terrible. I could have shrieked had my voice not been shut in my breast. I trembled from head to foot, and icy waves swept me all over. What was that? What could it have been but——At that moment one of the most appalling and nerve-racking sounds arose that ever turned a mortal's blood to water, and his brave courage into craven cowardice. It was the hair-raising warning of an angered rattlesnake! With a snarling cry of sheer terror I sprang up in bed and fired at the window—three times before I could control my forefinger, which was acting automatically. The act was spontaneous. I did not shoot with the desire to hit anybody. None of the bullets passed through the window, as I discovered the next morning. Following the reports was the sound of some one running, accompanied by a second whirring rattle. Could that thing see in the dark? Was it preparing to leap upon me? When the rattling ceased this time I knew it would spring. Dashing the cover from me I threw myself toward the foot of the bed, a clammy perspiration bursting out upon me as I did so. I reached the floor. As I stretched a shaking hand toward the spot where I knew the table was, to my ears came the evil sound of the impact of the reptile's body against the edge of the cot, and its subsequent fall to the planks beneath. In the stark stillness followed the sibilant sliding of fold over fold as the monster coiled afresh—whispers of a hideous doom. My palsied fingers touched the table, and presently I was on top of it, crouching among my books and manuscripts, feeling feebly for the lamp and the matches. Before I could make a light it sprang again, again failed to surmount the cot, and dropped back. Four matches broke in my clumsy grip, but the fifth struck. I got the lamp alight before I turned. The sight was awesome enough, but far better the visible menace than the death-dealing thing which moved in darkness. It was coiled there, just at the edge of my bed. Great, thick, fleshy, splotched folds interwoven into a sinister spiral, from the center of which arose the rattle-capped tail, now vibrating with the rapidity of an alarm bell. In front was reared the repulsive head; flat, gem-eyed. When I looked upon this world-old emblem of treachery and guile, my normal being became reëstablished with a suddenness almost amounting to a wrench. Now that I saw, and knew; now that my brain could comprehend the exact situation, and handle it, I became a man once more. But I would offer no apology for my conduct the few preceding minutes. If it appears contemptible, it must remain so. But I was never nearer dead from plain, simple fright than I was during that time.
I grew calm almost at once. The snake was dazed by the light, and made no third assault, though still retaining his fighting posture, and sending out that indescribable alarm now and then. I had dropped my revolver when I threw myself from the cot, and now saw the weapon lying among the bedclothes near the foot. I was master of myself again. Quietly stepping down, I secured the revolver, and ten seconds later it was all over. Then I opened the door and flung the carcass outside, came in and barricaded the entrance again. No longer did I hesitate about the open window, but went and fastened it in the same manner I had the other. My foot struck some object. It was a pasteboard shoe box of extraordinary size. I picked it up and walked nearer the lamp. One end was slit down at the corners so that when the top was lifted it would fall, as on a hinge.
I placed the box on the table, took a stiff drink of whisky, found my pipe, and lit up. I needed bracing, for when I grasped the full significance of this foul and devilish attack, a physical nausea came. The liquor brought a reaction, and I sat down in my nightshirt, puffing vigorously and regarding the big shoe box in a fascinated way. There were rattlesnakes about—plenty of them. I had heard them and seen them on my many journeys through the wilderness, but I had always given them undisputed possession of the especial territory they happened to be occupying when we met. Buck had caught one; a patriarch from his size. The capture was not difficult. These reptiles' lidless eyes have a very short range of vision. A careful man with a forked stick can scotch one whenever he wishes. The transfer to a box was also simple. All of this he had done, and had then come in the middle of the night with the fell intent of dropping that thing on me, asleep. I don't think I have ever heard or read of a project equally as dastardly and devoid of all feeling. It was something the very devil would shudder to confess.
The second attempt to remove me in an apparently natural manner came Tuesday.
Sunday and Monday I kept to the plateau. I did not believe the smith had reached that point of desperation where he would shoot me down openly, and it was out of the question for me to remain a prisoner in the Lodge. I had no doubt that I was watched, although I neither saw nor heard anything to confirm this suspicion.
