He touched his belt. There was no spoken answer, but in a minute or two the table was empty. One by one they got up and lounged outside. The only man amongst them whose face was at all kindly glanced at the stranger as he passed, half in contempt, half compassionately. It was as well for him that he could not hear their remarks when they came together outside. It might have spoilt his appetite.
Mr. Hamilton and the stranger were soon alone in the store. Their supper had arrived and was half finished before either evinced any desire for conversation. Then Mr. Hamilton, still trifling with his fork, leaned back in his chair, and steadfastly watching his companion, asked a question.
“Name, pal?”
The stranger leaned over. “Eh? I beg—”
“What’s your name,” I asked?
“Oh! Christopher Skein. What’s yours?”
“Hamilton. Jim Hamilton here, Huntly in ‘Frisco. Maurice Huntly, Esq., when I’m in luck. What the hell’s the matter with you?”
Mr. Skein was evidently nervous. He had dropped his knife and fork, and had disappeared after them under the table. When he resumed an upright position, there was a tinge of dull brick colour in this cheeks, and his little eyes were brighter than ever.
“I’m all right,” he declared briskly—“right as nine-pence. Let’s have some more liquor! I’ll pay! Name it!”
“Brandy!” growled Mr. Hamilton. His companion’s suddenly increased hilarity was making him suspicious. It was time to pump him dry.
“Say, what have you come for?” he began, folding his arms upon the table, and leaning heavily forward. “Is it the gold fever that brought you, or are you on any little lay of your own, eh? Straight, now; no lies! By thunder, I’m not the man to tell lies to. Just you remember that, my weasel!”
An ugly light flashed into his red, bloodshot eyes. He flung a six-chambered revolver down on to the table before him with an unnecessary clatter. The stranger turned pale, and edged his chair away. He was getting horribly frightened.
“Please turn that beastly thing away!” he said peevishly. “It might go off.”
Mr. Hamilton stared at him, and then grinned. It was very clear that he had found a greenhorn here.
“Might go off!” he repeated ironically. “Oh, lord! Might go off! Ha, ha, ha!”
He leaned back in his chair, and relapsed into a fit of strident laughter. When it was over, he wiped the tears from his eyes and sat up.
“Go on, young’ un!” he said, almost good-humouredly. “Spin us your yarn!”
Whereupon Mr. Skein told his story, with a few embellishments which recent events had suggested to him. For instance, it appeared now that his late partner had stolen both revolvers, and threatened to shoot him dead if he followed him a yard. He liked this story better than the other, and repeated it twice. He had sense enough to know himself that he was a coward, and physically at a miserable disadvantage with the weakest of the men who had thronged the store a few minutes ago. At the same time he fully realized the importance of keeping this fact as far as possible to himself.
Mr. Hamilton listened with some appearance of sympathy. At the close of the narration he produced a pipe, filled and lit it, and spat upon the floor.
“You’ve been pretty roughly used, and no’ mistake,” he declared. “Why didn’t you turn back, though? What’s the use of coming here without tools, or money, or any-. thing? What the hell are you going to do?”
“Who said I hadn’t any money, eh?” demanded Mr. Skein, running his fingers through his hair. “I’m not stoney broke yet—not quite.”
Mr. Hamilton grew more interested.
“Got a bit o’ money, eh?” he remarked. “What are you going to do with it? Mark out a claim, and chuck it away in tools, I suppose. I’m d—d if I can see how you’re going to handle the shovel, though, when you’ve got it. Where’s your muscle? Lord! what an arm!”
“I would rather,” Mr. Skein remarked, with his eyes keenly watching the other’s countenance, “I would rather pay for a share in a claim that was already being worked, and take a partner. Having no experience, and being as you say not very strong, I should be content with the smaller share in the profits.”
Mr. Hamilton drained a glass of brandy, and held out his hand.
“Put it there, young man,” he said impressively. “I’m the only man here who’s working alone, and I’ve got a claim as good as any of them, right next to those lucky devils who’ve been panning out nuggets all day. I’ve got a shanty all to myself, and there’s heaps of room for you. Blarmed if I didn’t take a fancy to you the moment you came in! Plank down the coin, and we’re pards.”
