The Luckless Trapper by William R. Eyster - HTML preview

CHAPTER XV.

THREE SHOTS—AT LAST!

When Bill Blaze found Harry Winkle lying prone upon the ground, though he looked in every direction with a rapid glance, yet he gave no sign that the sight was unexpected, and when Winkle raised to his feet and staggered off after muttering a couple broken sentences, instead of attempting to stop him, or wasting time in questions, he rapidly extracted from those sentences the very pith of their meaning, and as rapidly decided how he should act.

That Edith Van Payne had gone forward and further on her headlong journey he readily understood; and that no aid of his could avert the danger of a catastrophe at the mouth of the cañon. Unless she succeeded in checking the speed of Whirlwind, before he could succeed in reaching her, her troubles would doubtless be over. That she had done this he hoped, and almost believed. The words of Winkle, however, suggested a new complication.

Charles Endicott was doubtless in the neighborhood, and had fired the shot which he had heard. Having once made out this much he could easily trace the course of events.

When Endicott fired he watched long enough to see Winkle go down, and then dashed across toward the plateau upon which Crooked Cañon debouched. If Edith was safe, she was probably in his hands. Judging from the past he could easily guess what sort of a reception Winkle would meet with if, in his present bewildered state, he came wandering near.

All this Blaze took in by almost one sweep of thought and his resolution was taken, as it were by instinct. He gave but a single glance upward to confirm his opinion of the practicability of the ascent, and then threw himself into the work he fancied he saw before him. Up the steep and jagged side of the cañon he rushed, and then forward directly over the jutting promontory around which Crooked Cañon swept to its point of debouchure. With reckless carelessness he crashed through the bushes and underbrush, intent only on reaching the point for which he was aiming. When he had traversed half the distance he came upon a man standing, leaning against a tree. This man was Rothven. The instinct of the trapper befriended him, since it removed the finger, so hastily thrown there, from a trigger that was seldom pulled in vain. Eben's appearance was not aggressive. On the contrary there was a listlessness about him that told rather of careless waiting than anxious expectancy. Only he was looking in the direction in which the trapper was going. When Endicott had passed him he had somehow comprehended not only what had happened but also what might occur; and preferred not to come on the carpet prematurely. In fact, he cared little to appear at all. The glimpse of Blaze, whom he really did not notice until that worthy had passed him, rather startled him. From his appearance he judged it was one of Martin's men. Then, a feeling of curiosity obtained the mastery over him, and he followed on to see what was in that strange race. He had not taken many paces when he heard the voice of Endicott: "Ho, there, Eben!" and he came in sight of Blaze just as a wild and piercing scream, uttered by a woman's voice, rung in his ears.

He saw Blaze stop suddenly and peer through a rift in the foliage. What the trapper saw must have been exciting, since his eyes dilated, his whole form quivered. That was just for a second; in a second more he stood like a statue, his left foot forward, his left arm extended, his right arm up, his finger on the trigger of the rifle that covered Charles Endicott's heart.

Edith Van Payne had obtained such a place in her uncle's heart that Martin sometimes fancied he must have a dual nature. He forgot that having lapsed from civilization to barbarism, from the circles of refinement to the uncouthness of ultra-frontier life, and having so fully settled to that position as to feel as though 'to the manor born,' that nevertheless, chameleon-like, change of diet might bring him back to some semblance of his old color. He had been going his way while Edith went hers, and the affinity between the two seemed to be but slight. Once or twice he had looked at her queerly, and thought that, perchance, there was a spice of poetical nonsense, of unadulterated and unselfish feeling, yet lingering around him. As often he had cast the thought aside after a moment's revolution. Now, for a day or two, he had had an opportunity to gauge himself, and found that this wilful, wild-eyed niece of his had become, during the gradual developing months of their acquaintance, more dear to him than he could ever have imagined—even away back in younger days that floated by over quieter waters. And, mixed with all this, was the wild, hard pride that close behind him he brought strength and skill and sagacity in no mean force; called out in a moment's warning to follow, to aid, to rescue. He wondered if Edith believed that he was on the trail; he queried if she knew how stout arms grasping trusting weapons were ready to strike in for her at the first opportunity. Somehow, he never doubted of her present safety from any serious harm, or despaired of her ultimate rescue. Strongly self-reliant, he had seen success too often follow his undertakings, to feel faint at heart now.

Two things troubled him immensely. That he should have been deceived at the outset of the pursuit by Indian strategy, and the defection of Endicott and his men. He accounted at first thought for the latter, by the supposition that Endicott's men had seen through the stratagem, and keeping the knowledge to themselves, the party had flown off at a tangent, leaving him, Martin, to follow the false trail. When they met again, if meet they should, he would have a small account to settle with Mr. Charles Endicott.

