The World's Great Snare

by E. Phillips Oppenheim

  “Yes. When I told you that—you weren’t—I lied! I was generally lying when I told you anything. The woman I married before had been dead years. You might have guessed it, if you hadn’t been—such a soft little fool! I—I married you to make money out of you; you were so d—d pretty. Curse this pain!”

  He was silent for a moment. Her eyes, which she had not been able to move from his face, showed her that he was struggling with a deadly faintness.

  “D—n you, why don’t you do something for me,” he gasped, “instead of staring like that? Give me—that bottle!”

  He pointed with wavering finger to the black bottle which lay on its side. With a great effort she clenched her teeth and rose. There was a tin mug on the shelf. She filled it with what was left of the liquor, and held it to his lips. He gulped it down to the last drop. The film passed from his eyes, and his fingers ceased to twitch. He was restored.

  “If you hadn’t been coining back to me—as I bade you, I should have torn this paper up. You see a devoted wife—is sometimes repaid,” he sneered. “I’ll tell you how to use it. Let me think.”

  She sat there waiting with dull confused senses, wondering in a vague sort of way whether it was very wicked to deceive a dying man, as she was doing. Coming back to him! Was that what he thought? Was that how he accounted for her sudden appearance? If only he knew that it was to spy upon him that she had crept out of her bed in the darkness and stolen over to hide amongst the alder bushes, to watch and listen, ay, and to rob, if she had the chance. What would he say, if he knew that? But after all, he would never know. She had gained what she wanted. It was her right. She had suffered at this man’s hands villainy that the fortune of a Vanderbilt could never atone for. She would accept what he had given, and she would do her best to forgive him. It is easy to forgive the dead.

  “Myra!”

  His voice broke in upon her thoughts. She started, and turned hastily towards him. He had raised himself a little, and his pain seemed to be less acute. He spoke distinctly and even rapidly.

  “I needn’t waste my breath telling you any of the story,” he said. “It’s humdrum enough. One of the documents you have to get is a journal written by the man himself. It tells the whole rigmarole. That packet I have given you contains two of the most important papers. The rest, with the diary, are in San Francisco. I left them in safe keeping. I seemed to have some idea that I was being followed about, and I couldn’t conceal all of them about me.”

  “Where are they?” she asked.

  “Amies Rutten has them. Curse it, you’re not afraid of him still, are you?”

  She had started back suddenly, pale and trembling. Even the name of that man was sufficient to make her blood run cold.

  “I could never go to him for them!” she said, in a low tone. “I could not! Oh, I could not!”

  He caught hold of her wrist, and shook it savagely.

  “Don’t be such a d—d little fool,” he muttered savagely. “He can’t hurt you. Take some one with you if you are afraid. He’s got the parcel. All you have to do is to go and say I’m done for, and show him—you’re listening?”

  “Yes,” she whispered faintly.

  “Show him three crosses on a blank card. That’s the sign I agreed upon, if ever I should want that package, and not be able to fetch it myself. The person who showed him three crosses on a blank card was to be treated as my agent.”

  “Supposing—he should refuse to give it me? If he knows that you are dead, and that it is valuable, he may want to keep it.”

  “He may,” Mr. Hamilton assented. “Listen, Myra!” he added, his voice dropping to a hoarse whisper, and his eyes gleaming. “Supposing he should try it; I am going to let you into a secret. I am going to tell you certain words to say to him. First lift up your hand, and swear that once spoken, you will never breathe them again; you will forget you ever uttered them. Swear, girl, and keep your oath, for there is death in the words. Spoken once, they may serve you. Spoken afterwards, repeated even to yourself, and they will be your destruction. Swear!”

  She lifted her hand. The sudden solemnity of his manner had somehow communicated itself to her.

  “I swear!” she declared.

