Darkness and Dawn

by George England

  Eagerly listening for perhaps the cry of his child, he heard nothing. A tomblike silence brooded there, as in all the stricken colony.

  Then Allan, fired with a burning fury, laid the girl down again, and seizing a great boulder from the top of the parapet that guarded the terraced walk, dashed it against the door. The planks groaned and quivered, but held.

  Recoiling, exhausted by even this single effort, the disheveled, wounded man stared with haggard eyes at the barrier.

  The very strength he had put into that door to guard his treasures, his wife and his son, now defied him. And a curse, bitter as death, burst from his trembling lips.

  But now he heard a sound, a word, a phrase or two of incoherent speech.

  Whirling, he saw the girl's mouth move. In her delirium she was speaking.

  He knelt again beside her, cradled her in his arms, kissed and cherished her—and he heard broken, disjointed words—words that filled him with passionate rage and overpowering woe.

  "So many dead—so many!—And so many dying.—You, H'yemba! You beast! Let me go!—Oh, when the master comes!"

  Allan understood at last. His mind, now clear, despite the maddening torments of the past week, grasped the situation in a kind of supersensitive clairvoyance.

  As by a lightning-flash on a dark night, so now the blackness of his wonder, of this mystery, all stood instantly illumined. He understood.

  "What incredible fiendishness!" he exclaimed, quite slowly, as though unable to imagine it in human bounds. "At a time of disaster and of death, such as has smitten the colony—what hellish villainy!"

  He said no more, but in his eyes burned the fire that meant death, instant and without reprieve.

  First he looked to his automatic; but, alas, not one cartridge remained either in its magazine or in the pouches of his belt. The fouled and blackened barrel told something of the terrible story of the past few days.

  "Gone, all gone," he muttered; but, with sudden inspiration, bent over the girl.

  "Ah! Ammunition again!"

  Quickly he reloaded from her belts. One belt he buckled round his waist. Then, pistol in hand, he thought swiftly.

  Thus his mind ran: "The first thing to do is look out for Beatrice, and make her comfortable—find out what the matter is with her, and give treatment. I need fresh water, but I daren't go down to the river for it and leave her here. At any minute H'yemba may appear. And when he does, I must see him first.

  "Evidently the thing most necessary is to gain access to our home. How can it be locked, inside, when Beatrice is here? Heaven only knows! There may be enemies in there at this minute. H'yemba may be there—"

  Anguish pierced his soul at thought of his son now possibly in the smith's power.

  "By God!" he cried, "something has got to be done, and quick!"

  His rage was growing by leaps and bounds.

  He advanced to the door, and putting the muzzle of his automatic almost on the lock, shattered it with six heavy bullets.

  Again he dashed the boulder against the door. It groaned and gave.

  Reloading ere he ventured in, he now set his shoulder to the door and forced it slowly open, with the pistol always ready in his right hand.

  Keenly his eyes sought out the darkened corners of the room. Here, there they pierced, striving to determine whether any ambushed foe were lying there in wait for him.

  "Surrender!" he cried loudly in the Merucaan tongue. "If there be any here who war with me, surrender! At the first sign of fight, you die!"

  No answer.

  Still leaving the girl beside the broken door till he should feel positive there was no peril—and always filled with a vast wonder how the door could have been locked from within—Allan advanced slowly, cautiously, into their home.

  He was cool now—cool and strong again. The frightful perils and exposures of the week past seemed to have fallen from him like an outworn mantle.

  He ignored his pain and weakness as though such things were not. And, with index on trigger, eyes watchful and keen, he scouted down the cave-dwelling.

  Suddenly he stopped.

  "Who's there?" he challenged loudly.

  At the left of the room, not far from the big fireplace, he had perceived a dim, vague figure, prone upon the floor.

  "Answer, or I shoot!"

  But the figure remained motionless. Allan realized there was no fight in it. Still cautiously, however, he advanced.

  Now he touched the figure with his foot, now bent above it and peered down.

  "Old Gesafam! Heaven above! Wounded! What does this mean?"