I measured the rattler before burying it, and found it five feet long and four and a half inches thick at the largest part. It was of mammoth proportions for the Kentucky knobs, where they seldom exceeded three feet in length. I was glad when the noisome thing was out of sight.
Tuesday morning the thought came to me that perhaps Buck had fallen in the clutches of the law. I was aware of a sensation of relief at the probability, and the fact that two days and nights had passed without any untoward manifestation would appear to render the idea altogether reasonable. Bart Crawley, furious and revengeful, had started hotfoot for the county seat Saturday to issue a warrant. It was the duty of the sheriff or a deputy to serve it at once, and take the offender into custody. I resolved to go to Hebron and find out. I knew I was taking a great risk, for the road was lonely and secluded, and there was the thick forest to traverse before reaching Lizard Point. No man could wish for better surroundings in which to commit a hidden crime. And, however watchful I might be, I would stand no chance whatever with my life should an effort be made against it. There was not a rod of ground along the entire route where an ambush could not have been successfully laid. The outlook was depressing, but I decided upon the venture anyway, for could I know the smith was lodged in jail, a grievous burden would be lifted from my mind.
There were no precautions I could take before starting forth. I simply bore my stout stick in my left hand, and kept my right in the side pocket of my coat, clasping the handle of my revolver. That was all I could do. A sense of foolhardiness enveloped me as I strode down from the plateau along the tree-bordered, vine-grown way. Would a truly well balanced person thus jeopardize his life? Most likely he would not. But a certain recklessness of spirit had come upon me, begotten of the Dryad's cruel absence, my long wait, and the abrupt aggressiveness of Buck. When a man's temperament becomes surcharged with a sentiment of this color, you may look for him to do things which had not even bordered his existence in saner moods. As I proceeded without molestation, a sort of dogged defiance gained ascendency and my head went higher, while my face became set in a mask of determination.
I saw no one. I heard nothing but the peaceful sounds of Nature and her creatures. Surely Buck was in the toils, or he never would have let this golden opportunity go by unemployed. When I came to the tree-bridge my apprehensions had vanished; I did not dread the remainder of the journey. I was conscious of a sharp shock of pain when I looked at the still empty house where Celeste lived. Had I yielded to the importunity of the eager voices which began to clamor in my soul at the sight, I speedily would have become undone. I have not written of the terrific fight I have had since my sane self conquered that night on the peak, but the reason for this is that I do not want to appear absolutely silly in the eyes of those who may read these words. But it took all that was in me to hold to the hard path of sanity and common sense. My love for her of the wheat-gold hair—
Quickly I crossed the bridge and turned toward Hebron, setting my teeth on my lower lip in firm resolve, and walking rapidly.
When I came within view of the hamlet I halted and listened. No ringing sound floated across to me from the shop; the forge was still. I went on, more slowly. Everything seemed to support the theory that my enemy had been arrested. The smithy was open, but empty; the fire was dead. I pushed forward to the store. Mr. Todler (I had learned his name only the Saturday before) was not sitting on the porch this morning, and for good reason. The sun was blazing hot, and fell squarely upon the cracker box where the storekeeper was wont to rest. It is true he might have removed the box to the other side of the door, where the sun did not reach, but this would have involved some effort. I went in. At first I thought the place vacant, and stood listening to some green flies buzzing and butting their foolish heads against the window panes—panes so dirty that they looked like mica. Then I saw Mr. Todler. He was stretched upon the dry goods counter in a space about seven feet clear, his head resting upon a thick bolt of unbleached cotton, a newspaper over his face. Back of him were other bolts of different kinds, piled one upon another, and on top of the whole lay a tortoise-shell cat, slumbering peacefully. Mr. Todler was slumbering, too, but not peacefully. The store was taking care of itself.
