The World's Great Snare

by E. Phillips Oppenheim

  Mr. Hamilton turned his back on them with an oath, and disappeared. The Englishman and his partner scrambled up the opposite side of the gorge, to the platform where they had built their shanties about a hundred yards apart. Arrived at the top, Pete Morrison thoughtfully hitched up his trousers, and spitting out a tobacco plug, laid his hand upon the other’s shoulder.

  “Mate!” he said deliberately. “I seed that stranger.”

  The Englishman turned quickly round.

  “Well, what if you did?

  “Not much! It ain’t a female, is it?”

  The Englishman was beginning to lose his temper. He answered testily, even angrily.

  “What the devil does it matter to you or to any one else, who my visitor is! I suppose I may have whom I like in my own shanty.”

  Pete was quite unmoved, although his face had grown a shade more serious. He took off his cap, and began flicking away a few stray mosquitoes.

  “No offence, pard. But ain’t you heard what Dan Cooper and his lot have give out?”

  “No.”

  “Well, they allow they’re going to run these diggin’s on a new tack. Dan was at the Black Creek lot, and I guess you know what a hell that place was turned into. Well, they allow that the first woman who shows here, out she goes and him as brought her, claim or no claim. That’s what they say down yonder,” he added, jerking his thumb downwards in the direction of the camp. “That’s what Dan Cooper and his chaps do say, and I reckon they’re strong enough to run this section.”

  “That’s so!” the Englishman answered, frowning. “Thanks, Pete! I’ll take care! Better be mum about my visitor, anyway.”

  He walked away up the little green path, and pushed open the door of the hut. He scarcely knew the place. It had been cleaned and swept, and his evening meal was prepared. Myra was sitting in a corner, mending some old garment of his.

  He greeted her kindly, but without going over to her side.

  “Well, Myra! been lonesome, eh?” he asked.

  She flashed a single look up at him from her brilliant eyes, and bent again over her task.

  “Sorter lonesome,” she assented. “I’ve been busy fixing up things too!”

  “Looks like it,” he answered, glancing around. “Let’s have supper! We’ve had a nailing hard day’s work!”

  She got up without a word, and seating herself opposite to him, poured out the tea from a tin pot. He ate and drank with characteristic appetite, and she made a show of following his example. When he had finished, she cleared away, and then came and sat down by his side.

  “Have you fixed up when I am to go?” she asked quietly.

  She turned a pale, anxious face towards him, and sat patiently waiting for his answer. It was long in coming. He had begun dimly to see what the end of it must be; but even at that last moment he felt a curious reluctance to re-entering into the bondage of her love for him. He leaned back on the bench, and looked at her, wondering at the peculiar inappropriateness of her rude and ill-shaped clothes with that strange, delicate beauty which was so essentially dainty and feminine. His heart beat a little faster as he looked into her soft dark eyes with their silky eyelashes, and noted, with some return of his old admiration of her, the quivering sensitive mouth, the great coils of waving glossy hair, and the perfectly graceful curve of her throat and neck, gleaming as white as marble in contrast with the low black shirt she wore. The power of her beauty had always been great over him, and he was beginning to feel a sudden and altogether undesired revival of the curious fascination which once before she had possessed for him.

  “I have been inquiring about the expressman,” he answered. “Seems I was out in my reckoning. They say he’s not due for three weeks or so.”

  She lifted her eyes, and watched him covertly. He had not seemed in any way disappointed or disturbed at the prospect which was before them. Perhaps, after all, he was not so very sorry. He was only human, and the fierce solitude of the long nights, with their almost brutal relaxations of cards and raw spirits, had filled him with a great intolerable weariness. In the day-time when work was possible, the life was, at any rate, bearable. But the darkness came early, and the evenings were long. He had no books, nor any inclination to read them. The man’s nature was too large for him to keep himself aloof from those others, his fellow-workers, and besides, he had not the capacity for solitude. He was one with his fellows; a man with all the instincts of a common and gregarious humanity.

