THE KNOCKOUT
Vane came up with her within a mile of the jump-off—and this was closer than he had hoped for. She neither welcomed nor reproved him, but only remarked in a noncommittal voice that he had not been long. He passed ahead of her, to break trail, and saw that she was back-tracking on her outward course. He tramped in silence, glancing frequently over his shoulder. Presently he found himself hanging on his stride for her; and at last she called, “I must rest a minute.”
He found her a seat among the raking boughs of a deep-drifted blow-down. Neither of them spoke during the brief rest; and in the forest gloom the face of each was no more than a blurred mask to the other’s eyes. She soon stood up and moved on, and again he passed her and led the way. In places the gloom shut down in absolute dark, with the vague glimmer of rifts of faint starshine far behind and far ahead. It was in such a place that he became suddenly aware that she was no longer moving close after the dragging tails of his rackets. He halted and stood for a few seconds, listening. He moved back slowly; and soon he came upon her crouched, sobbing, in the snow.
“It is my foot, my ankle,” she said in broken and contrite tones. “I fell and hurt it—before you overtook me.”
He knelt before her. This was his fault. She had fallen and hurt herself in trying to escape from him. It would have been kinder of him to have minded his own business.
“And you’ve walked all this distance on it!” he exclaimed. “I am a fool! Which is it? Sprained, do you think, or only a bit of a twist? May I feel? Let me bandage it or something.”
“The right,” she said. “I don’t think it’s seriously injured—but it hurts like anything—and I have to get home before—dawn.”
“Does that hurt?”
“Yes, yes!”
“I’m sorry. But it doesn’t seem to be swollen. Slightly, perhaps. A strain—I think that’s all. I’ll tie it tight. I have a simply huge handkerchief here. Just the thing. How does that feel?”
“Better—much better—thank you. I can go on now—slowly—a little way at a time.”
“No, you can’t. The weight of the snowshoe, the lift of it at every step, would play the mischief with it. I must take your snowshoes off and carry you.”
“You must not! It would kill you.”
“You are not heavy. And this is all my fault. You made this trip to warn me; and you hurt your ankle running away from me. All my fault—and I shall be glad to carry you, really.”
She protested; but he went ahead gently but firmly, removed her snowshoes from her feet and hung them on her shoulder and then crouched and hoisted and jolted her into that ancient and practical position for carrying known as pig-a-back. Doubtless it is more romantic to carry a lady in distress in your arms, and more dignified to pull her along on a sled, and even trundling her in a wheelbarrow (wind and weather permitting) may seem a more conventional way to some people—but every woodsman and soldier knows that pig-a-back is the style when a job of this sort has to be done for its own sake. Take the weight, be it dead-weight or live-weight, on and above the shoulders. Keep under it. Don’t let it get behind you, dragging your shoulders down and back and throwing your feet up and forward. This was old stuff to Vane—yes, and to the girl; so he hitched her as high as he could without the loss of a steadying back-handed hold on her, stooped forward slightly and went ahead at a fair pace.
He didn’t talk; and evidently the young woman had nothing to say. After a silent mile he halted, and let his load slide gently to the snow at his heels. They rested side by side. He lit a cigarette.
“It’s easy,” he said. “We’ll make it handily.”
“You are very strong,” she said. “And the stronger a man is, the kinder he should be. You are strong enough, and you should be kind enough, to let kindness overrule your pride.”
“Pride? I don’t know what you mean by that, upon my word!”
“You are not proud?”
“Certainly not. What of?”
“I’m glad. Then you’ll go away to-morrow, back to New York.”
“But I explained all that!”
“Nothing is keeping you here but your silly pride. You are too proud to allow people like the Danglers, or a little thing like a threat of death, to change your plans.”
“You are wrong. I don’t want to go away, that’s all. I want a horse, and I’m interested in—in the country. And I can’t believe that the Danglers would dare to go as far as that even if they were able.”
“They will think of a way—a safe way. I mean it. I beg you to go away to-morrow! Think of what life means to you—and those who love you! This isn’t a war. There would be nothing glorious in death here.”
“I believe you.”
“And think of your wife!”
“I haven’t any—but it would be rough on my mother, I’ll admit.”