That meeting was destined to take place rather sooner than he anticipated. By chance he struck the trail made by five men, and, on consultation, was satisfied that it was made by the deserters. He questioned, then, within himself, whether Endicott was not in league with the Indians. Such alliances had been formed before then; and he knew that, if it should be practicable, Endicott would stop at nothing to carry out his end. However that might be, he believed that if he followed that trail, he would most likely come upon traces of Edith. And so, believing this, he desisted from his intention of pushing on to the further end of Straight Cañon, and turned off to one side. After a time, he came to where they had halted the previous night. Here the party had divided, three men going to the north, while the remaining two had turned aside, westward.

Again he followed Endicott, though he sent out a detachment of trusty men in the wake of Lariat Dan. He rode on quietly; he halted suddenly. He saw a sight that brought him from his horse in an instant—Edith Van Payne was struggling in the arms of Charles Endicott. He saw her throw the man off and rush forward; as she leaped over the brink of the precipice, his rifle lay ready for the base of Endicott's brain, and, as her shrill scream echoed and reëchoed through gulch and cañon, his finger tightened on the trigger.

Pompey came slowly back from an unsuccessful search for traces of Edith. Without being seen he had reconnoitered Endicott's camp, and satisfied himself that she was not there. As far as the simple question of Edith Van Payne's rescue, unattached to any other idea, went, it is likely that, he felt very little interest. But he had an interest in whatever concerned his employer and friend, Harry Winkle, and so could bring a second-handed enthusiasm to the pursuit. While he was watching Endicott's camp, he saw Lariat Dan leave it in company with Grizzly Dan and Mike Motler. He recognized all three of those worthies, and at one time had a half-formed notion of revealing himself to them, and attempting to sound them in search of information. When he saw that they turned their faces northward, and started as if on a quest, he altered his mind. Understanding that they were in the employ of the deadly enemy of Harry Winkle, he did not think it advisable to let his presence be known, unless to secure some positive advantage; and he could see none at this present. So he remained concealed among the cedars on the butte, and let the three go their way. Perhaps an hour later, as he was listlessly returning to find Winkle, the bushes on his left parted, and a man stepped out, and ranged up by his side. A glance told him it was Mike Motler, whom he supposed miles away.

Motler was a quiet, almost surly sort of man, who went his own way and carried his own pelts. His employer, when he had one, seldom heard him speak; but he generally did as he was ordered without useless questions. Therefore he was a valuable man. Sometimes, though, he had an opinion of his own, and acted on it. Wherein he was slightly unreliable. As he pulled trigger quick, and always shot plum-center, he was an unpleasant man to have a difficulty with.

This Motler nodded to Pompey, as though they were going into camp together after a separation of only a couple of hours instead of as many years. Pompey understanding him pretty well, did the same, and casually remarked:

"Whar's Dan?"

"Lookin' fer tame rabbits in a coyote's hole. A-bu'stin' himself to find what ain't thar."

"Whar then?"

"Dunno. Mabbe in heaven. He'd better stay thar. Somethin' rotten on the board an' I've bunched my hand. I kin pass the brick an' lose my ante; durned ef I want to see his blind."

Motler made this speech in detachments, and with a preoccupied air. Pompey listened and walked on. Motler suddenly startled him by the query:

"Whar yer goin'?"

"Nowhar much—camp I guess."

"Ef yer want to gamble, put yer money on a funeral. I feel it in my bones."

"Whose funeral am dat den? I hain't heerd o' no corpse."

"Never you mind. Ther corpus 'll be laid out by the time mourners hes arrove."

The African was not cowardly, but he certainly was a little superstitious. The moody tone of Motler sounded almost prophetic, and he wondered whether it could possibly be his own funeral that was meant. He had seen men rubbed out in unexpected ways and at short notice. He revolved this, in his mind, a few moments, and even questioned whether it would not be best to turn aside and let his unsought companion attend the obsequies by himself. Perhaps he might have done so had the meeting occurred a little sooner; but the catastrophe came quicker than he expected.

First he heard sounds beyond the intervening vail of foliage, and obtained a confused impression that there was that transpiring which needed his attention. Personal fears were flung to the winds, as Mike Motler, quickening his gait, whispered:

"Didn't I tell yer! Wait an' ye'll hear the bell a-ringin. I'm a-holden the rope now."

An ominous peal that bell would give when its rope was pulled! Motler was holding in his hands a twelve-pound rifle!

What occurred after the wall of branches, that finally intervened, was parted, Pompey could never fully comprehend. At least he remembered the shout of a man, a confused struggle, the screams of a woman; then the death-bell at his side tolled once.

Love and fear combined with hate to lend wings to Harry Winkle. His brain cleared and clouded again; but, with the clearing came strength; that remained. He flew down the cañon with a speed that was prodigious. Yet Edith had had a start that would have rendered his efforts unavailing if she had gone straight and unchecked forward. The thought that such would be the case, combining with the burning hate which Endicott's late attempt on his life had aroused, brought back the confusion, and he passed over a few hundred yards of ground without sight or hearing. A regiment of soldiers, a tribe of Indians, might have passed him unheeded. When he came around the last crook in Crooked Cañon, and the straight vista which led to the sheer precipice opened up before him, he came back to life, real and earnest, again. He took in the picture before him—the woman he loved struggling in the arms of the man he hated. He would have shot Endicott on the spot could he have done so without danger to Edith; he brought his rifle to a ready. While he looked, running as he looked, she broke away from the man, gave a great bound, and he heard her despairing cry echoed by the ring of firearms. He did not stop, though, to see who had fired, at whom, or with what effect. When two great master-passions clash, one of them is, for the time at least, ground to the wall. When love and hate became antagonistic in his breast, hate was swept aside like a feather in the wind.

