The World's Great Snare

by E. Phillips Oppenheim

  She put her thoughts into words.

  “What are you going to do, now you are here, without tools or anything?” she asked.

  “I don’t know!” he answered, standing up and stretching himself. “I’ve got a little money left—just a little. I may buy a share in a claim. Is that where they work, down there?”

  He had strolled to the door, and was looking down into the valley, where the sounds of toil and hoarse voices were growing fainter. She looked over his shoulder with ease, and nodded.

  “Yes; all round the bed of the old river,” she answered. “They’re about through for the day, now. Guess you’d better go down and see after some quarters, unless you’re going to camp out!”

  “Not for me!” he declared fervently. “I’ve had about enough of that. If money can buy it, I’ll sleep upon a bed to-night!”

  “You won’t find much in the shape of a bed down yonder,” she remarked listlessly. Her interest in this odd little morsel of humanity had vanished. It was getting near the time for the Englishman to return. Very soon her fate would be decided. It was strange to think that her eyes might never see the morning break again. She would surely die rather than give herself into his hands again. She did not hesitate about that for a moment. Then she turned her face towards the great rolling plain. The memory of those awful days and nights rushed in upon her. Better death than to face such again—alone! If she was driven out, it should be to die!

  “Well, I’m off!” remarked a sharp voice at her ear. “I say!”

  She glanced down quickly. The stranger was still standing by her side.

  “Yes?”

  “Odd thing it would be, wouldn’t it, if I was to drop across a pal in this God-forsaken corner of the earth! Know the names of any of these chaps here?”

  She shook her head.

  “I suppose they have names!” she remarked. “They don’t use them much out here, though. They call one another anything!”

  She chanced to look at him as she finished her speech. His bead-like eyes were fixed upon her, all alight with a keen inquisitiveness. He withdrew them at once.

  “Well, I should soon find them out, working amongst them,” he declared cheerfully. “There are quite a lot of chaps I’ve knocked up against at different times, who said they were coming out this way. Let me see; there was Churcher—George Churcher, and Bill Dyson, and that fellow Richardson I met on the boat. Ay! and Dick Jenkins and that other chap—what’s his name?—Maurice Huntly.”

  She caught hold of the side of the door, and shuddered. Through the fast gathering gloom, she could see his black glittering eyes fixed steadfastly upon her.

  “There is a man here who used to call himself Huntly,” she remarked, looking down the valley. “That’s his shanty, opposite!”

  “Live alone?

  “Yes.”

  “About thirty years old. Short and stout; very fair and squints. Eh?”

  She shook her head.

  “No; he’s tall and dark, and I don’t think there’s anything the matter with his eyes.”

  He scratched his chin, and appeared disappointed.

  “Ain’t the same,” he remarked. “Didn’t see how it could be. The man I mean was the least likely to be here of all the lot. He got married last year. Lord, how dark it’s getting! Good evening to you, my dear. I shouldn’t be in no hurry, I can tell you, if I knew my way down that confounded hill a bit better. Ta—ta!”

  He leered into her face without apparently noticing the gesture of disgust with which she turned away from him. Then he scrambled on to the level, and mounting the mule which was browsing calmly by the wayside, he rode off awkwardly enough down the caqon. Once he tried to turn round to wave his hand, and very nearly lost his seat. The girl took no notice. She was standing there, straight and rigid, waiting for her doom.

  VIII. A CORNER OF THE CURTAIN

  Table of Contents

  The men were late coming from their work that evening. The twilight was merging into darkness, and a few fireflies were commencing to dart about in the valley, when she heard their voices approaching. The Englishman and Pete Morrison stood talking for several moments at the door of the latter’s dwelling, but though she strained her ears, she could not catch any part of their conversation. Presently, she heard a brief good-night pass between them, and the Englishman’s massive figure came towering through the darkness. She stepped back into the shanty, put the lamp on the table where his supper was carefully spread, and stood waiting for him with beating heart. There was nothing more she could do. She had put on the gown which she had jealously carried with her through all those days of toil and misery, and she had done her rich hair in the manner he liked best. Everything inside the shanty was as neat and tidy and clean as it could be made. She stood there waiting, her eyes soft with unshed tears, and the colour coming and going in her cheeks. She could even hear her heart beating underneath her dress. It seemed to her that her fate would be written in his face.