“Rough on her? It would break her heart! And the woman you love—who loves you—who is waiting for you. Consider her feelings. Doesn’t her happiness mean anything to you? As much as your pride?”
Van scratched his chin.
“I believe there’s a great deal in what you say, but what about your ankle?”
“Please don’t be silly. I—this is serious—so serious that—I want to cry.”
“Not that, for heaven’s sake! I’ll be sensible. I’ll go away to-morrow. I’ll eat my pride and all that sort of thing and beat it.”
“Thank God!”
“Yes, I see that it is the best thing for me to do—from the point of view of the people who love me so distractedly. I’ll run away to-morrow—on one condition. You must promise to keep me in touch with your ankle.”
“That is—mean—unworthy of a—man—like you. Making fun. Cheating. I’m not—joking. I want to—save you—and you think—I’m a fool.”
“No, no! I’m the fool. I’m not joking. I’ll go away and save my life if you will promise to let me know about your ankle. How it’s recovering day by day and that sort of thing. That’s not asking a great deal—in return for my eating my pride and permitting you to save my life. Now I am serious. I mean that.”
“Will you give me your word of honor to go to-morrow if I promise to—to put your anxiety at rest about my ankle?”
“Yes.”
“Then you have my promise.”
“Good! Please accept my word of honor that I’ll skip out to-morrow. Now we had better be toddling on our way again. Climb on.”
“But this isn’t fair—making you carry me. No, it isn’t! It is cheating. I have your promise—so I’ll keep my promise now. I—my—there isn’t anything wrong with it.”
“With what? Your promise? Of course not. Mine is all right too.”
“I mean—I mean my ankle. There isn’t anything—the matter with my ankle. I was—only pretending.”
“Ah! Pretending? I see. At least that is to say I hope to get an eye on it in a minute. I seem to be unusually dull to-night—this morning. You didn’t hurt your ankle. Is that what you mean?”
“Yes. I didn’t hurt it. I didn’t even fall down.”
“It’s exceedingly amusing—as far as I can see. You got a free ride; and if you don’t mind, I don’t. But it seems hardly enough to be so amazingly clever and deep about. The ride is all you gained by it, so far as I can see.”
“And your promise.”
“But what had that to do with—well——”
“We must hurry.”
He fastened on her snowshoes and led the way. She kept up with him easily. He turned his head now and again, as if to speak, only to face front again in silence. At last she came up beside him and touched his elbow and asked if he were angry.
“No,” he answered. “I am doing my best, but I don’t believe you have done anything for me to be angry about.”
“I hoped you wouldn’t be. I played a trick on you—but it was for your own good.”
“To get me to make you a promise?”
“Yes.”
“So tricking me into toting you on my back was part of that scheme?”
“Yes. I—knew I had to—interest you in myself—so that you would pay attention to my arguments. I thought that the more trouble I was to you—well, I had to do something—to——”
“You did it. I am not angry, but pleased. Do you mind if I ask if you have always lived in the country around here?”
“I was away at school for a few years.”
She dropped behind and silence was resumed. It was maintained for nearly half an hour; and then she came abreast of him again and halted him with a hand on his arm.
“Here we are,” she whispered. “Just through there. Not thirty yards away. Good night. And you will go to-morrow. So it is good-by.”
He took both her mittened hands in his and stared hard at her upturned face, trying to find something there for the discernment of which the light was insufficient.
“Good night,” he said in guarded tones. “And good morning; and, as I must go away to-morrow, to-day, good-by.”
“Good-by.”
“But I shall soon be back—for that horse. I promised a horse of that strain—to a girl. That’s the only thing I’ve ever offered her that she has accepted—so I can’t fall down on that. But I’ll take precautions.”
“Please go, and stay away. They won’t sell you a horse. They will kill you. Good-by.”
“I’ll chance it—in the hope that you will save my life again.”
“But I won’t, if you do anything so crazy. Don’t be a fool!”
She snatched her hands out of his and turned and vanished in the blackness of crowded firs.
