CHAPTER III.
DOUBLY WARNED.
It was no particular feeling of fear that caused Martin to move away in so quiet a manner, while the struggle was going on upon the opposite side of the stream. But, as Winkle was to him a stranger, and there might be some need of investigation, he thought it best that whatever might be done, should be done by his own unaided exertions. Moving cautiously, keeping himself well under shade and waiting patiently, he saw the man, with whom he had been so lately conversing, look around with a gaze of half wonder at finding himself alone, and then set forward upon an exploring tour. Not long afterward, at a point some distance down the stream, a man crossed; and, entering the woods, after a moment's hesitation, struck off in the direction in which Martin knew Winkle had camped, or intended to camp for the night. After a little, hard upon the trail came Winkle, himself. He would doubtless have followed on for the purpose of seeing the meeting between these two persons—if meet they should—when he was startled by the sudden appearance of the two riders. He, too, in a manner almost involuntary, threw his rifle to his shoulder and, in fact, had the pursuer fairly covered; but, instead of drawing the trigger, he lowered the weapon, listened a moment, and then, utterly disregarding the motions of the two men upon which he had been, but lately, so intent, followed silently on in the direction in which the woman and the pursuing man had disappeared.
A walk of a few minutes and the aspect of surrounding things somewhat changed—sufficiently at least to give token that some man or men had made a permanent settlement near by. The sound of galloping horses had ceased; as he advanced, he thought he heard voices engaged in conversation.
Nor was he mistaken. At some little distance from the edge of the wood stood a cabin. In front of this the parties had halted. The man was still mounted, but the woman stood by the threshold of the cabin, facing her late pursuer, a steely look of defiance upon her countenance.
The man was speaking when Martin came within hearing distance, and his words fell upon the night-air coldly and distinctly.
"Listen, Edith," he said. "You know me so well, that I need not tell you that sooner or later I will be heard. I have not come all these miles to have you put me off with a hand-wave, and a 'begone.' We are, both of us, older than when we last met and care little for listeners; but must I say now what I have to say, or will you accord me a more fitting time and place?"
"As between us, there never can be either a fitting time or place for communication. All connection, all intercourse between us has ceased, and forever. I would refuse to willingly hear you, if you came as a messenger announcing my eternal salvation, and nothing that you can say or do shall cause me to alter my determination. If you would be safe, leave me. I am willing to forgive the past, even if I can not forget it, and I would not see you harmed; therefore I warn you away from these grounds. I caution you to return from whence you came, if you dare. And if you dare not, then seek some other place. Away, begone! for something tells me there is danger in the atmosphere for you here."
"Edith, again, I say, listen. I would speak somewhat of the past; but more of the future. Through me you have suffered, I admit, but through me I would have you return again—return to joy and life and youth and love. I have much that I would tell you. I have sought you long and faithfully; for three long years I have followed constantly in your footsteps, but you have as constantly eluded me. Now I find you here and I must speak."
"Yes, you have followed in my footsteps for three years, and for four, and for five. Through you I have suffered; but never, never through you did I or shall I sin. You over-shadowed, you darkened my young life, made for me existence wretched, pursued me with a thousand unmanly and mean arts, sought by foul means that which, I can tell you now, you might then have gained by fair, sought to coerce when you might have persuaded, actually hunted me down; and now you have sought me out in this last retreat. Charles Endicott, I tell you beware. I will not listen to you; I will not hear you; if you pursue I will fly; if you speak, I will hold my hands to my ears; with me you can do nothing. But I see trouble for you beyond, trouble black and deadly. Be advised before it is too late. I am no prophetess or soothsayer, but I tell you, sure as fate, if you linger here, you linger to meet your own death. Go your way then; I am dead to the world; I am dead to you; why should you waste time on a fruitless task?"
"I know you, Edith, and I know your resolution; but, for all that, I will not go. I am ready to meet death when it comes, for I am one of those that believe the lot of man is foreordered, and no whining or flinching can avail aught; but rest assured I shall not die without a struggle. If you refer to the men of doubtful stamp who are supposed to haunt this region, all I can say is, I am ready for them; though I count on no danger in that direction. I have heard of their doings, and I have heard, too, the name of one who is supposed to exercise a control over their movements. Martin and I were once friends, and I do not think I count in vain, when I reckon on his support in all needed cases. Let this fruitless talk come to an end, and let me, if you will not appoint a more favorable time, come to that of which I would speak."
The man called Charles Endicott grew more in earnest. With a rapidity and ease almost miraculous, he threw himself from his horse. So quick was he, and so graceful, that before the woman fairly knew it, he was standing near and facing her. She shrunk back somewhat, then raised her hand with a proud gesture.
"No nearer, sir, no nearer! Think not I am unprotected because you see me alone."