“What’s the figure? I ain’t no blooming Vanderbilt, you know; be easy.”
Mr. Hamilton meditated.
“I’ll take two hundred dollars, and you take a third of the swag, or five hundred, and go yer halves. That’s liberal.”
On the banks of the Blue River the men toiled hard by day, and slept heavily at night. But high above their heads, in the little wooden shanty at the head of the gorge, that dull, sickly light shone steadily on.
X. A DEBAUCH AND A TRAGEDY
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Mr. Hamilton was drunk, fiercely and unmistakably drunk. There could be no doubt about it, although he betrayed none of the usual signs of plebeian intoxication. He was not shouting or singing, or displaying any violent signs of affection for his boon companion and partner. He was not—in a word—maudlin. He sat on a wooden bench with his hands on his knees and his chin thrust forward; whilst opposite to him, as though fascinated by the fierce glare of those red, bloodshot eyes, Mr. Skein was indulging in a very hollow affectation of thoroughly enjoying himself. With his hands in his pockets, and his sallow cheeks flushed by his very moderate share of the empty bottle which lay between them, he was feebly essaying to sing the chorus of a popular comic song:
“Oh, my, tell ‘em to stop!
Such was the cry of Maria
When she cried ‘Whoa!’
They said Let her go!’
And—”
“Shut up that d—d row, you blithering idiot!”
Mr. Skein closed his jaws with a snap.
“What’s the matter with it?” he asked feebly. “I know I haven’t got much of a voice, but that’s no reason why you should snarl a fellow’s head off.”
“Much of a voice! It’s like the squeak of a hell-cat,” Mr. Hamilton remarked between his teeth. “Turn your rat’s face this way. I’m drunk, and you know it. Now, hark ‘ee. What the hell do you mean by sitting there and asking me questions about my private affairs, eh?”
“I—I didn’t mean any harm,” faltered Skein, with chattering teeth. “I’ve told you all about myself.”
“All about yourself! Yes, and it sounded like a blooming pack of lies,” growled the other. “Bah! what do I care about you and your pettifogging, crawling little life? Sit up, man, and pull yourself together. Don’t crouch there and look at me out of the corners of your eyes, as though I were going to eat you.”
“You’re such an odd fellow, Jim. You’re—”
“Ay, you’ll find I’m odd before you’ve done with me. Pick up that bottle. Is it empty?”
Skein turned it upside down. Not a drop trickled out. Mr. Hamilton expressed his disappointment with a savage growl.
“Open that cupboard.”
Skein obeyed promptly.
“There’s a black bottle there, half full, unless you’ve been guzzling it on the sly. Out with it.”
Skein’s head and shoulders disappeared in the recess. In a moment he produced the bottle and passed it over. Mr. Hamilton handled it for awhile with affection, passing his hands up and down it with affectionate gentleness. Then he raised it to his lips, and held it there while it gurgled seven times. As he set it down he caught his partner’s eye watching him timidly. He held out the bottle to him.
“Drink,” he commanded.
Skein took the bottle, raised it to his lips, and set it down.
Mr. Hamilton scowled. He had been listening for the gurgle, and there had been none. Naturally he felt annoyed.
He got up with some difficulty, and seized the bottle with one hand, and the back of his partner’s head with the other.
“Now, drink,” he shouted thickly. “Drink, you puling idiot! No shamming. Down with it like a man.”
With a trembling hand Skein guided the neck of the bottle to his mouth. Instantly it was held there like a vice. The raw, fierce spirit poured down his throat as hot as liquid fire. He coughed, spluttered, yelled. The tears streamed down his cheeks, and he grew purple to the forehead. Then with a mighty laugh Mr. Hamilton withdrew his hand, and, carrying the bottle with him, resumed his seat.