  Through the long day and in the intervals of his toil, he had been thinking of these things. What had been gall and weariness in the city presented itself here, and under these conditions, in altogether a different aspect. He might truthfully say, if ever his conscience should reproach him in the years to come, that he had done his best to rid himself of this girl’s presence. He had failed! It was fate! She had drifted to him again, a flotsam on the broad river of humanity, herself controlling the current which bore her into his arms. After all, he was but passive in the matter. Even had he desired it, escape would not be easy, and in his heart he was not at all sure that he did desire it. In San Francisco he had found life with this girl in curious antipathy to all his crude notions of what was seemly and honest. A strong and never conquered dislike to their mode of living chafed him from the first. He had not a particle of religion, nor any conscious love of morality. He went into his bondage perfectly untrammelled by any scruples other than instinctive ones. But in a week he was conscious of but one desire: to free himself from a connection which was utterly distasteful to him as speedily as possible; and it was in a measure the reaction from the enervating period of his brief liaison which had led him to throw in his lot with a handful of men bound for the gold region. In the shadow of the great mountains, face to face with Nature in all her primitive grandeur, he had become himself again. The hard physical toil had been a luxury to him. He had already learned to think kindly, almost with regret, of the girl who had so suddenly returned into his life. What a difference her presence seemed to make in the miserable little shanty! He was forced to admit it. His day’s reflections had all been favourable to her. Even had he desired it, escape now would not be easy.

  Perhaps she guessed by his face and his tone, that he was relenting in his demeanour towards her. Womanlike, she took advantage of the opportunity. She glided across the room, and fell upon her knees before him.

  “Don’t send me away, Bryan!” she begged. “Don’t! Don’t!”

  She was sobbing hysterically at his feet, crouching there, her hair and dress disordered, with all the sinuous grace and elegance of some beautiful wild animal. Then he took her hand, and hesitated for the last time. Slowly he stooped down, and wound his arms around her, raising her towards him. With a little soft cry she twined her fingers around his neck, and buried her face upon his shoulder. Then he drew her lips to his and kissed her.

  They were silent for a few moments, gazing out into the rich, soft darkness, which spread itself like a mantle below them. Down in the camp they could hear the mingled sounds of revelry at Cooper’s store, and the steady hammering of some new arrivals marking out their claim and setting up tents. It was early for the moon, and the fireflies like flashes of gold darted up and down the sides of the steep ravine, and hung like tiny stars over the valley below. Suddenly from the other side of the cleft a red flame leaped up hissing into the night. Myra started and looked breathlessly out into the darkness.

  “It’s only Jim Hamilton—the chap who has the shanty opposite,” the Englishman explained. “He’s on the borders of a wood, you see, and he’s afraid of bears. He burns pine boughs there, every night he’s alone!”

  Another tongue of flame leaped up, and now they could hear the crackling of the burning branches. Another and another followed. Myra leaned forward, holding her breath, and fascinated for a moment by the curious sight. Even the man whose arm was round her supple waist was interested. The whole air was full of that fitful yet brilliant light casting a vivid glow upon the undergrowth
and down into the precipice hung with tiny fir-trees, and throwing back strange lurid shadows upon the red-trunked trees and the dense blackness of the wood. Mr. James Hamilton himself, who was alternately feeding and raking the fire he had kindled, bathed in the rich scarlet glow became almost a picturesque object. Suddenly, as though conscious of being observed, he stood upright and turned towards them, leaning on his shovel, and slightly shading his eyes with his hand.

  A great tongue of red fire scattered a thousand sparks, and leaped up into the black night. For a moment every line and furrow in the man’s evil face stood revealed. The disclosure was startling, almost sinister. Even the Englishman, who had sat opposite to the man for months, shuddered and turned away. For a few seconds he forgot his companion. Then a stifled cry from his side, and an added weight upon his arms, reminded him of her with alarm. He caught her up in his arms and bore her to the bed. Her face was white and her eyes were closed. She had fainted.