  Then he clutched her hand, and drew her down until his hot breath fell upon her cheek. No human being could possibly be within earshot of them, but his voice was sunk to a whisper, and once he paused to look half fearfully around. The agitation of his manner was unmistakable. She, too, as though by some species of magnetic sympathy, came under its influence. What power was there he was evoking, so mysterious and so potent, that out here amongst the lonely hills, and in the silent dawn, he could not speak of it save with bated breath and blanched cheeks? She drank in every syllable, every word found its way into the chambers of her memory, and remained there. Throughout the whole of her future life she carried with her a vivid picture of that little scene. There it was, simple, bare, dramatic. The rude interior of the shanty, from the walls of which the unstripped bark hung down in long shreds, the insects which crawled on the ceiling, the overturned bench, and the black bottle rolling on its side, the man in his rough mining dress who crouched there with this strange new look of awe in his deep-branded, resolute features, and the dark stain of blood which, drop by drop, had trickled down and soaked into the floor. And outside, like some strangely framed silhouette, a vision of gray clouds and mists, dimly seen trees and hills all vague and shadowy in the wan light of the coming dawn. The waking breeze and the strong odour of the pines, these too dwelt in her mind. Nothing was ever forgotten. Even in a life of such vast changes as lay before her, an experience like this has its own peculiar immortality. It baffles new sensations and it defies time. It has its own place, and death alone can dislodge it.

  He spoke to her no longer with the cold cynicism of his natural manner, but with deep emphasis and impressiveness. In the shock of his earnestness he was once more a man of education and parts.

  “Myra, if he should refuse, if he should divine my death, and seek to play the robber’s part, take your pencil and paper and write before him. Write these words:

  “‘The bow and the iron, the arrow and the steel.

  “‘MAURICE HUNTLY.’

  “Say that after me.”

  She repeated it rapidly. He nodded approval.

  “Listen. If he should still refuse, leave him. Go to Josi’s cafi. See Josi himself. Repeat those words to him. He will give you a name and an address. You will seek it out. To the man whom you will find you will tell, without reserve, everything; my death, your desire, everything. Answer all his questions. Have no fear of him. Then go away and wait. In a few days you will have the papers. Go to England, and you will easily find out—the man who knows. Make your own terms. He will give you what you ask. I went to him but once, and I asked for ten thousand pounds. I had it. You can have more. But remember, treat with him; never with the other. The one who has, you have always under your thumb; but the other, you are powerless with him after you have once parted with your golden egg. And listen. Here is news for you. The other is here, in this country, searching for me. Once I have had suspicions that it might be the Englishman yonder. It is only a guess. Once, as he slept, his features seemed familiar to me. If it be he, guard your secret. Leave him. Remember!”

  “I will remember,” she echoed.

  He sank back again into his former position, and lay there motionless. She bent over him, and looked into his face. His breathing had become fainter, and his eyes were closed. Two great beads of perspiration stood out upon his forehead, and the fingers of his left hand were tightly clenched. She looked at him shuddering, yet fascinated. Was this death?

  And with that self-asked question a vague troubled sense of responsibility swept in upon her. Death! And after death, what? She had no religion. She was utterly a child of nature without any creed of her own, or any desire to possess one. Yet none the less she was instinctively a moralist. Right was right, and wrong was wrong. The world had been
made so. For the first time she asked herself, by whom and for what purpose? If there was a reward for well-doing, what was the fate of the evil-doers—the fate of such as this man? Was it any use being sorry? She wondered whether there was anything she ought to say to him, whether she could do any good by reminding him of the grim passage to eternity through which he was soon to pass. She must say something, she felt. What, she scarcely knew.

  She touched him upon the arm, and he opened his eyes. “Jim, are you sorry?” she whispered.

  He laughed, a grim, harsh, discordant laugh.

  “Not I,” he muttered. “I’m no d—d turncoat! The devil and I have had a high old time, and I’ll stick by him. A curse on all canting humbug! If—I had—my time all over again—I’d go it all over again. I’ve killed men when they’ve been in my way, and I’ve made more than one woman miserable. I’ve plundered, and I’ve robbed; I’ve gone my—own way, and it’s been a d—d bad one, too! I’ll die as I’ve lived, and take the chance. I’m—no coward.”