  Starting back, he stared in horror at the old woman, stunned and motionless, with the blood coagulating along an ugly cut on her forehead.

  Then, as though a prescience had swept his being, he sprang to the bed.

  "My son! My boy! Where are you?" he shouted hoarsely.

  With a shaking hand he flung down the bedclothes of finely woven palm fiber.

  "My boy! My boy!"

  The bed was empty. His son had disappeared.

  Chapter XXV - The Fall of H'yemba

  *

  Blinded with staggering grief and terror, stunned, stricken, all but annihilated, the man recoiled.

  Then, with a cry, he sprang to the bed again, and now in a very passion of eagerness explored it. His trembling hands dragged all the bedding off and threw it broadcast. By the dim light he peered with wide and terror-smitten eyes.

  "My boy!" he choked. "My boy!"

  But beyond all manner of doubt the boy had been stolen.

  Unable to understand, or think, or plan, Allan stood there, his face ghastly, his heart quivering within him.

  What could have happened? How and why? If the door had been securely locked and the old nurse been with the child, how could the kidnapper have borne him away?

  What? How? Why?

  More, ever more, questions crowded the man's brain, all equally without answer.

  But now, he dimly realized, was no time for solving problems. The minute demanded swift and drastic action. He must find, must save, his son! After that other riddles could he unraveled.

  "H'yemba!" he cried hoarsely. "This is H'yemba's work! Revenge and hate have driven him to rebel again. To try to seize Beatrice! To steal my son! At this time of peril and affliction, above all others! H'yemba! The smith must die!"

  But first he realized he must get Beatrice into safety.

  In haste he ran to the door, picked up the girl and carried her to the bed. Here he disposed her at ease, covered her with the bedding, and bathed her face and hands with water from the cooling-jar.

  The old nurse he laid upon the broad couch by the fire and likewise tended. He saw now she had been struck with a stone ax, a glancing blow, severe, but not necessarily fatal.

  "Probably trying to defend the boy!" thought he. "Brave heart! Faithful even unto death—if death be your reward!"

  Leaving her, he returned to his wife.

  Now, he well understood, he had no time for emotion. There must be no false move. Even at the expense of a little time, he must plan the campaign with skill and execute it with relentless energy.

  He alone now stood for power, rule, order, law, in this disintegrated community—this colony racked with disaster, anarchy and death.

  Upon him alone now depended its whole fate and future, and, with it, the fate and future of the world.

  "Merciful Lord, what a situation!" he whispered. "At home, disruption and savagery. Outside, the Horde—the Horde now pressing onward after me!"

  He sat down beside the bed and forced himself to think. Weak as he was and wounded with a spear-thrust in the lower leg as well as a jagged cut across the breast, he felt that he might still keep strength enough for a few hours more of toil.

  Of a sudden he realized an over-powering thirst. Till now he had not felt it. He arose, drank deeply from the jar, then—something cooler and more calm—once more returned to Beatrice.

  "The first thing is to
help her," he said. "No use in losing my wits and rushing out unprepared to find the boy. If H'yemba has stolen him it's certain the boy is hidden beyond my present power in some far recess of the inter-communicating rabbit-warren of caves below there in the cliff.

  "I feel positive no bodily harm will be done the child. H'yemba will hold him for power over me. He will try to exact terms—even to leadership in the colony, even to possession of Beatrice. And the penalty of refusal may be the boy's death—"

  He shuddered profoundly, and with both wasted hands covered his face. For a moment madness sought to possess him.

  He felt a wild desire to shout imprecations, to rush out, fling himself against the cave-door of H'yemba and riddle it with bullets—but presently calm returned again. For in Stern's nature lay nothing of hysteria. Reason and calm judgment dominated. And before he acted he always reckoned every pro and con.

  "It must be a battle of wits as well as force," thought he. "A little time will decide all that. For now Beatrice demands my first care and thought!"

  Now he examined the girl once more. Closing the door and lighting the bronze lamp, he carefully studied the sick woman, noting her symptoms, pulse and respiration.