Endicott stood for a moment gazing silently into the eyes that met his, fair and full, glowing and sparkling under the moonlight. There was no quailing in them; no unsettledness of purpose; they did not fall. He sought to read her soul through them; and all he could see was unflinching resolution. Poor encouragement to proceed was that steady stare; a chill crept along his spine, a shiver went through his brain as he gazed into that face, handsome as a dream, but thin and colorless as chalk. Her eyes dilated; her form, lithe and slender, straightened; the proud gesture grew one of menace, and again her lips opened:
"Yes, sir, I am no unprotected female now. I hold your life in my hands in a dozen ways. Times have altered, sir. We stand on a new stage with new spectators and a new cast of parts. A man more or less, is of but little importance; your corpse, found with face turned upward and dead-set eyes staring ghastly, would create little excitement among the few who might learn of it. Perhaps they might bury it; maybe they would leave that duty to the wolves. Who knows?"
Endicott's face darkened, for the tone of the woman's voice had a disdainful ring that cut into his pride like the needle points of a tattooer. There was sharp pain and an ugly picture left behind. He tried to smile at her earnestness, but it was a very dismal smile, and his courage dropped away down toward zero. Not that he feared death—he only found that he feared the woman!
"Death's-heads and thigh-bones! Run out the black flag if you choose, yet there will many a day pass before I walk the plank. I see no vision of sudden death, feel no premonition of approaching dissolution. Say your say, for you are honest at heart, and when I have listened to you, you will listen to me, I know. And for my corpse—I entreat you to give it a Christian burial, should it be found with a ball in the base of my skull or an underhanded knife-thrust in the small of my back. Danger of that kind though, is I trust far off."
"Laugh if you will at my warning; yet, as you stand there in the full moonlight, you make a fair target; and on my honor you stand this minute covered by more than one weapon of death. You doubt me? Well, I see a rifle-barrel aimed at your head by the hand of a man who never yet missed his mark. I see it gleaming, and a wave of my hand brings the leaden messenger. So go your way; if you remain here five minutes longer, so help me Heaven, I will see you shot down with as little mercy as I would a prowling coyote."
How or exactly where she disappeared, Endicott scarcely knew. A mist appeared to sweep across his eyes, and when the mist rolled away she was gone. He stared a moment blankly before him, with the words of her warning ringing in his ears, and a doubt as to what to do in his heart.
"'Shot as a prowling coyote!' Faith, she is in one of her tragic moods to-night, and I verily believe she would do as she says. She may speak truly too about some one lying in wait; this is a queer region here, and if all accounts be true, a bullet from behind a bush would be no unprecedented thing. I will find my way back to camp as best I can. But how came she here?"
While muttering these things to himself he remounted his horse, turned its head in the direction from which he had come and slowly and thoughtfully began to retrace his steps.
Charles Endicott was a young man. He was well built, strong limbed, easy in his motions, with a clear, strong voice. His brown hair, long and well kept, was pushed back from a square forehead; his gray eyes looked out keenly from under long eyelashes; his nose was shapely, mouth not ungainly, his beard and mustache full and silken. He settled firmly in his saddle as though he belonged there, and his horse bore him as though knowing its master. The manner of his hand upon the bridle-rein seemed to tell that, though his thoughts might be elsewhere, still there was will left behind—will and a soul prepared for any emergency. A face seen by moonlight, it is said, is a heart unmasked. It may not be so in all cases; but it was in this. There was a heart then unmasked, a heart untrammeled by the fetters of conscience or the gyves of moral law. The man was a plotter, the man was a schemer. Perhaps his plots and schemes might come in contravention with right? Then right must of needs go to the wall, for the measure of expediency was the measure of equity with Endicott.
As he passed from the clear space into the wood the animal he bestrode gave a start, which, while it caused no particular emotion in the heart of the rider, was still sufficient to make him look warily around. He thought he saw a gleaming and a glancing some little distance off; he imagined he could hear the tread of some one approaching. He was right in his thought, and in his imagination. The gleaming and glancing were the moonbeams shivering off of the long rifle, and the noise of footsteps announced the approach of Dick Martin.
Endicott at first sight of the man had thrown his hand warily in search of a weapon. But, almost instantly recognizing the man, he suffered it to drop by his side, and, reining in his horse, awaited the issue of the interview which he foresaw was about to ensue.
When Martin was within a few feet he paused, and the two gave a look at each other as though they would read the man confronting to the very soul.
It was Endicott who first broke the silence. He urged his steed onward a few paces, bent down in his saddle and extended his hand, at the same time exclaiming:
"Then it is you, Martin. I had half-suspected as much when I first caught sight of you, and it gave me a shock. We meet as friends, I hope?"
Martin remained standing unmoved, and as though he did not see the proffered hand, and answered, in a cool, careless tone:
"Yes, Endicott, it is I—no more, and no less. I know you've got nerves that are tolerably steady, so I won't show any wonder at your taking this meeting so coolly; but it's kind of unexpected. You've drifted a long way out of your latitude to be floating along Back Load Trail. What's wrong in the East? Are the fools all dead, are the geese not worth the plucking, have the sheep come short in the wool crop, that you come here? Or are you in the stream that sets to the gold-diggings?"