Assuming that this singular person went to sleep with the expectation of being aroused should a customer perchance arrive, I removed the newspaper, hoping thus to waken him. But the sweet bonds which held him were not to be loosened so lightly. He snored on, and I found myself regarding his grimy collar, his frayed, soiled, green-and-yellow necktie—one of the ready-made kind, where you stick a band through a hole and it catches on a pin. I grasped his shoulder and shook him, for the information I sought was of the first importance. He uttered a sound which was the mingling of a grunt and a groan, and began to bat his heavy lids slowly.
"Whut yo' want?" he muttered, thick-tongued because of sleep which still pressed upon him.
"Is Buck Steele in jail?" I asked, quickly, for I saw symptoms which pointed toward another period of unconsciousness.
"Buck?" he said, faintly, and in a way which led me to believe that he had not comprehended my question. His eyes had shut again.
"Yes, Buck!" I cried, shaking him a second time, and lifting my voice to a hard key. "Bart Crawley went for a warrant Saturday. Has the sheriff got him yet? Answer yes or no, and I won't bother you any more!"
Mr. Todler neither rose nor stirred under my vehement words, but his eyes came open listlessly, he blinked at me for a few seconds, and replied:
"He wa'nt tuk w'en I we'n to sleep. Whut's more, he ain't a-goin' to git tuk—not Buck!"
This lengthy speech must have been exhausting, for Mr. Todler sighed wearily at its conclusion, turned his head with a grimace, and slowly dragged the newspaper over his face again.
I did not thank him. The news had been too hard to win, and was too unsatisfactory.
The man was right. I saw clearly on the instant that Buck would never submit to incarceration. He had graver business on hand than simply obeying the law's behest.
I began the return tramp with my spirit cast down and troubled. If Jeff Angel only would come, and bring the Dryad! I would not—I could not leave before her home-coming. Though a bloodthirsty blacksmith lurked behind every tree in the locality, yet would I stay. If the next few days found her back, I might manage to elude Buck, and get us away safely. Us! Yes, she should go with me. Although I had made no declaration, some intuition told me that all would be well could I once more stand in her presence. Enough had come to my knowledge to merit this assurance.
I turned from the highway and took the knob road going past Lizard Point. About a half-mile from the pike, the dirt road ran under a cliff for a number of rods; a sheer limestone precipice fifty or sixty feet high. It was here, although introspectively engrossed almost to the point of abstraction, that I suddenly knew a danger threatened me. I was striding swiftly along, and when the thought came I stopped abruptly. Two more steps would have stretched me dead. For instantly I heard a low whistling sound which gathered volume, something whizzed downward before my face, so close that I felt the air from its passage and jumped back. A huge stone, large as a half-bushel, struck the soft earth almost at my feet, rebounded, and rolled over into a patch of fennel ten feet distant.
I looked up, rage giving me a daring which mocked at risk. Where I stood I made yet an excellent target, but I did not think of this then. A harsh laugh drifted down; I saw the thick foliage on the lip of the precipice become violently agitated, and I fancied I heard the cracking of dry twigs, as under a heavy, careless step. I could not follow, though in my heart that moment I had the fierce desire to slay. I had never known this before. It was awful—but it was also sweet! I could have killed that creeping coward above me and laughed in joy. Something became unfettered within me which I never knew I possessed. Something which for the moment I could not have restrained had the object of my wrath stood before me. In that instant centuries were bridged, and my forebears of the stone age had a fitting representative in my being. This wave of primal, mindless passion which bade me destroy ruthlessly did not subside at once, and it was only after I had pursued my way for some time that I experienced the resurgent flow of my normal self.
I did not anticipate a second attack before I reached home. Each of these cowardly efforts had been planned in advance, and had either succeeded no one could have pointed at Buck Steele as my slayer. I was safe for another day, at least, so, gaining a temporary relief from this fact, I trudged on moodily to the Lodge.
Next day at noon, as I turned from the well with a bucket of water in my hand, I saw a belted and booted figure coming toward me from the spot where the road led up. The stranger had an athletic bearing, wore a cheap straw hat much out of shape, and carried a rifle in the hollow of his arm. I advanced to meet him, for I guessed his mission at once.