  He flung open the door of the shanty and entered, stooping low. When he drew himself up, she was unable to decide immediately whether his countenance was favourable or not. He nodded to her kindly, but in an abstracted manner, and—he did not seem to notice her gown. Her lip quivered pitifully.

  “You’re late, Bryan,” she said. “Your supper’s all ready.”

  She came and stood over by his side. He put his arm around her waist and kissed her.

  “You’re a regular little Englishwoman,” he declared, glancing round. “Shouldn’t have thought that you’d have been up to roughing it like this. By Jove, Myra, how handsome you are!”

  He held her out at arm’s length and looked at her. The soft colour glowed in her cheeks, and her eyes flashed with joy.

  “Am I?” she whispered. “Guess I like you to think so.”

  He looked at her steadily, and a cloud passed over his face. He was thinking of the future, nearer than ever it seemed to-night, when the day of their parting must come. What would become of her; what manner of life was there in which she could find happiness, and keep herself from sinking deeper into the slough from the borders of which he had snatched her? That very beauty, which it seemed to him that until then he had never properly appreciated, now all the more glorious for its pitiful surroundings, troubled him. It was too fair a thing to be coupled with a tarnished life.

  “Well, let’s have supper,” he said suddenly. “I had a huge wash in the river, and I’ve an appetite, I can tell you.”

  They sat down together. Her relief was too great for her to eat. But suddenly a cold chill ran through her blood. Her heart sank. Supposing Pete had not, after all, mentioned the morning’s adventure? He happened to be looking at her, and he noticed the change in her countenance.

  “What’s up, Myra?” he inquired, setting down the tin pannikin which he had been in the act of lifting to his lips. “Seen a ghost?”

  She looked at him, and suddenly leaned forward. “Has Pete Morrison told you about this morning?” she asked breathlessly.

  He frowned and went on with his supper.

  “Yes. That beast Jim came up and frightened you, didn’t he? We’ve been too hard at work to talk much, and Pete isn’t much of a hand at a yarn. I’d like to hear you tell me just what happened.”

  She stood up and locked her hands nervously in one another.

  “Yes, I want to tell you,” she said. “I want to tell you very much. You’ve never heard how it was that I became—what I am. I should like to tell you.”

  She was very pale, but a dull red spot was blazing in either cheek. Her bosom was heaving and her breath was coming sharply. The Englishman moved uneasily in his chair. He hated a scene, and the girl’s agitation distressed him.

  “No! I wouldn’t talk about it, Myra,” he said. “I know that it wasn’t your fault, of course.”

  She shook her head. “I must tell you a little—not all. I shan’t make a long story of it. My father was a timber man on the Mellin River, about a hundred miles
from San Francisco. I lived with him, and I hated it. I had no mother, no sisters or brothers. One day he died, and I was alone in the world. I went to try and find an aunt in San Francisco. I was about sixteen then. She was very poor, and very cruel to me; but I shared her roof, and I worked as a waitress at a restaurant. There was a young man who came there, who offered to marry me. I was utterly miserable, and I agreed at once. I cared nothing for him, and told him so. He did not mind; he wanted me, anyhow. So I married him. In three days I left him. He told me that he had another wife alive, that our marriage was only a sham; and when I declared that I should leave him, that very instant, he tried to beat me.

