CHAPTER VIII.
SOMEBODY IS GOING OUT.
The day slowly dragged by as Katie, half-crazed, sat on the low stool in the cabin, and pondered on her cruel fate. Hope seemed a mockery—she knew she was in the power of a most unprincipled villain, one who would halt at no deed, however violent, to gain an end.
Mere death she did not fear—it was the thought that it would nearly craze and ruin her lover, and would bow her father to a premature grave, that gave her anguish.
The most harrowing and painful thoughts harassed her, and she was almost unconscious when the door softly opened, and Downing came softly in.
He barred the door behind him, and folding his arms, regarded her steadily for a moment. He saw she was distressed and bowed by grief, and that she was very faint from the lack of nourishment, which she had not taken for nearly twenty-four hours. Though disliking to see her in this condition (as a man would dislike to see his pet dog lean and gaunt) he still felt a thrill of savage joy. Cruelty was his predominating trait.
“Miss Jeffries,” he said, softly.
She looked up in surprise, as she had not heard him enter. Then seeing who it was she grew pale and looked defiant.
“You will not answer?” he asked, in well assumed mournful reproach. “Miss Jeffries, I have come to give you another opportunity of ridding yourself of this hard life. I did say I would never return; but my ardent love for you has outweighed all feelings of anger or pique. Say, my dear Miss Jeffries, will you make yourself and me happy?”
She flashed on him a glance of exquisite scorn, then burst into wild weeping. He approached, and sinking down on his couch began to pluck a straw to pieces, idly.
“It’s all the same to me,” he said, indifferently, “whether you cry or laugh—at least in your present mood and state. Were you, however, my wife, it would grieve me to see you distressed. I love you ardently, devotedly; but conscious of my small chance of winning your affection in a fair way, I quell my good and better feelings and resort to foul ones. I am frank, you see.”
She turned her back upon him, and her pale face wore an expression of deep loathing.
Whatever hopes he had cherished were dissipated, his air-castles were demolished and felled to the ground, and chagrined, disappointed, all the malice of his treacherous nature seemed to leap into life.
Stepping to the door and opening it he said with his wicked smile:
“As you will, my bird; if you won’t sing by coaxing or threatening, you will have a dark cover over your cage; you stay here only to starve. Should you, when frantic with hunger and despair, offer to accept my conditions, I will not relent; here you are, and here you stay. Good-by!”
The door closed and was barred, his footsteps grew fainter and died away, and she was alone—this time to certain fate. Though her heart sunk and her brain reeled, yet she did not shrink—she would have died twice over rather than consort with such a fiend.
It was nearly sunset. Creeping to the door, where a wee bright light showed, she put her face close to it and peered out. It was a small chink, and by straining her eyes she could perceive objects at a little distance. In front, at the end of a path cut between a thick growth of willows lay a small craft lying on the bank. Just beyond she could see a small bit of black water. The craft was a “dug-out,” and in the stern was a paddle. Then she guessed where she was. Recollecting the assertion of the captain, that he was in command of a robber band, remembering Dutch Joe’s statements, and by putting several other things together, she made up her mind she was on the island in Shadow Swamp.
Heavens! if she could escape! There lay the craft, within a few yards. By reaching it she could paddle to the main land and hide in the forest!—in the gloomy, grim Dead-Man’s Forest!
She pushed the door gently. It moved. She felt it give to her touch, and heard the heavy log grate along the ground. Downing had been careless in fastening it. She drew back with beating heart, and sat on the stool sick with fear lest some one should come, and entering, discover the log’s slight resistance.
Footsteps approached, but they were not Downing’s. His were light end jaunty; these were heavy and slow. She shivered with apprehension lest the person should discover the change of position in the log.
The person was Fink. The captain had ordered him to stand guard over the cabin until relieved, his post to be at the rear of the building as the wall was weak on that side. So he stalked away toward it, just as the sun was setting.
She need not have been alarmed, for the second officer merely tramped around several times, then sat down at the rear.
Slowly the sun sunk below the tree-tops of the haunted forest; slowly the shades of the damp night stole on; and the watcher in the cabin waited for night, trembling.
