XXIX
Had Bassett had some wider knowledge of Dick's condition he might havesucceeded better during that bad hour that followed. Certainly, if hehad hoped that the mere statement of fact and its proof would bringresults, he failed. And the need for haste, the fear of the pursuitbehind them, made him nervous and incoherent.
He had first to accept the incredible, himself--that Dick Livingstone nolonger existed, that he had died and was buried deep in some chamber ofan unconscious mind. He made every effort to revive him, to restore himinto the field of consciousness, but without result. And his strugglewas increased in difficulty by the fact that he knew so little of Dick'slife. David's name meant nothing, apparently, and it was the only namehe knew. He described the Livingstone house; he described Elizabeth ashe had seen her that night at the theater. Even Minnie. But Dick onlyshook his head. And until he had aroused some instinct, some desire tolive, he could not combat Dick's intention to return and surrender.
"I understand what you are saying," Dick would say. "I'm trying to getit. But it doesn't mean anything to me."
He even tried the war.
"War? What war?" Dick asked. And when he heard about it he groaned.
"A war!" he said. "And I've missed it!"
But soon after that he got up, and moved to the door.
"I'm going back," he said.
"Why?"
"They're after me, aren't they?"
"You're forgetting again. Why should they be after you now, after tenyears?"
"I see. I can't get it, you know. I keep listening for them."
Bassett too was listening, but he kept his fears to himself.
"Why did you do it?" he asked finally.
"I was drunk, and I hated him. He married a girl I was crazy about."
Bassett tried new tactics. He stressed the absurdity of surrendering fora crime committed ten years before and forgotten.
"They won't convict you anyhow," he urged. "It was a quarrel, wasn't it?I mean, you didn't deliberately shoot him?"
"I don't remember. We quarreled. Yes. I don't remember shooting him."
"What do you remember?"
Dick made an effort, although he was white to the lips.
"I saw him on the floor," he said slowly, and staggered a little.
"Then you don't even know you did it."
"I hated him."
But Bassett saw that his determination to surrender himself wasweakening. Bassett fought it with every argument he could summon, and atlast he brought forward the one he felt might be conclusive.
"You see, you've not only made a man's place in the world, Clark, asI've told you. You've formed associations you can't get away from.You've got to think of the Livingstones, and you told me yesterday ashock would kill the old man. But it's more than that. There's a girlback in your town. I think you were engaged to her."
But if he had hoped to pierce the veil with that statement he failed.Dick's face flushed, and he went to the door of the cabin, much as hehad gone to the window the day before. He did not look around when hespoke.
"Then I'm an unconscionable cad," he said. "I've only cared for onewoman in my life. And I've shipwrecked her for good."
"You mean--"
"You know who I mean."
Sometime later Bassett got on his horse and rode out to a ledge whichcommanded a long stretch of trail in the valley below. Far away horsemenwere riding along it, one behind the other, small dots that moved onslowly but steadily. He turned and went back to the cabin.
"We'd better be moving," he said, "and it's up to you to say where.You've got two choices. You can go back to Norada and run the chance ofarrest. You know what that means. Without much chance of a convictionyou will stand trial and bring wretchedness to the people who stood byyou before and who care for you now. Or you can go on over the mountainswith me and strike the railroad somewhere to the West. You'll have timeto think things over, anyhow. They've waited ten years. They can waitlonger."
To his relief Dick acquiesced. He had become oddly passive; he seemedindeed not greatly interested. He did not even notice the haste withwhich Bassett removed the evidences of their meal, or extinguished thedying fire and scattered the ashes. Nor, when they were mounted, thecare with which they avoided the trail. He gave, when asked, informationas to the direction of the railroad at the foot of the western slope ofthe range, and at the same instigation found a trail for them some milesbeyond their starting point. But mostly he merely followed, in a deadsilence.
They made slow progress. Both horses were weary and hungry, and thegoing was often rough and even dangerous. But for Dick's knowledge ofthe country they would have been hopelessly lost. Bassett, however,although tortured with muscular soreness, felt his spirits rising as themiles were covered, and there was no sign of the pursuit.
