Chapter VII––The Price of the Leap
In the chronology of the little town, day followed day, as monotonously as ticks the tall clock on the wall. Only in multiple they merged into the seasons which glided so smoothly, one into the other, that the change was unnoticed, until it had taken place.
Thus three months passed by, and man’s work for the year was nearly done. The face of the prairie had become one of many colors; eternal badge of civilization as opposed to Nature, who paints each season with its own hue. Beside the roadways great, rank sunflowers turned their glaring yellow faces to the light. In every direction stretched broad fields of flax; unequally ripening, their color scheme ranging from sky blue of blossoms to warm browns of maturity. Blotches of sod corn added here and there a dash of green to the picture. Surrounding all, a setting for all, the unbroken virgin prairie, mottled green and brown, stretched, 224 smiling, harmonious, beneficent; a land of promise and of plenty for generations yet unborn.
All through the long, hot summer Asa Arnold had stayed in town, smoking a big pipe in front of the hotel of Hans Becher. Indolent, abnormally indolent, a stranger seeing him thus would have commented; but, save Hans the confiding, none other of the many interested observers were deceived. No man merely indolent sleeps neither by night nor by day; and it seemed the little man never slept. No man merely indolent sits wide-eyed hour after hour, gazing blankly at the earth beneath his feet––and uttering never a word. Brooding, not dreaming, was Asa Arnold; brooding over the eternal problem of right and wrong. And, as passed the slow weeks, he moved back––back on the trail of civilization, back until Passion and not Reason was the god enthroned; back until one thought alone was with him morning, noon, and night,––and that thought preponderant, overmastering, deadly hate.
Observant Curtis, the doctor, shrugged his shoulders. 225
“The old, old trail,” he satirized.
It was to Bud Evans, the little agent, that he made the observation.
“Which has no ending,” completed the latter.
The doctor shrugged afresh.
“That has one inevitable termination,” he refuted.
“Which is––”
“Madness––sheer madness.”
The agent was silent a moment.
“And the end of that?” he suggested.
Curtis pursed his lips.
“Tragedy, or a strait-jacket. The former, in this instance.”
Evans was silent longer than before.
“Do you really mean that?” he queried at last, significantly.
“I’ve warned Maurice,”––sententiously. “I can do no more.”
“And he?” quickly.
“Thanked me.”
“That was all?”
“That was all.”
The two friends looked at each other, steadily; yet, though they said no more, each 226 knew the thought of the other, each knew that in future no move of Asa Arnold’s would pass unnoticed, unchallenged.
Again, weeks, a month, passed without incident. It was well along in the fall and of an early evening that a vague rumor of the unusual passed swiftly, by word of mouth, throughout the tiny town. Only a rumor it was, but sufficient to set every man within hearing in motion.
On this night Hans Becher had eaten his supper and returned to the hotel office, as was his wont, for an evening smoke, when, without apparent reason, Bud Evans and Jim Donovan, the blacksmith, came quietly in and sat down.
“Evening,” they nodded, and looked about them.
A minute later Dr. Curtis and Hank Judge, the machine man, dropped unostentatiously into chairs. They likewise muttered “Evening,” and made observation from under their hat-brims. Others followed rapidly, until the room was full and dark figures waited outside. At last Curtis spoke. 227
“Your boarder, Asa Arnold, where is he, Hans?”
The unsuspecting German blew a cloud of smoke.
“He a while ago went out.” Then, as an afterthought: “He will return soon.”
Silence once more for a time, and a steadily thickening haze of smoke in the room.
“Did he have supper, Hans?” queried Bud Evans, impatiently.
Again the German’s face expressed surprise.
“No, it is waiting for him. He went to shoot a rabbit he saw.”
The men were on their feet.
“He took a gun, Hans?”
“A rifle, to be sure.” The mild brown eyes glanced up reproachfully. “A man does not go hunting without––... What is this!” he completed in consternation, as, finding himself suddenly alone, he hurried outside and stood confusedly scratching his bushy poll, in the block of light surrounding the open doorway.
The yard was deserted. As one snuffs a candle, the men had vanished. Hans’ pipe had 228 gone out and he went inside for a match. Though the stars fell, the German must needs smoke. Only a minute he was gone, but during that time a group of horsemen had gathered in the street. Others were coming across lots, and still others were emerging from the darkness of alleys. Some were mounted; some led by the rein, wiry little bronchos. Watching, it almost seemed to the German that they sprang from the ground.
“Are you all ready?” called a voice, Bud Evans’ voice.