"Bah, don't talk to me about the fools, geese and sheep that I've left behind me! Tell me how it is here. You and I used to understand each other pretty well, ay, and each other's secrets; so, come now; what's the best news in this heaven-forsaken region. Dick Martin doesn't locate here for nothing."
"No, he ain't located here for nothing; you're right. That something happens to be necessity. My luck in my little speculations ran out first, and I had to leave. As to what I'm doing here—that's not to be talked about. Maybe prospecting for gold; maybe Injun trading; maybe putting daylight through stray travelers and vamoosing with their traps; maybe any or all of these things—but not likely. I ain't here for nothing. That's all I can say."
"Martin, we have done business together many a time; we were allies, if not friends, and I want to know how the case stands now. I don't want to pry and peer into your private affairs. Maybe I'd be bringing something to the light that wouldn't stand it so well; but, I've heard somewhat of you as I came in this direction. Of course I didn't know it was you I heard the talk about, and of course there is a chance of what I heard being either true or false, with a little extra weight on the truth. You remember how we separated, and I don't think you have any thing to complain of, or any charges of ill faith on my part to bring against me. Now, the question I want to ask is: Can we rely on each other as we could of old? A plain yes or no will make the best answer to the question."
"Well, Endicott, I haven't heard of you particularly, either good or bad, though I had an intimation that you were in the neighborhood. It makes no difference what reports have gone trailing toward the East, and I don't claim to know them; they're bad enough, no doubt. You ask me a question, and if you must have an answer, why all I can say, is: In some things, yes, in other things, no! Will that suit you, or shall I go ahead and explain?"
"What do you mean by yes?"
"I mean that, in the first place, I would rely on you just as much as I ever did, and not a particle more. In the second, whatever you get my word to, that you can depend on my carrying through; but if you think to find me ready to promise to any and every mad scheme, you are very much mistaken."
"Any thing that is honest, eh?"
A grim smile flitted over Martin's face at the mention of the word honest. It was gone in a moment though, and he proceeded:
"Yes, any thing that's honest. Now what is it that you have to propose? I don't suppose you would have made so much of an introductory if you had not had something behind it."
"You are partly right. My motto is business first and pleasure afterward, else I would have had a thousand things to say with regard to our mutual lives in the past few years. Yet I hardly know what I would say. I did not seek you; yet, since I have met you, I want to know if I can count upon your assistance in a little matter which, springing up suddenly, has found me unprepared to meet it."
"Then you didn't hunt up Back Load Trail for any special reason?"
"No, indeed! It is just my lucky chance. The party I am with are camped half a mile over yonder. I left them for no very definable reason, and thereby met with an adventure that may have a great influence on my actions, perhaps on my whole future life. When we camped over there by the side of the stream, I thought it was but for the night, now I may linger in this neighborhood for a day or so. The question is, if I need a friend will you stand behind me?"
"What's this adventure, and how do you want me to stand behind you? If what I think is true, you may have more need of it than you think for."
"Well, Martin, I scarce know in what manner I would have you aid me; perhaps after all only by a neutrality. As to the adventure—I met with a woman."
There seemed to be nothing either astonishing or disconcerting in this revelation. After waiting in unbroken silence for any remarks that Martin might feel inclined to make, Endicott proceeded:
"It was rather strange for a man to ride out of camp with no aim or object and to stumble upon a woman; stranger, too, when that woman chanced to be one whom you had known long before, and for whom you had been long searching and in vain. I do not know what may come of it; but I know what I want to. How is it? There is no one of our little party that I care to trust—if I need assistance within the next twenty-four hours will you give it, and where can I find you?"
Martin looked up slowly and deliberately.
"It seems to me you're putting things on their old basis, what one of us plans the other is to help carry through."
"Why not? Neither you nor I have grown what the world calls better since then, and of course the understanding would be now as it always was—nothing for nothing, all for whatever pays."
"No, I don't suppose we have grown much better; but there may have been a few changes. As to the woman you speak of, here is all I have to say. If you have any plans and can carry them out openly and above board, no force, no underhanded means, no fraud, I'll not lay a straw in your way; maybe I can help you."
"If not?"
"This. Just you attempt the slightest bit of compulsion, or the first grain of trickery—try any thing that's not honest, make a move toward abduction, or take a step toward foul play, and I'll lay you dead in your tracks."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean what I say. I give you fair leave and fair warning, too. I don't intend to interfere in any thing she wishes to do, but I mean she shall not do what she doesn't want to do."
"Do you mean to say that you will exert any control over her actions?"
"Yes, just so far as to let her have her own will. She's one of the few persons that I have cared for, and when time stops and the sea gives up its dead, you may, perhaps, see me go back on my dead sister's daughter.”