By mid-afternoon they were obliged to rest their horses and let themgraze, and the necessity of food for themselves became insistent. Dickstretched out and was immediately asleep, but the reporter could notrest. The magnitude of his undertaking obsessed him. They had coveredperhaps twenty miles since leaving the cabin, and the railroad was stillsixty miles away. With fresh horses they could have made it by dawn ofthe next morning, but he did not believe their jaded animals could gomuch farther. The country grew worse instead of better. A pass ahead,which they must cross, was full of snow.
He was anxious, too, as to Dick's physical condition. The twitching wasgone, but he was very pale and he slept like a man exhausted and at hisphysical limit. But the necessity of crossing the pass before nightfallor of waiting until dawn to do it drove Bassett back from an anxiousreconnoitering of the trail at five o'clock, to rouse the sleeping manand start on again.
Near the pass, however, Dick roused himself and took the lead.
"Let me ahead, Bassett," he said peremptorily. "And give your horse hishead. He'll take care of you if you give him a chance."
Bassett was glad to fall back. He was exhausted and nervous. The trailfrightened him. It clung to the side of a rocky wall, twisting andturning on itself; it ran under milky waterfalls of glacial water, andhigher up it led over an ice field which was a glassy bridge over arushing stream beneath. To add to their wretchedness mosquitoes hungabout them in voracious clouds, and tiny black gnats which got intotheir eyes and their nostrils and set the horses frantic.
Once across the ice field Dick's horse fell and for a time could not getup again. He lay, making ineffectual efforts to rise, his sides heaving,his eyes rolling in distress. They gave up then, and prepared to makesuch camp as they could.
With the setting of the sun it had grown bitterly cold, and Bassett wasforced to light a fire. He did it under the protection of the mountainwall, and Dick, after unsaddling his fallen horse, built a rough shelterof rocks against the wind. After a time the exhausted horse got up, butthere was no forage, and the two animals stood disconsolate, or madesmall hopeless excursions, noses to the ground, among the moss and scrubpines.
Before turning in Bassett divided the remaining contents of the flaskbetween them, and his last cigarettes. Dick did not talk. He sat, hisback to the shelter, facing the fire, his mind busy with what Bassettknew were bitter and conflicting thoughts. Once, however, as thereporter was dozing off, Dick spoke.
"You said I told you there was a girl," he said. "Did I tell you hername?"
"No."
"All right. Go to sleep. I thought if I heard it it might help."
Bassett lay back and watched him.
"Better get some sleep, old man," he said.
He dozed, to waken again cold and shivering. The fire had burned low,and Dick was sitting near it, unheeding, and in a deep study. He lookedup, and Bassett was shocked at the quiet tragedy in his face.
"Where is Beverly Carlysle now?" he asked. "Or do you know?"
"Yes. I saw her not long ago."
"Is she married again?"
"No. She's revived 'The Valley,' and she's in New York with it."
Dick slept for only an
hour or so that night, but as he slept hedreamed. In his dream he was at peace and happy, and there was a girlin a black frock who seemed to be a part of that peace. When he roused,however, still with the warmth of his dream on him, he could not summonher. She had slipped away among the shadows of the night.
He sat by the fire in the grip of a great despair. He had lost ten yearsout of his life, his best years. And he could not go back to where hehad left off. There was nothing to go back to but shame and remorse.He looked at Bassett, lying by the fire, and tried to fit him into thesituation. Who was he, and why was he here? Why had he ridden out atnight alone, into unknown mountains, to find him?
As though his intent gaze had roused the sleeper, Bassett opened hiseyes, at first drowsily, then wide awake. He raised himself on hiselbow and listened, as though for some far-off sound, and his face wasstrained and anxious. But the night was silent, and he relaxed and sleptagain.
Something that had been forming itself in Dick's mind suddenlycrystallized into conviction. He rose and walked to the edge of themountain wall and stood there listening. When he went back to thefire he felt in his pockets, found a small pad and pencil, and bendingforward to catch the light, commenced to write... At dawn Bassettwakened. He was stiff and wretched, and he grunted as he moved. Heturned over and surveyed the small plateau. It was empty, except for hishorse, making its continuous, hopeless search for grass.
The Breaking Point Page 29