“Here––”
“Here––”
“All ready?”
“Yes––”
“We’re off, then.”
There was a sudden, confused trampling, as of cattle in stampede; a musical creaking of heavy saddles; a knife-like swish of many quirts through the air; a chorus of dull, chesty groans as the rowels of long spurs bit the flanks of the mustangs, and they were gone––down the narrow street, out upon the prairie, their hoof beats pattering diminuendo into silence; a cloud of 229 dust, grayish in the starlight, marking the way they had taken.
Jim Donovan, the blacksmith, came running excitedly up from a side street. He stopped in front of the hotel, breathlessly. Holding his sides, he followed with his eyes the trail of dust leading out into the night.
“Have they gone?” he panted. “I can’t find another horse in town.”
“Where is it to?” sputtered the German.
“Have they gone, I say?”
Hans gasped.
“Yes, to be sure.”
“They’ll never make it.” The blacksmith mopped his brow with conviction. “He has an hour’s start.”
Hans grasped the big man by the coat.
“Who is too late?” he emphasized. “Where are they going?”
Jim Donovan turned about, great pity for such density in his eyes.
“Is it possible you don’t understand? It’s to Ichabod Maurice’s they’re going, to tell him of Arnold.” The speaker mopped his face 230 anew. “It’s useless though. They’re too late,” he completed.
“But Arnold is not there,” protested the German. “He went for a rabbit, out on the breaking. He so told me.”
“He lied to you. He’s mad. I tell you they’re too late,” repeated the smith, obstinately.
Hans clung tenaciously to the collar.
“Some one knew and told them?” He pointed in the direction the dust indicated.
“Yes, Bud Evans; but they wouldn’t believe him at first, and”––bitterly––“and waited.” Donovan shook himself free, and started down the walk. “I’m going to bed,” he announced conclusively.
Meanwhile the cloud of dust was moving out over the prairie like the wind. The pace was terrific, and the tough little ponies were soon puffing steadily. Small game, roused from its sleep by the roadside, sprang winging into the night. Once a coyote, surprised, ran a distance confusedly ahead in the roadway; then, an indistinct black ball, it vanished amongst the tall grass. 231
Well out on the prairie, Bud Evans, the leader, raised in his stirrups and looked ahead. There was no light beyond where the little cottage should be. The rowels of his spur dug anew at the flank of his pony as he turned a voice like a fog-horn back over his shoulder.
“The place is dark, boys,” he called. “Hurry.”
Answering, a muttering sound, not unlike an approaching storm, passed along the line, and in accompaniment the quirts cut the air anew.
Silent as the grave was the little farmstead when, forty odd minutes from the time of starting, they steamed up at the high fence bounding the yard. One of Ichabod’s farm horses whinnied a lone greeting from the barn as they hastily dismounted and swarmed within the inclosure.
“We’re too late,” prophesied a voice.
“I’m glad my name’s not Arnold, if we are,” responded another, threateningly.
Hurrying up the path in advance, the little land-agent stumbled over a soft, dark object, and a curse fell from his lips as he recognized the dead body of the big collie. 232
“Yes, we’re too late,” he echoed.
The door of the house swung ajar, creaking upon its hinges; and, as penetrates the advance wave of a flood, the men swarmed through the doorway inside, until the narrow room was blocked. Simultaneously, like torches, lighted matches appeared aloft in their hands, and the tiny whitewashed room flashed into light. As simultaneously there sprang from the mouth of each man an oath, and another, and another. Waiting outside, not a listener but knew the meaning of that sound; and big, hairy faces crowded tightly to the one small window.
For a moment not a man in the line stirred. Death was to them no stranger; but death such as this––
In more than one hand the match burned down until it left a mark like charcoal, and without calling attention. One and all they stood spellbound, their eyes on the floor, their lips unconsciously uttering the speech universal of anger and of horror, the instinctive language of anathema.
On the floor, sprawling, as falls a lifeless body, lay the long Ichabod. On his forehead, 233 almost geometrically near the centre, was a tiny, black spot, around it a lighter red blotch; his face otherwise very white; his hair, on the side toward which he leaned, a little matted; that was all.
Prostrate across him, in an attitude of utter abandon, reposed the body of a woman, soft, graceful, motionless now as that of the man: the body of Camilla Maurice. One hand had held his head and was stained dark. On her lips was another stain, but lighter. The meaning of that last mark came as a flash to the spectators, and the room grew still as the figures on the floor.