  And across the gorge, bathed in a stream of red fire, Mr. James Hamilton stood there like a carved figure, with a light more brilliant than the flaming pine boughs had ever cast, blazing in his eyes, and a fire more fierce than that which had made white ashes of the dry wood, burning in his evil heart. Then he dropped his hand and burst into a hoarse ringing laugh, a laugh which echoed up the gorge and down the valley, and came even to the ears of the men sitting in Dan Cooper’s store. One cursed the jackals, and another spoke of wolves. But the laugh was the laugh of Mr. James Hamilton.

  V. A HATEFUL FIGURE FROM A HATEFUL PAST

  Table of Contents

  It was morning. As yet the sun had gained no strength, and though the air above was clear and bright with the promise of a glorious day, a mantle of hazy white mists floated in the valley, and hung over the tree-tops. Mr. James Hamilton, after throwing a careful glance around, slipped out from his cabin, scrambled down the gorge and up the opposite side, and walked softly along the garden path which led to the shanty.

  The Englishman had gone to the river—he had watched him go. Only his visitor was there. As he approached within a few yards of the shanty, Myra, who had just risen, came to the door to watch the sun strike the tops of the distant Sierras. Instead, she looked into the dark, evil face of Mr. James Hamilton.

  She started back with a little low cry. The colour faded from her cheeks and the glad light from her eyes. A sudden faintness came over her. Sun and sky, wooded gorge and rolling plain, commenced to dance before her eyes. She felt herself growing sick and numbed with horror. Last night she had persuaded herself that it was a delusion. The shadows and the dim light had made her fanciful. But here in the clear morning’s sunshine, where every object possessed even an added vividness, there could be no possibility of any mistake. The man whom it had been the one fervent prayer of her life that she might never see again, was face to face with her alone in these mountain solitudes.

  And he had not changed—not a whit. There was the same cold, ugly smile, the same fiendish appreciation of the loathing which he aroused in her. He took off his battered cap, and made her a mock obeisance.

  “You—here!” she gasped. She felt that she must say something. The silence was intolerable. It was beginning to stifle her.

  “You’ve hit it!” he remarked. “Did you think I was a ghost? Feel! I’m flesh and blood! Come and feel, I say!”

  He held out his arms with a gesture of coarse invitation. She shrank away with a little cry which dropped into a moan—almost of physical pain.

  “Don’t touch me! Don’t dare to touch me! What do you want?”

  Mr. Hamilton appeared hurt. His manner and his tone implied that he had expected a different reception.

  “What do I want? Come, I like that! You don’t mean to tell me that you’ve come to this God-forsaken hole of a place after some one else, eh? When I saw you last night, I thought at first of coming right over and claiming you. It’s me you came for, I reckon. Ain’t it, eh?”

  Her eyes flashed fire upon him.

  “Come after you!” she repeated, her bosom heaving with pent-up emotion. “Oh, my God! I would sooner walk into my grave. To look at you—and remember, is torture! What do you come here for? How dare you come into my sight!”

  He laughed; a low, sneering laugh that had little of merriment in it.

  “So it is the Englishman, is it? Now listen here, my sweetheart, and don’t ruffle your pretty feathers. If we were in San Francisco, or any place where there was a choice of society, you could take up with whom you liked and be d—d to you; but out here it’s different! You’re mine, and I mean to have you! Do you hear? This blasted hole has given me the blues. I’m lonely, d—d lonely, and ‘pon my word, you’re a devilish handsome woman, you know! It won’t be for long. I shall soon be as tired of you as I was before, and then you can come back to your Englishman! No nonsense, you little fool! You belong to me, body and soul, and I’m going to have you!”

  She had not been able to attempt any escape, had any been possible. The man’s very presence seemed to have bereft her of all strength. She stood there fascinated with the deep unspeakable horror of it, trembling from head to foot, and miserably conscious of her own impotence. Before she could recover herself his arms closed suddenly around her, and his hot breath scorched her check as he stooped down and lifted her bodily into his arms. She gave one despairing shriek, and then a cry of joy. There was a slow, deliberate footstep outside, and a tall form stood upon the threshold. Mr. Hamilton dropped his burden, and turned round with a fierce oath.

