The long patrol

by Albert M. Treynor

Another silence followed, and the listener outside waited in acutest suspense. "That's what I was afraid of," said the speaker finally, as though in response to a question. "They quizz them until their nerve breaks, and they tell all they know. But don't worry. I'll take care of that danger. Nobody's going to talk this time."

There was a hushed interval once more, and then the woman laughed. It was a strange, mirthless laugh, with a wild, inhuman note that sent a shiver through the hearer's veins. "Lifeless tongues never talk!" she asserted in a reckless tone. "You lie low for a while, and you're in no danger. I give you my word! There's one thing left to do, and I'm doing it now!" A breathless interlude passed, and the woman spoke with sharp finality. "I'm going through with it!" she declared in rising accents. "That's settled! Good-by!"

The voice broke off with a hysterical catch at the end. For five seconds no sound came from the cabin. From the spruces somewhere a little timber owl sent forth a hollow, long-drawn trill, that floated in the air, lonesome and remote, and died like an expiring breath. The veering wind eddied around the north wall of the cabin, cutting with razor sharpness through protecting woolens, flinging snow particles. Corporal Dexter shivered, and again his hand reached for the door latch.

But before he found the handle, the silence was rent by a man's scream—a hoarse voice, straining to unnatural falsetto, that carried terror and craven pleading in a single frenzied outcry, "Don't! Oh, no! Merc—!"

The appeal broke in the middle of the word, and the door of the cabin trembled before the jarring concussion of an exploding firearm.

There was an appalling hush; and then the horrid thump of another gunshot jarred the door of the cabin.

The corporal's chilled fingers had found the latch at last, and as he lifted it up, he flung his weight forward to throw open the door. But the latch seemed to have jammed, and his shoulder bumped forcibly against solid planks that failed to give. He hammered at the catch, and heaved himself recklessly against the barrier, in an effort to break his way in. But he only bruised his shoulder, and the door would not yield. Instead of wasting his further efforts, he stooped to discover what was wrong. And then he understood. The bar was down. The door had been locked from the inside.

From the darkened cabin there came a vague jumble of sounds: a soft thud of a weight falling, a stifled groan of mortal anguish, a fluttering movement of something on the creaking floor boards. But the wind was also in Dexter's ears, and he could not have sworn definitely just what it was he heard.

He remembered a split of log on the ground, that he had stumbled over when he crossed the clearing a while before. Now he retraced his steps, and dug the heavy billet out of the snow. The quartered section of tree trunk was as much as his strength could manage, but he lugged it back to the cabin and contrived to swing it as a ram. The first and second blows seemed to have little effect on the stoutly barred door, but the continued battering began to tell. Finally he heard a splintering crack within, and at last something gave way entirely, and the door broke from its frame and sprang open with a crash. He dropped his log and stepped across the threshold, his narrowed eyes searching the gloom of the smoke-filled room.

The hearth fire had dwindled down to a few smoldering coals that threw a dull red shimmer to the opposite wall. But beyond the faint streak of light, the darkness was impenetrable. An ominous silence surcharged the oppressive, tainted atmosphere.