Darkness came at length, black and damp. There had been a little loud laughter and coarse merriment at the other cabin just at sunset; now all was still. She heard some one come toward the rear of the cabin and speak to Fink. It was Bob Griffith, the scout.
“Come ter relieve yer, leftenant. How’s all inside?”
“Hunky. But she won’t last long.”
“Ay? How’s that?”
“She don’t git any thing ter nibble on.”
“So? Capt’in’s playin’ the game fine.”
“You bet! No use buckin’ ag’in’ him. Who’s after you on the watch?”
“Downing. From midnight till mornin’.”
Fink stalked away, and Griffith sat leaning against the cabin. Katie could hear him breathe, and draw at his everlasting pipe.
It was dark now, very dark. He arose, knocked the ashes from his pipe, whistled a bar of an old familiar hymn, and slowly sauntered round the cabin.
“God pity the gal!” he muttered. “Ay, fur thar’s no pity hyar for her. She’ll hev a sad life or death—it don’t make much odds which it is. I’ll keep my hand off her—poor gal!”
Sauntering around the house as he said this, he heard a faint sigh inside; a sigh long-drawn and sad.
“She heerd me,” he muttered. “Poor gal!”
He went back to his station, and, lighting his pipe, leaned his back up against the log walls; new and strange feelings arose within him, and he was—
Hist! was not that a light step inside? Was not that the sound of the door moving? Was some one coming in or going out? Yes; there was some one going out.
“Durn me ef I don’t feel cheap ter-night, helpin’ keep a nice gal close shet up ter be treated God knows how by the Cap’n! It’s too bad—too bad!”
He softly rose and took a step or two toward the door; he heard a noise there. He was aware that Downing was in the brown cabin asleep; he well knew no other durst venture to the white one at this time; what was up? He stooped and listened. There was a faint rustling as if of the dress of a female, and a steady grating was kept up on the hard ground near the door. He peeped at the log. It was slowly moving, propelled by an invisible force.
As he looked at the log, a fire came in his gray, cool eye, and he softly went back to his seat and sat down quietly.
“Poor, pooty gal! God bless her!”
And now a quite perceivable creak came to his ears, but he did not appear to notice it. He smoked on with senses on the alert. Then came a moment of silence.
Then a quick “swish.” He knew the sound. Then rapid footsteps, very light and airy; and, after a moment, dead silence. The guard peered round the corner. Away in the darkness he could see a dusky form at the boat-landing; some one was down there. Somebody was tampering with the craft, too; he heard a paddle drop across the gunwale.
“It’s none o’ my business!” he shortly declared. “I ain’t here to watch the canoe. I’m here to watch the shanty.”
Bob listened for some time like a chased coon, with his ear in the air and his eyes shining cunningly. Then he heard, very faintly, some one climb up the huge log on the opposite side of the water. Then he went down to the shore, on the side of the island furthest from the landing. Drawing a revolver, he placed his hat on the ground, and fired. The ball took out a wee piece of the crown. Then he fired again and hallooed for help.
“Turn out! turn out!” he yelled. “Thar’s inimies on the island.”
He sprung into the water and splashed around noisily, firing twice in rapid succession. He could hear the night watch at the brown cabin cry, “Turn out! turn out!” and he could hear him coming down at a rapid run.
“This way, Bill!” he cried, running out of the water; “this way!”
In a few moments the whole robber force stood grouped around Griffith.
He told them he had been shot at, and showed the hole in his hat; he told them a foe was on the island. A search immediately began, and Downing darted toward the cabin.
The door was open. Wild with apprehension he struck a light and peered into the cabin.
It was deserted!
He went down to the boat landing, running as he never ran before. When he got there he found the boat was gone. His bird had flown!
“Balked! fooled!” he hissed, in rage. “Gone, gone, gone!”
“Ha! ha! ha!” rung out a voice from the mainland. “Gone, gone, gone! ha! ha! ha!”
He shuddered; then sat down on the ground, scared, frightened. For once, Captain Downing was afraid of the darkness.
It was very dark, and the ghostly echoes of that cursed voice seemed as if they would never die away. Sick with rage and disappointment, with an icy sweat on his forehead, he staggered back to the cabin. He had recognized the voice!