"You're the sheriff of this county?" I asked pleasantly, setting my bucket down, and shaking hands.
The man took his hat off and drew his shirt sleeve across his streaming face. The imprint of his hatband showed a red bar across his white forehead.
"Nope; deputy. Been huntin' a blacksmith fur the las' four days, 'n' it's worse 'n huntin' four-leaf clover."
He chuckled, as though the task was not as onerous as his words implied, and hitched his trousers.
"Plenty of room to hide out here," I agreed. "Come over to the house and have a drink. You seem hot."
"Well, I reck'n. Bad time o' year fur a manhunt."
He walked beside me to a bench, and when he had greedily swallowed three cups of water I asked him to sit down and rest a while. The invitation pleased him, and presently we had launched into an animated conversation. I soon learned that he had been in and about Hebron most of his time; that he had not even caught a glimpse of his quarry, and that someone in the hamlet had suggested that he come to see me. A moment's reflection showed me that I could not make a confidant of the officer, much as I wished to, for an explanation of Buck's animosity would be in order. This I could not give without bringing in the name of a third party, and exposing to a chance acquaintance the cherished secret in my heart. No, Buck and I must settle this affair alone, and in silence. So I told the deputy instead that I was present when the mule was killed, and that it actually was accomplished with a single blow from the fist. Whereupon, he declared that he was glad to have Bart Crawley's statement verified, as most of the citizens of Cedarton had taken it with a grain of salt, but personally he believed it true. Then he became quite chatty, and proceeded to relate some of the exploits of Buck's father, a giant who for girth and stature had surpassed his son. I listened politely to the rambling narrative, taking much comfort in the simple presence of my caller.
"Th' ol' man finally went crazy," concluded the deputy; "yellin', whoopin' crazy, 'n' jumped off a bluff in the river one winter night."
"Went crazy?"
My lips repeated the two words involuntarily, and I turned to the man as though I had not heard aright. The statement formed a portent of dread to my mind.
"Yep; whoopin' crazy," confirmed the cheery voice. "He got crossed some way with somebody 'n' worried hisself wild. Ol' people tell me it's a fam'ly failin'—that mos' of 'em end that way.... This Buck, now, hidin' out this-a-way. 'Tain't nat'r'l, is it?... I dunno."
He shook his head and gazed out over the wide forest with drawn brows.
I did not reply, but slowly reached for my pipe.
"When a feller's in office 'n' 's give a war'int, he's got to serve it, or go yeller. I didn't hanker fur this here 'p'intment, I'm free to say, 'n' if I'd a-knowed Buck's a-hidin' out, be durned if I b'lieve I'd 'a' come! Some'n' 's eatin' on Buck 'sides killin' that mule—you can't tell me!... Well, I mus' be scoutin' on." He got on his feet, drank another cup of water, and stood for a moment gripping the muzzle of his rifle with both hands, its stock grounded between his feet. "Don't s'pose you've laid eyes on 'im'?" he added, in a softer, musing tone.
"No; not since he walked out of the shop that day."
Suddenly the deputy wheeled and faced me.
"Pardner," he said, seriously enough considering the almost bantering note he had formerly employed; "I b'lieve Buck's goin' the same way his pappy did!"
"Why?"
I tried to hold my voice to a brave level, but the monosyllable rang hollow.
"The signs ain't right," came the instantaneous reply. "Buck'd never'd 'a' laid out that mule if he'd been hisseff, in the firs' place. He's shoed young mules by the dozen. In the nex' place he'd 'a' settled with Bart instead o' spittin' in 'is face 'n' damnin' ever'body 'n' the law, too. I've got a notion to lose this pesky war'int 'n' go back to where people live!"
He moodily pressed his hand to a pocket in his shirt, and I caught the rustle of paper. Then he laughed softly, said good-by rather abruptly, and strode away.