“Hark ‘ee, Christopher,” he said, frowning till his thick eyebrows met, and his eyes glowed underneath them like pieces of live coal. “You know I’m drunk. You’ve shirked the bottle yourself on purpose. You’ve been asking me questions—pumping me, by thunder, just as though I was some commonplace idiot to be turned inside out by a sick-faced insect like you. Perhaps you didn’t mean anything. Better for you that you didn’t. Perhaps I’m suspicious. Dare say I am. I don’t mind telling you this much, you miserable young cub. I’m low down, low down as hell, but I’ve been a gentleman, and an English gentleman, too, and hunted and shot, and had my town place and country place, and seen more of life than you’ve ever heard or read of. And I’m not quite done yet. I’ve got the disposal of a huge estate and a great name in my hand at this very moment. Ha, ha, ha! It’s a fine thing! There’s a man in the old country who trembles and turns pale at the mention of my name. He’s a proud man, too, one of the old sort, but you go to him and tell him that Jim Hu—Hamilton’s outside to have a word with him, and, Lord, how he’d flop!”
Mr. Skein was himself again. His teeth had ceased to chatter, and his bead-like eyes were sparkling. He seemed to have forgotten even his fear.
“Why don’t you bleed him?” he whispered.
Mr. Hamilton laughed softly. It was an evil laugh. Even his admiring partner drew a little further away. It was a laugh which suggested a good many things, but certainly not mirth.
“Ay, why don’t I?” he said. “Well, I’ll tell you, pard. You ain’t a bad little sort, and you wouldn’t try any games on me, I don’t think. I’m a bit hasty with my shooting irons when I’m roused. You remember that, my kid, and if you don’t want daylight letting into your body, keep a still tongue in your ugly head. Now I’ll tell you. I was in England—not very long ago—never mind how long. There are two of them; one don’t know, the other does. I was fixing things up when I got into a row—never mind what sort—it was a hell of a row, though! I had to bolt. Out here a man’s life more or less don’t count. Lord, it’s the sort of place to be jolly in, this is! But I’ve written to those chaps. I’m going to run ‘em up, one against the other. Christopher, my boy, if you were pards with me here,” he clapped his hand upon his chest, “your fortune would be made. But you ain’t, you see.”
Skein was trembling all over, not with fear this time but with excitement. He had distinctly heard the rustle of paper when his partner had struck his chest. It was there, sewn into his coat, very likely. How his heart was beating! Oh, if only he were not such a coward!
“What is it, Jim?” he asked, with quavering voice. “Documents?”
Mr. Hamilton shot a furious glance at his questioner. There was a look in the lean, craven face and hungry, piercing eyes, which did not take his fancy. He was aware that he had talked too much. The fumes of the spirit had worked like fire in his brain. What had he said? Perhaps it would be safer—
He drew out his revolver, and began to examine the priming. He spat on the barrel and polished it, glancing every now and then at his companion, who was almost falling off his seat with terror.
There was an intense silence between the two men, so deep that the faint night sounds from the wood, and the music of the softly flowing river in the valley below, floated in through the open doorway to their ears. Suddenly they both gave a great start. Skein sprang up with a cry of fear. His partner, leaning over, seized him fiercely by the arm.
“Listen, you d—d fool!” he muttered savagely. “If you breathe a word I’ll knock your brains out!”
They listened motionless. A slight rustling sound again broke the deep night hush. What was it? A sudden breeze in the tree-tops, a stray wolf attracted by the light, or the faint rustling of a woman’s gown over the short grass?
“Some one has been lying there listening!” Mr. Hamilton hissed. “Quick!”
He staggered towards the door, the revolver in his hand. Half-way there, he reeled against the wall. The shanty was spinning round. He was blind drunk. He held out the revolver to Skein.
“Take it quick!” he muttered. “Outside! Blaze away!”
Skein snatched it from him, and rushed to the doorway. But he did not even glance out. He turned round and faced his partner. His cheeks were ghastly pale, and his eyes seemed starting from his head.
“Not inside, you blarsted idiot!” yelled Mr. Hamilton. “What the hell are you doing? D—n!”