To the right ran the narrow, winding, rugged path by which Blaze had led him up into Crooked Cañon. Down this he darted with his teeth clenched, and his hands, now unincumbered by the useless rifle he had cast aside, extended. He did not even give a cry or utter a moan, but there was a fear of a horror in his eye that seemed wilder than any half-crazed light that had ever shone there in the time of his previous agonies. To the right and left of him the jagged rocks heaved up in great billows, horribly suggestive. He wished himself back in the roaring surf of the previous years. When, half-way down, he came to a ledge that led away and around toward the precipice, visible and accessible by a crevice in the side of the gulch he was descending, he could bear the suspense no more. No need to pause and think if its path was dangerous when once there had taken possession of him the thought that by following it he could sooner catch sight of Edith Van Payne or her mortal remains. Through, out, along, all quiveringly expectant, and ears open for a cry or a groan, sped Winkle.

And so, after the weary, maddening years of separation, alone, suspended, as it were, between earth and heaven, on a narrow footing that seemed all too precarious for life and living mortals, met at the last Harry Winkle and Edith Van Payne!

When from Charles Endicott's arms Edith had rushed to a leap she feared as fatal, there came to her the stupor of falling scarce broken by the crash through the top of the kindly intervening cedar. Bruised and hard shaken, she lay coiled up at the foot of the tree, ready, at a half-conscious movement, to fall still further, even to eternal nothingness, when there crawled toward her a man, through what perils he was passing, or how he was avoiding them he knew not. He only knew that his soul's other half was hanging over certain death, with no other eye than his to see her danger, and no other arm than his to rescue her.

At last! From off the knee of the cedar he drew her, up onto the wider footing of the yet-narrow ledge. Kneeling, with his back against the wall of solid rock, he held in his arms his own long-lost darling! Away above him Martin, Blaze and the others stood, at the brink, peering downward. He heard their shouts like the remembrance of a noise in a dream. The sound of a gentle sigh escaping from her lips drowned all other voices. He clutched her closer, looked at her wan, white cheeks, and, as her wild eyes opened, covered her mouth with kisses. He thought, too, that her lips moved to meet his. For a moment or two longer she lay in his arms cold, nerveless, colorless, almost lifeless. Yet she was the woman he loved!

Consciousness began slowly to return. She hid her face on his breast at its first dawning and slowly gathered strength. When at last she heard the loud beating of his heart she looked up, for the first time forgetting the danger from which she had fled, and the danger from which she had been saved. She saw a face, firm-set, yet beaming, resolution yet happiness penciled thereon. With a scream she made an almost fatal attempt to throw herself from his embrace.

The steel-set arm wound itself tighter around her waist, with steady strength drawing her again closely to its owner's breast.

"Harry! You here! Let me go! Let me go to death; but let me go!"

"Not so, my darling. Here, on my breast you rest. Fate's last bolt has been shot, and I laugh now at the empty quiver. Mine you are, now and forever."

"Never, never! Let me go! I say again—I have said and sworn!"

"And so have I—listen while I swear again."

His face grew darker, his brow wrinkled ominously, while a hard red light shone in his eyes.

"I have sworn that nothing should come between us—nothing, be it mortal or immortal—honor or dishonor—death or perdition. And now I swear—here on the brink of death, where a false step or unguarded movement is utter ruin—that if follies and fancies are to sunder us again, if there is no hope for us together here, then the only thing left is a sudden death for both. You know me well, you ought to believe me completely: now I swear that you stain my soul with a double murder. Mine in life rather, else before another hundred beats of the heart that loves you—you know how wildly—these arms unclasp; but beyond the shadow. Together we henceforth live, or here we two together die! Choose!"

There was a yearning look of a hungry soul in his eyes. He quivered and grew white with suppressed love and horror; but his voice did not falter, and the red heat of a desperate resolve was round him. As he spoke he raised himself to a standing position, and, holding the woman more closely than ever, braced himself for a deadly spring.

She then for a moment was silent; her white face grew whiter; her teeth were set hard and words of violence came surging up to her tongue's end. She strove to utter them; but the whiter, firmer set, more desperate face and the great, struggling soul before her drove them back. There was war in the woman, and the man watching that wild face thought she would die before him.

Then the stronger will conquered; the haggard and strong look broke up; a gleam of submission and unutterable love rolled across her face. She dropped her cheek back upon his shoulder, till her lips almost touched his ear, her arms twined about his neck, and she whispered:

"Harry, my poor darling, we will live for each other!”

THE END