I shall not attempt to make a record of the thoughts which assailed me after the deputy had gone.
Yesterday came the third attempt on my life.
Believing now that my rival's mind was affected, and that he had received the fixed and determined idea of making away with me in some manner which would appear wholly natural, I no longer remained within the Lodge, or kept to the restricted limits of the plateau. I walked abroad, always careful and watchful, it is true, and keeping my feet from suspicious paths. My longing for the Dryad had become a sort of mania, and each morning I arose with the fervent hope that that day would bring her back home. How I looked for the ragged, uncouth shape of Jeff Angel! But his grotesque figure remained absent, and I was left to unfruitful contemplation, a prey to dread.
Yesterday I chose a new route. Inaction was past endurance, and my daily rambles were all that sustained me. It was midafternoon when I found myself on the flank of a precipitous knob, several miles from home. I had proceeded cautiously for quite a distance, as my aimless steps had led me to what really was a perilous position. A massive ledge of stone cropped out of the knob at the place where I traversed it, and below was an unbroken fall of many feet, into a valley thickly grown with trees. I stopped to enjoy the scene, for even in my present mental turmoil the sight demanded recognition and appreciation. I leaned forward and out, retaining my balance by a careful exercise of certain muscles. The verdant glory of the all-embracing hills, the limitless sweep of the tree-clad ranges and valleys, and the bosky tangle of the spot beneath me, combined to work keenly upon my sensibilities. I loved Nature. I worshiped in the vine-draped, bloom-lit courts of the untamed wild; in the temple not made by hands whereof each towering tree was a column, and each moss-hung bowlder an altar. It was here my soul exulted, where the tinkle of a hidden rivulet made dulcet music, and the attar from many a flower's chalice spread abroad its peerless incense—Nature's undefiled offering to Nature's God. I was uplifted in that moment, as I leaned forward and drank in the manifold delights displayed freely for my hungry eyes.
In the midst of this elation of spirit, a fiendish shout of triumph rang in my ears, and I felt a heavy hand upon my back shoving me violently forward—to destruction. Too late I realized my indiscretion. I had allowed sentiment to usurp the place of judgment. While I was reveling in the matchless scene Nature had prepared for my delectation, and had offered without reserve, Buck had stolen cat-footed upon me. I wrenched my body about in a furious effort to retain my foothold, but the next moment I was falling through space. Like a stone I fell, down—down. I crashed through the top of an oak, struck a limb, passed it in some way, fell, struck another, slid along it, and brought up against the trunk with a fearful jar.
For a moment I did not attempt to move. Then slowly I got astride the limb and made an investigation. But for a pain in my side, where the contact with the first limb had bruised it, I had escaped as by a miracle. Thinking that Buck might make a detour, and come to see if I really had perished, I descended to the ground as quickly as possible, and returned to the Lodge in a roundabout way.
Most of to-day I have spent under roof, brooding over the somber problem which hourly grows more threatening. Matters have about reached a climax. I cannot veil the truth from myself. If the smith is insane there is no telling what move he will make next. An unbalanced mind is never steadfast, and any minute he may abandon the tactics thus far employed, and adopt safer and surer means to compass my destruction.
It is fearfully hot in here, because the room is shut tight. I would not think once now of lying down to sleep with a window open. A few more days will tell the story. I am unnaturally calm, I believe, considering all that has occurred this week. I am not frightened, but I am anxious. I don't want to mar these peaceful pages with the narration of a tragedy. I don't want to confess to them how I slew a fellow creature. I am a man of peace. But it comes to me to-night that forces beyond my control are at work. That, unless Celeste comes soon, the concluding act in the drama will be played. It may be that I shall not be alive to chronicle its end. It may be that I shall go down to death with my love-dream unfinished. But I do not believe this. If worse comes to worse, I believe that I shall be the conqueror. I have no reason for this, other than the supreme faith I have in my ability to cope with the smith of Hebron.
I pray it all may end speedily, for I have borne as much as mortal can.