Two shots rang out, one after the other. Mr. Hamilton, with a fearful oath upon his lips, fell sideways across the floor, with his hand pressed to his side. His partner, throwing down the revolver, leaped through the thick smoke, and knelt over the fallen body. His tongue was protruding between his teeth, and his eyes seemed starting from his head. With shaking fingers he commenced to undo the wounded man’s coat. Before he got to the last button Mr. Hamilton opened his eyes, and he drew back with a shriek.
“You’ve—done for me—you devil!” muttered Mr.
Hamilton. “Oh, if I could feel my hands around—around your neck!”
“Give me the—paper in your coat, and I’ll leave you alone!” Skein whispered. He was breathing hard, and his lips and eyeballs were burning. It was not quite so easy to kill a man, after all! Mr. Hamilton thrust his hand into his breast, and his partner bent eagerly down. It was a rashness of which he had reason to repent, for, instead of the paper, he received Mr. Hamilton’s fist full in his face. He staggered against the wall, sick and dizzy. Then the wounded man raised himself with a little moaning cry.
“Myra!” he gasped. “Myra! he’s shot me! Hold him!”
Skein turned round, quaking. Standing upon the threshold, with the moonlight falling upon her white, horrified face, and her slender figure clearly outlined against the deep blue sky, was the girl from the shanty opposite. He did not hesitate for a moment. He leaped past her like a cat, and went headlong down the gorge. She did not try to stop him. Her limbs were paralyzed with horror.
“Myra!” he faltered. “I’m done! Will you come here?”
She did not hesitate then for a moment. She fell on her knees by his side, and took his hand. She forgot her loathing, and she forgot her wrongs. She forgot everything except that she was a woman!
XI. THE GOLDEN EGG
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The blackness of night was followed by the dim, spectral gray of an early dawn. Myra, whose face was turned to the open door, welcomed it with a deep-drawn sigh of relief. Another such a night as this, and she felt that death or madness would be welcome. For when Mr. James Hamilton had opened his eyes to find her bending over him, he had stretched out his hand and imprisoned hers. Minutes had grown into hours, and she had not been able to move. He had kept her there crouched by his side, half-stupefied with horror, unable to move hand or limb. He had not spoken to her again; he had scarcely moved except every now and then to make sonic change in his position, groaning heavily all the time. So she had sat there through those intolerably long hours of the night, a faint breeze fanning their faces; her head turned resolutely away from him towards the open door, where a thousand glittering fireflies darted about in the soft velvety darkness.
And then came the dawn. For Myra it would have brought an overpowering sense of relief, but for one thing—that, as the morning paled the eastern sk
ies, and the long level streaks of gray luminous clouds crept slowly into the background, the man by whose side she was watching opened his eyes, and began to exhibit all the signs of returning consciousness. Eagerly she leaned forward, striving to distinguish the dim outline of the opposite shanty. If only Bryan would come across the gorge on his way to the river! Surely he would miss her soon?
“Myra!”
It was a hoarse, low whisper almost in her ear. She felt sick with horror, but she turned round. She looked into his strong, passionate face, white and drawn now with pain, and was silent.
“That cowardly—devil has done for me, I fancy. Listen, girl!”
His fingers tightened upon her wrist. Even at such a crisis as this, her horror of the man was such that she could not look at him without shrinking.
“It was my own d—d folly! I got drunk and told him a secret,” he muttered. “He wanted a paper. Open my coat, quick!”
She thrust it back. He guided her trembling fingers, and she could feel something stiff between the lining and the cloth.
“Rip that open,” he murmured. “There is a little hole in the bottom. Put your finger in it, and tear!”
She obeyed him. The stitches, rotten with age and wear, tore out. She drew from the gap a flat oilskin case.
“Hide it in your dress, quick, and listen!”
She thrust it into her bosom. He drew a hoarse, gurgling breath of relief.
“That bungling, cowardly idiot is sold anyway,” he said. “Myra, that paper—is worth a fortune. I give it to you—because you are my wife. See?”
She drew back and looked at him with parted lips and bloodless face.
“Your—your wife!”
She had lost the power of speech. It was all she could say.
The World's Great Snare Page 7