Vane looked straight up between the black spires of the forest and saw that the stars were misty. He saw this, but he gave no heed to it. He wasn’t worrying about the stars. He turned and stepped along on the track which Joe’s webs had already beaten twice and his once. It was deep enough to follow easily, heedlessly, despite the gloom. He felt exalted and exultant. Even his anxiety, which was entirely for the girl, thrilled him deliciously—such was his faith in himself, and his scorn of the Danglers. The thought of going away on the morrow did not depress him. He would soon be back.
In this high and somewhat muddled mood he might easily have passed an elephant in the blackness of the wood without sensing it. As it was, he passed nothing more alarming or unusual than poor Pete Sledge. Pete did nothing to attract the other’s notice, and took to the shadows behind him with no more sound than the padded paws of a hunting lynx.
This was a little game that had grown dear to Pete’s heart of late years. Natural talent and much practice had made him amazingly proficient at it. What he did not know of the bodily activities of Robert Vane and Joe Hinch during the past few hours was not much; and it may be that he suspected something of what was going on in their heads and hearts. He had wanted to chuckle, had been on the very verge of it, at the sight of the stranger carrying the artful young woman on his back—for he had known that there was nothing wrong with her ankle.
Vane had covered more than half of the homeward journey at a moderate rate of speed when he became conscious of the light touch of a snowflake on his face. He was not particularly interested, but for lack of something better to do he halted and looked straight up again. The high stars were veiled. Large, moist flakes fell slowly. He produced a cigarette and lit it, considering the effect of a heavy snowfall on his plans for the immediate future. The effect was nil, so far as he could see. Which shows how little he knew about his immediate future.
He resumed his journey at a slightly better pace, planning the morrow’s departure to the nearest town and the best manner of his quickest possible return. He would take precautions of the Danglers, as he had promised, but he must avoid involving the law if he could think of a way. Why not bring a bodyguard back with him, and thus supported, beard the—! Hell! * * * He pitched forward at the blow, fumbling for an inner pocket even as he fell. But he hadn’t a chance. He was jumped, pounded deep in the snow, bound at wrists and ankles, gagged and blindfolded. He was yanked out roughly and turned over; and that was all for a few minutes. He heard a shrill whistle from close at hand, and the softened answer; and then, for a little while, he was left undisturbed on his back. His nose and chin were exposed, and on these he felt the snowflakes falling faster and faster. He was slightly dizzy and slightly nauseated, but his mind was clear. His thick fur cap had saved him from a knockout. He was not in pain, though his discomfort was considerable; and he was angry enough to bite. The Danglers had him, he knew—and here was just and sufficient cause for rage. The Danglers had tricked him—and here was cause for shame. He had been guilty of military error as old as warfare: he had underrated the enemy. He was a fool! No wonder the girl had been afraid for him.
Presently he felt a fumbling at the thongs of his snowshoes. The snowshoes were removed. He felt a pair of hands under his shoulders, another pair at his knees, and he was lifted and carried. He strained his ears to catch a voice, but in vain. He was roughly handled—bumped and dragged. It was quite evident to him that his captors were in a hurry to get him to some particular spot, but it seemed that they were utterly indifferent as to his condition upon arrival. They carried him feet first; and frequently the leader got completely away from the other and his head and shoulders were dropped with a smothering thump.
Brief rests were frequent. Where the underbrush was awkwardly dense, he was simply dragged along by the feet. Now and then he caught a whiff of strong tobacco smoke; and later he caught a whiff of ardent spirits. After many minutes of this, or perhaps an hour—for with so many bumps and thumps he found it useless to attempt the reckoning of the passage of time—and after a less brief halt than usual, his webs were replaced and his ankles were freed, and he was stood upon his feet. For a moment he contemplated the advisability of delivering a few blind kicks—but before he had arrived at a decision he was pushed from the rear and flanks. He staggered forward to save himself from falling on his face; and before that initial stagger was completed another well-timed and well-placed thrust sent him staggering again; and then another—and thus the journey was continued.