Suddenly in the silence the men caught their breath, with the quick guttural note that announces the unexpected. That there was no remaining life they had taken for granted––and Camilla’s lips had moved! They stared as at sight of a ghost; all except Curtis, the physician.
“A lamp, men,” he demanded, pressing his ear to Camilla’s chest.
“Help me here, Evans,” he continued without turning. “I think she’s fainted is all,” and 234 together they carried their burden into the tiny sleeping-room, closing the door behind.
That instant Ole, the Swede, thrust a curious head in at the outer doorway. He had noticed the light and the gathering, and came to ascertain their meaning. Wondering, his big eyes passed around the waiting group and from them to the floor. With that look self-consciousness left him; he crowded to the front, bending over the tall man and speaking his name.
“Mr. Maurice,” he called. “Mr. Maurice.”
He snatched off his own coat, rolling it under Ichabod’s head, and with his handkerchief touched the dark spot on the forehead. It was clotted already and hardening, and realization came to the boy Swede. He stood up, facing the men, the big veins in his throat throbbing.
“Who did this?” he thundered, crouching for a spring like a great dog. “Who did this, I say?”
It was the call to action. In the sudden horror of the tragedy the big fellows had momentarily forgotten their own grim epilogue. Now, at the words, they turned toward the 235 door. But the Swede was in advance, blocking the passage.
“Tell me first who did this thing,” he challenged, threateningly.
A hand was laid gently upon his shoulder.
“Asa Arnold, my boy,” answered a quiet voice, which continued, in response to a sudden thought, “You live near here; have you seen him to-night?”
The Swede dropped the bar.
“The little man who stays with Hans Becher?”
The questioner nodded.
“Yes, a half-hour ago.” The boy-man understood now. “He stopped at my house, and––”
“Which direction did he go?”
Ole stepped outside, his arm stretched over the prairie, white now in the moonlight.
“That way,” he indicated. “East.”
As there had been quiescence before, now there was action. No charge of cavalry was ever more swift than their sudden departure.
“East, toward Schooner’s ranch,” was called and repeated as they made their way back to the 236 road; and, following, the wiry little bronchos groaned in unison as the back cinch to each one of the heavy saddles, was, with one accord, drawn tight. Then, widening out upon the reflected whiteness of prairie, there spread a great black crescent. A moment later came silence, broken only by the quivering call of a lone coyote.
Ole watched them out of sight, then turned back to the door; the mood of the heroic passed, once more the timid, retiring Swede. But now he was not alone. Bud Evans was quietly working over the body on the floor, laying it out decently as the quick ever lay out the dead.
“Evans,” called the doctor from the bedroom. As the agent responded, Ole heard the smothered cry of a woman in pain.
The big boy hesitated, then sat down on the doorstep. There was nothing now for him to do, and suddenly he felt very tired. His head dropped listlessly into his hands; like a great dog, he waited, watching.
Minutes passed. On the table the oil lamp sputtered and burned lower. Out in the stable the horse repeated its former challenging 237 whinny. Once again through the partition the listener caught the choking wail of pain, and the muffled sound of the doctor’s voice in answer.
At last Bud Evans came to the door, his face very white. “Water,” he requested, and Ole ran to the well and back. Then, impassive, he sat down again to wait.
Time passed, so long a time it seemed to the watcher that the riders must soon be returning. Finally Evans emerged from the side room, walking absently, his face gray in the lamplight.
The Swede stood up.
“Camilla Maurice, is she hurt?” he asked.
The little agent busied himself making a fire.
“She’s dead,” he answered slowly.
“Dead, you say?”
“Yes, dead,”––very quietly.
The fire blazed up and lit the room, shining unpityingly upon the face of the man on the floor.
Evans noticed, and drawing off his own coat spread it over the face and hands, covering them from sight; then, uncertain, he returned and sat 238 down, mechanically holding his palms to the blaze.
A moment later Dr. Curtis appeared at the tiny bedroom entrance; and, emerging as the little man had done before him, he closed the door softly behind. In his arms he carried a blanket, carefully rolled. From the depths of its folds, as he slowly crossed the room toward the stove, there escaped a sudden cry, muffled, unmistakable.
The doctor sank down wearily in a chair. Ole, the boy-faced, without a question brought in fresh wood, laying it down on the floor very, very softly.
“Will he––live?” asked Bud Evans, suddenly, with an uncertain glance at the obscuring blanket; and hearing the query, the Swede paused in his work to listen.
The big doctor hesitated, and cleared his throat.
“I think so; though––God forgive me––I hope not.” And he cleared his throat again.