  It was Pete Morrison who was lounging there, lank and nonchalant, with a pipe in his mouth and his hands in his pockets.

  “Hello! What’s the shindy!” he inquired good-naturedly.

  “It’s no affair of yours,” answered Mr. Hamilton, with savage emphasis. “Stand aside and let us pass, Pete Morrison. I’m not the man to be trifled with, and I’ll stand to my word to-day. Out of my path, or I’ll let daylight into you, sure as hell!”

  Pete Morrison stood a little on one side, and blew a volume of tobacco smoke from his mouth.

  “Where’s the hurry?” he inquired. “I ain’t standing in your way. You may go as fast as you like, but I kinder think you’d better leave the boy,” he added mildly.

  “The boy’s mine. Clear the way, I tell you!”

  His hand stole down towards his belt. Quick as lightning Pete Morrison’s hand flashed out towards him.

  “Hands up, Jim.”

  Mr. Hamilton obeyed the order, and saved his life. He still looked into the dark barrel of Pete’s revolver, but the pressure on the trigger was relaxed.

  “Now look here, Jim,” Pete Morrison remarked calmly. “I’ll allow that this ain’t none of my affairs. I interfere only as far as this. While my pard’s away, no one don’t enter his shanty, nor meddle with his property—not if I’m around, anyway. If this ‘ere boy belongs to you, come and fetch him while Bryan’s here. That’s all. Now I reckon you’d better quit. You seem to have scared the life out of the young ‘un.”

  Mr. Hamilton was white with rage. He walked sullenly to the door and then turned round.

  “Very well, Pete. Your turn now, mine next. I’m off to the creek. What was it Dan Cooper proposed, and Pete Robinson seconded, eh?” he sneered. “No women in this ‘ere camp. And you and your d—d partner thought you’d make fools of us all by calling that a boy, eh? Ha! ha! ha! We’ll see. Mark my words, Pete, my fine chap. Before to-morrow’s sun goes down, you’ll be advertising for a partner. Ha! ha!”

  He turned away. Suddenly a faint voice recalled him. He looked round. Myra was standing in the doorway, pale and trembling. She laid her hand on Pete Morrison’s coat-sleeve.

  “Is that true?” she whispered hoarsely. “Tell me quick.”

  “Reckon so,” Pete answered gruffly.

  He had done his duty to his partner, but he had no friendly feelings towards this stranger. She turned towards Mr. Hamilton, who was watching her with an evil smile.

  “Will you wai
t a little time before you go down and tell them in the camp?” she said, in a dull, lifeless tone.

  “Four-and-twenty hours,” he answered briefly. “If you are with me to-morrow morning before the sun touches yonder ridge, I am silent. If not—you know.”

  He sprang down the gorge side and disappeared. Pete Morrison had also gone back to his shanty without another word to the stranger whose presence he found so unwelcome. Myra was alone.

  She sat down upon the little bench and looked out with blind, unseeing eyes on the sun-smitten woods and the valley still overhung with faint wreaths of fairy-like mist. Alas, all their sweetness was gone for her. A great black shadow lay across it all. Shuddering, she dared for a moment to glance back at those awful days which for years she had been striving to forget; days of horror, and degradation, and sin, days almost of madness. She had climbed a little way out of hell, only to be thrust back again by the same hand that had ‘dragged her down. She knew no God. She had no friend. There was no way for her to turn, nothing but death. She stretched out her hand, and thrust the small revolver which she had brought with her from San Francisco into the bosom of her gown. She had been very near it twice before: once when her first trust had been betrayed, and again in the desert when gaunt famine had stared her in the face. This time it seemed to her that death would be an easier thing. The man who had shown her the blackest and most hideous depths of human depravity was breathing the same air. Better death by the slowest and most awful tortures than that his hand and hers should ever meet again upon this earth. Better a hell of everlasting torture than such a hell as this. She stretched out her hand with a convulsive, dramatic gesture towards the little brown shanty on the other side of the gorge, and her lips moved in an unspoken oath. The sweet, sharp air into which she looked was rent by the single word which burst from her tightly-compressed lips: “Never!”