  "What to do?" he asked himself. "What means to tale?"

  He arose and rummaged the stores for drugs. Above all, he must break the fever. He therefore prepared and administered a powerful febrifuge, covered the girl with all the available bedding, and determined, if possible, to make her sweat. This done, he found no further means at hand and now turned his attention once more to Gesafam.

  Her wound he bathed and bandaged and, having given her a stiff drink of brandy, poured between resisting teeth which he had to separate with his knife-blade, he presently perceived some signs of returning consciousness.

  But, though he questioned the old woman and tried desperately to make her answer, he could get no coherent information.

  Only the name of H'yemba and some few disconnected mutterings of terror rewarded him. He knew now, however, with positive certainty that the smith was responsible for the kidnapping of his son.

  "And that," said he, "means I must seek him out at once. All I ask is just one sight of him. One sight, one bullet—and the score is paid!"

  He arose and, again making sure his automatic was in complete readiness, stood for a second in thought. Whatever he was now to do must be done quickly.

  In a few hours, at the outside, he knew the vanguard of the pursuing Horde would enter the last valley on the other side of the canyon. By afternoon another battle might be on.

  "Whatever happens, I must get my grip on the colony again at once!" he realized. "Such of the Folk as are still sound must be rallied. Otherwise nothing but annihilation awaits us all!"

  But, even as he faced the exit of Cliff Villa, all at once the door was hurled violently open and a harsh, discordant cry of hatred and defiance burst into the cave.

  Stern saw the detested figure of H'yemba standing there, loose-hung, powerful, barbaric, his eyes blinking evilly behind the mica screens that Allan himself had made for him.

  With a cry Allan started forward.

  "My son!" he gasped.

  There, clutched in the smith's left arm, lay the boy!

  Allan heard his child crying as in pain, and rage swept every caution to the winds.

  He sprang toward H'yemba, cursing; but the smith, with a beast-laugh, raised his right hand.

  "Master!" he mocked. "No nearer or ye die!"

  Allan, aghast, saw the flicker of sunlight on a pistol-barrel. With only too true an aim, H'yemba had him covered.

  Came a little pause, tense as steel wire. Somewhere down the terrace sounded a murmur of voices. Allan seemed to sense that the rebel had now gathered his forces and that a general attack was imminent.

  Time! At all hazards he must gain a moment's time!

  "H'yemba!" cried he. "What is your speech with me, your master?"

  "Master?" sneered the smith again. "My slave! Power has passed from you to me. From you, who speak the false, who entrap us here to suffer and die, who slay and ruin us, to me, who will yet lead the people back to their far home, to safety and to life!"

  "You lie, hound!"

  The smith laughed bitterly.

  "That shall be seen—who lies!" he gibed. "But now power is mine. I have your son in my hand. Move only and I fling him from the cliff!"

  Allan felt his brain whirl; all things seemed to turn about him. But he fought off his faintness, and in a shaken voice once more demanded:

  "What terms, H'yemba?"

  "Slavery for you and yours! Your son shall be my serf; your woman my chattel! Ha, that woman! She has already fought me, like one of these strange woods-beasts you have made us kill! See! My hair is burned and my flesh blistered with her fire-beating! But when I hold her in these hands then she shall pay for all, the vuedma!"

  Stern's hand twitched, with the automatic gripped in the fingers, but the blacksmith cried a warning.

  "Raise not that hand, slave!" he ordered. "You cannot shoot without the danger of killing this vile spawn of yours! And remember, too, the river lies far below, and very sharp are the waiting rocks!

  "Fool that you are, that think yourself so wise! To leave this place with me! With me, skilled in all labors of metal and stone, strong to cut passage-ways—"

  "You devil! You hewed a way into my house?"

  H'yemba laughed brutally.

  "Silently, steadily, I labored!" he boasted. "And behold the reward! Power for me; eternal slavery for you and all your blood—if any live!"

  Insane with rage and hate, Allan nevertheless realized that now all depended on keeping his thought and nerve.