  “I went to my aunt. She turned me away with an oath. Then I took another situation. In a week or two he found me out. He begged me to go back. I refused. He left me money. I threw it at him. He did not break into oaths, as I had expected, but he went away quietly. He sent me money through the post. I would not use it. He came back again, and threw himself at my feet, imploring me to go back and live with him. Again I refused. Soon after, I lost my situation—through him, I discovered afterwards. I was starving. Then he came to me again. He was quiet, and even gentle with me. He begged and begged, until at last in despair, I consented to go back to him. He treated me well for awhile. Then I discovered why.

  “He had a friend, or rather a master, who had been pleased to admire me. What the hideous compact was, I do not know, but his only object in getting me back was to hand me over to this man—for a price. I was to be sold like an animal. The man who had deceived me was to pass me on to his master. It was a bargain between them. After weeks of persecution, I came to know of it. I do not try to tell you of the hideousness of those days; I dare not let myself think of them. Only if an eternal hell opened before my feet side by side with a renewal of them, I should choose hell! I—oh, God! I cannot bear to think of them!”

  She wrung her hands, and a curious strained look came into her features. Her eyes were full of horror. She swayed and would have fallen, but the Englishman leaned over and passed his strong arm around her.

  “Poor little woman!” he said tenderly.

  His tone acted upon her like magic. She fell on her knees, and hid her face upon his chest, sobbing as though her heart would break. Wisely he let her be, and as soon as the storm was over, he lifted her easily on to his knee.

  “Look here,” he whispered. “What’s the good of raking all this up? I don’t want to know anything about it. I’d rather not.”

  She shook her head. “You don’t understand!” she said. “I must tell you. I shan’t mind so much now. Bryan, those men were like fiends to me. I had made up my mind to die before I gave in. It wasn’t that I minded—the actual wickedness so much, but I hated that other man—oh, how I hated him! They treated me sometimes like gaolers, sometimes they brought me diamonds, and sometimes they tried to starve me. One night the other man came in alone. I—I can’t go on. I was desperate, and I stabbed him. He wasn’t much hurt, but he was frightened, and I got away. I was utterly mad. I had not a friend in the world, and no money. I gave up all hope of leading a good life. I came down to Josi’s Cafi, and I saw you. You were kinder to me than any one ever had been in my life, and your face was honest. You know the rest of that. We were together for the happiest two months I had ever had. Then you left me, and I thought my heart would break. I was afraid to be alone. That other man was pitiless, and he was strong. I was horribly afraid of him. He was rich enough to have a whole army of ruffians to back him up, and I shivered when I thought of what he might do. Then that letter came for you, and the same day I saw him in his carriage, and a strange man followed me home. I was wild with fright, and you know what I did. I followed you here.”

  He patted her cheek, and smoothed the hair from her forehead.

  “Well, you’re safe enough ‘here, little woman,” he said with gruff kindliness. “I don’t see what you want to look so scared for.”

  She lifted her face to his. “I haven’t told you yet,” she said, in a hoarse whisper. “Bryan, that man you call Jim Hamilton is the man who betrayed me. His real name is Maurice Huntly. He is an Englishman.”

  “By thunder!”

  The Englishman’s face was a study. The half-vexed sympathy with which he had been regarding the girl upon his knee, had altogether vanished. His face exhibited nothing but the blankest astonishment and wonder.

  “You won’t give me up to him?” she whispered.

  “No, I won’t give you up,” he promised absently. “Maurice Huntly! My God!”

  She looked at him fixedly. A new light was breaking in upon her.

  “You know—something about him,” she cried breathlessly.

  “Not much,” he answered, with a short laugh. “Only that he is the man whom I have come five thousand miles to find. Huntly! Maurice Huntly! My God!”

  IX. A NEW PARTNERSHIP

  Table of Contents

  The stranger pursued his way with some difficulty down the caqon, and eventually reached the level without accident. Here he paused to take breath and look around. To the right the old bed of the river wound through a fertile valley, and here it was that the bulk of the gold-digging was being done. In the distance a few dark figures with lanterns in their hands were still bending over their work, but the great majority had finished for the day, and in the dim light the great deserted space, with its occasional mounds of fresh-dug earth, and a few rude shafts standing up against the naked sky, had a weird, ghostly appearance. The stranger, whose nerves appeared to be none of the strongest, shivered and led his mule away, following the track to the left. He turned round a steep promontory, and found himself at once in the midst of the settlement.