Vane found walking, even with tied hands and bandaged eyes, pleasanter than being carried like a sack of oats. But this did not improve his temper. The gag hurt him, and that nerve-racking experience of advancing blindly against underbrush without any protection for the face maddened him more and more desperately at every step. And to be forced to it! To be thumped and thrust along from behind! An unusually violent poke with something exceedingly hard—the butt of a rifle, most likely—put the last straw on the over-strained back of his discretion. He turned with his right leg drawn up and shot out his right foot with every ounce that was in him, snowshoe and all. The blind blow landed. A yowl went up and someone went down. He jumped and landed on his mark, stamped twice with all his weight, then turned and jumped away. He missed his objective, the other Dangler, by a few inches that time, and received a bang on the ear for his trouble. But he tried again—and again—and once more. He fought furiously. He was blindfolded and his hands were tied behind him, but he came within an ace of victory. Despite the odds against him, four minutes transpired between his first jump and his last.
When he recovered consciousness he was again being carried and dragged. After a long time and many drops he was stood on his feet again and hustled along. After as much of that as he could stand up to, he fell and refused to arise. From that to the finish he was dragged, with an occasional lift over a blow-down or some other natural obstruction too high to take in an straight pull. He lost consciousness again before the end of that desperate and humiliating journey.
When he came to himself the second time it was to find the gag gone from his mouth, the bandage gone from his eyes, and his hands tied before him instead of behind him. He was on a floor of poles beneath a broken roof of poles and bark. Flashing snowflakes and a flood of desolate gray light fell through the hole in the roof. There was a hillock of snow beneath the rent, and there were little drifts of it elsewhere blown under and past the warped door. The door was shut; and nothing was to be seen of the men who had brought him here, and he could catch no sound of them from without, and there was no sign of them within except the tracks of rackets on the snowy floor. He wondered dully at the meaning of these things. He was dizzy, faint, and parched with thirst. He sat up painfully and rested his shoulders against the wall.
The door opened and a snow-whitened figure entered on snow-weighted rackets. He halted and peered around at the gloomy corners of the hut. It was Joe Hinch, but Vane didn’t believe his eyes. So he closed his eyes and made an effort of will toward the clearing and steadying of his brain, and wrenched desperately at the cords with which his wrists were bound. The cords loosened easily. His right hand came free and then his left. But still he kept his eyes closed.
His idea was that what he had seen was either a vision created by his own battered head or a reality transformed by his aching eyes. If it were nothing but a vision, well and good. If it should prove to be a reality, then the chances were that it was one of his enemies, in which case he would sit perfectly motionless until the last moment, and then—well, his hands were free now! He didn’t feel up to a fight—but, by the Lord, he would put up a fight! So he kept his eyes closed and his ears open.
He heard a low cry, a sob, a quick pad and clatter of rackets on the snow-streaked floor, a movement close beside him and quick, half-choked breathing. He felt a hand on his face, light and searching and tender. It was a small hand. An arm slipped behind him and his head was drawn to the hollow of a snowy shoulder. But it was a soft shoulder. Then he opened his eyes. His eyes had been right the first time. He could not see her face now, for it was pressed against his cheek. He could see only a strand of dark, snow-powdered hair like a veil close across his vision. He no longer doubted.
She was praying—whispering a prayer against his cheek.
“Don’t die,” she whispered. “Dear God, don’t let him die! Don’t let him die!”
He trembled slightly. His arms were free though benumbed. He slipped one around her. He attempted to speak, but could not articulate a single word. He managed nothing better than a faint sigh. She drew gently back from him, still crouched and kneeling and not quite out of the embrace of his numbed arm, and looked into his face. She looked into his eyes. There were tears on her cheeks—tears and melted snowflakes.
“Thank God!” she whispered; and then she moved back from him and stood up and turned away. She raised both hands to her face.
Vane moistened his dry lips.
“They bagged me,” he said. “But what’s their game? And where are we? And how did you get here?”
She came back to him and knelt again, smiling tremulously and dabbing at her eyes with wet fingers.
“I tried to overtake you,” she said. “I didn’t go home—only to the door—and then I turned back. I felt that—I had been—rude. And I was afraid. But I couldn’t catch up to you before—you were attacked. They were carrying you when I got near. I followed them all the way, and hid until they went away from here. I knew they wouldn’t kill you. I knew they would leave you to die—lost—helpless—starved. See these!”
She lifted his snowshoes from the floor for his inspection. The tough webbing was torn hopelessly from both frames.