  One single premature move and his son would inevitably be hurled over the parapet, down two hundred and fifty feet to the river-bed below. At all hazards, he must keep cool!

  The smith, after all only a barbarian and of limited intelligence, had not even thought of the obvious command to make Stern drop his pistol on the floor.

  Upon this oversight now hung all Allan's hopes.

  Even though the man's retainers might rush the cave and slaughter all, yet in Allan's heart burned a clear and steady flame of hot desire to compass H'yemba's death.

  And as the smith now loudly boasted, insulted, vilified, in the true manner of the savage, imperceptibly, inch by inch, Allan was turning his pistol-barrel upward.

  Higher, higher, bit by bit it crept toward the horizontal. Unaccustomed to shoot from the hip, Allan realized that right before him lay a supreme test of nerve and marksmanship and skill.

  To shoot and kill his boy—the thought was too hideous even to be considered. His father-heart yearned toward the frightened, crying child there in the traitor's grip.

  The unconscious form of Beatrice fever-burned and panting on the bed, seemed calling aloud to him: "Aim true, Allan! Aim true!"

  For one false shot inevitably sealed the child's death. To wound H'yemba and not kill him meant the catastrophe. If the bullet failed to enter brain or heart, H'yemba—though mortally hurt—would of a surety, with his last quiver of strength, sling the boy outward over the dizzying parapet.

  Allan prayed; yet his prayer was wordless, formless and unconscious.

  He dared not glance down at the automatic. His eyes must hold the smith's. And he must speak, must parley, at all hazards must still gain another moment's respite.

  What Allan said in those last terrible, eternal seconds he could never afterward recall.

  He only knew he was treating with the enemy, making terms, listening, answering—all with mechanical sub-consciousness.

  His real personality, his true ego, was absolutely absorbed in the one vital, all-deciding problem of that stiffening pistol-hand.

  Suddenly something seemed to cry in his ear:

  "You have it now! Fire!"

  His hand leaped back with the crashing discharge, loud-echoing in the cave.

  H'yemba did not even yell. But at the second wh
en he seemed to crumple all together, falling as an empty sack falls, some involuntary jerk of his finger sent a bullet zooming into the cave.

  It shattered beyond Allan in a little shower of steel and lead fragments, mingled with rock-dust.

  Before these had even fallen Allan was upon him.

  Neglecting for an instant the bruised and screaming child, who lay there struggling on the terrace-path, Allan seized the still-twitching body of the monstrous traitor.

  With passionate strength he dragged it to the parapet.

  Below, down the path, he caught a swift glimpse of grouped Folk, wondering, staring, aghast.

  To them he gave no heed.

  He lifted the body, dripping bright blood.

  Silent, indomitable, disheveled, he raised it on high.

  Then, with a cry: "See, ye people, how I answer traitors!" he whirled it outward into the void.

  Over and over it gyrated through vacant space. Then, with an echoing splash, the river took it, and the swift current, white-foaming, boisterous, wild, rolled it and tumbled it away, away forever, into the unknown.

  With harsh cries and a wild spatter of bullets aimed high above them, Allan drove the cowed and beaten partizans of H'yemba jostling, fleeing, howling for mercy, down the terrace-path between the cliff and parapet.

  Only then, when he knew victory was secure and his own dominance once more sealed on them, did he run swiftly back to his boy.

  Snatching up the child, he retreated into the home cave again; and now for the first time he realized his wan and sunken cheeks were wet with tears.

  Chapter XXVI - The Coming of the Horde

  *

  Now that, for an hour or two at least, he felt himself free and master of the situation, Allan devoted himself with energy to the immediate situation in Cliff Villa.

  Though still weak and dazed, old Gesafam had now recovered strength and wit enough to soothe and care for the child.

  Allan heard from her, in a few disjointed words, all she knew of the kidnapping. H'yemba, she said, had suddenly appeared to her, from the remote end of the cave, and had tried to snatch the child.

  She had fought, but one blow of his ax had stunned her. Beyond this, she remembered nothing.