  There were about a score of roughly put together wooden shanties, and one long pine-board building, in front of which several oil lamps were flaring steadily away in the breathless Most of the dwellers in the place seemed to be gathered round the latter building, although a few remained leaning against the walls of their shanties smoking alone. A few yards apart, a dozen or two Chinese were squatting on the ground round a large tent, playing cards by the light of several flickering candles.

  The arrival of the stranger was the signal for a universal stir. The group around Cooper’s store all ceased talking, and turning round, saluted him with various exclamations. The men who had been lounging alone forgot their unsociability in the unwonted excitement, and crowded round him Even the Chinese threw down their cards, and gazed upon the new-corner open-mouthed.

  “Any more of yer, matey?”

  “What’s the gang?”

  “Say, have you brought the mail?”

  “Got a newspaper, pard?”

  “Hitch him up; there’s a nail!”

  There was a momentary silence at last. It was felt that the stranger ought to be given a chance to declare himself. He fastened his mule awkwardly up as directed, and stood on the threshold of the store looking round into the rough, toil-hardened faces by which he was surrounded, with some little trepidation. Then he scratched his head feebly and tried to answer their questions. After the deep bass voices which had assailed him, his shrill, quavering tone sounded oddly.

  “I’m quite alone,” he said. “I had a partner, but he has gone to Christopher’s Creek. He went off with all my tools as well as his own. I’ve been twenty days on the way from San Francisco. I didn’t bring a newspaper. I’m going to get something to eat and drink. I’m afraid it won’t run to drinks round, but if a bottle of whisky—”

  “Hurrah!”

  “Bravo, little ‘un!”

  “That’s bully!”

  The stranger found his speech brought to an abrupt termination and himself carried off his feet in the sudden rush to get inside the store. He stood in no little danger of being knocked down and trampled on, but Mr. Hamilton, with a consideration which was highly creditable, caught hold of him by the middle, and lifting him bodily up, deposited him, limp and breathless, in a chair before a long wooden table. Then he join
ed the rest of the crowd round the bar.

  The storekeeper, with the bottle of whisky under his arm, leaned over towards the new-corner.

  “Seven dollars, guv’nor,” he announced gruffly. “Tip it up, and I open the stuff.”

  The new-comer produced a slender roll of green-backs, and counted out the money. A dozen hands were extended to pass it over, and a slight gulp of relief passed through the little crowd when it was seen that the money was to be forthcoming. Blue River prices were high, and there had been some apprehension lest the stranger might withdraw from his generous offer.

  The bottle was drained to the last dregs. Then one or two of the men brought their liquor over, and sat down at the table. Mr. Hamilton had secured the place next the stranger.

  “Dan,” he shouted, turning round, “come and take the gentleman’s order. Didn’t you hear him say that he was hungry? Come and wait on your patrons, you idiot!”

  “What’s ‘e want?” inquired the storekeeper, lounging over the bar. “Can’t he give it a name?”

  “Whar’s the menu? Guess that’s what he’s waiting for,” remarked one of the loungers at the table. “Reckons it’s Delmonico’s. Fitch the lobster salad, Dan.”

  Mr. Hamilton brought his fist down on the table with a weighty bang, and glared savagely around.

  “Shut up, you blarsted fools! Stranger, there’s boiled rabbit and onion sauce. Can you eat boiled rabbit? You can. Good, so can I! Dan, send round two platefuls—platefuls, mind, and don’t stump it—of boiled rabbit. We will select the wines later. Mates,” he added, looking down the table with lowering brows, “this gentleman is my friend. You understand!”