  He fell back exhausted, and closed his eyes. She got up and walked to the door, drinking in great gulps of the fresh morning air with a sense of immeasurable relief. Away eastwards, the sun had risen from behind a bank of purple and red clouds, and its faint light having kissed the snow-crowned mountains was travelling downwards. Below in the valley, little patches of the river and rock-strewn watercourse were dimly visible through a veil of white mist which every moment grew fainter. Now she could see the settlement with its little cluster of cabins and tents and men like black specks moving about as though preparing for the morning’s toil. And yonder—ah, yonder at last—was Bryan, standing at the door of his shanty, with his coat over his arm, shading his eyes while he gazed around.

  She waved her hand and called out to him. He saw her, and started with surprise. For a moment he hesitated. Then he came striding down the gorge, swinging himself up again on the opposite side to where she was, with a recklessness which more than once made her turn away from watching him with a shudder. In a moment or two he stood by her side.

  “Myra, what on earth are you doing here?” he asked sternly.

  She laid her hand upon his arm.

  “Hush!” she said softly. “Something terrible has happened—in there.”

  She pointed over her shoulder. His eyes followed her finger, and he saw the prostrate figure.

  “What is it?” he asked in a lower tone. “Has Jim got hurt?

  “He has been shot,” she answered. “Murdered. He is dying!”

  XII. THE VILLAINY OF MR. CHRISTOPHER SKEIN

  Table of Contents

  The little colony of gold-seekers in the valley below were, one and all, early risers. Just as the downward-glancing rays of the sun smote the waters of the Blue River for the first time, gleaming like silver in the deep pools, and at the miniature waterfalls, they commenced to troop out of their shanties, filling the quiet morning air with their gruff salutations and badinage. On the whole, they were a sociable lot, with—for the time and the country—a strong element of respectability. There were black sheep, and plenty of them, but they were in a minority, and the knowledge of it was in itself a restraint. There was a little shooting—not much, and plenty of gambling. But those who indulged in them were looked upon with a certain coldness, and were made somehow to feel themselves delinquents.

  In little groups the men sauntered down to their claims, with their tools over their shoulders. Suddenly there was a pause. One or two were looking up at the little shanty perched on the edge of the precipice high above their heads. Others were trying to make out some nearer object, a black crawling figure descending the rough path with slow, painful movements.

  “Wonder how Jim and his pard got on last night,” remarked one. “Jim ‘ud have a high old time, I reckon!”

  “It’s odds against the little ‘un having many of those greenbacks left. I played poker with Jim, and it was tolerable expensive!” grunted another.

  “I shouldn’t reckon that there little ‘tin was a softy with the pictures,” said a man from the rear. “Them as is weak in the arm and undersized are generally fairly quick with their fingers. Hullo! what the hell’s that?”

  The little black figure was becoming more distinct. They all stopped and watched it draw nearer and nearer.

  “By Gad!” cried the first speaker. “It’s Jim’s paid! All that’s left of him, anyhow!”

  Mr. Skein it was! His face was bruised and livid with the marks of Mr. Hamilton’s fist, and streaked with blood from the fierce scratchings of the brambles into which lie had fallen. His clothes were torn, and one side of him was coated with soft red clay. He walked quite lame, and every now and then he fell forward on his hands as though his legs were powerless to support him. Altogether he was a most pitiful-looking object. The men who watched him were of rough calibre, and as he drew near he was greeted with a perfect shout of laughter. They were kindly enough, most of them, but the man’s plight was irresistible. Peal after peal of laughter shook the still, sunlit air. But he did not hesitate. He carne steadily on, and as he drew near enough for them to see his face and its expression, somehow the laughter died away. An utter silence took its place. They watched him as though fascinated. Speechless he dragged himself on until he stood before them. Then, without a word, he dropped down and rolled over like a log.

  They crowded around him, and Dan Cooper pushed his way through with a flask in his hand.

  “I reckon Jim’s been too almighty rough on him,” he remarked, drawing the stopper. “It’s a d—d shame!”

  There was a gruff murmur of assent. Dan stooped down, lifted the fainting man’s head with his own broad palm, and passed some of the liquid down his throat. The result was marvellous. He gave a little groan, and in a moment he sat up.

  Again here was a tendency to mirth as they watched him sitting straddle-legged upon a little mound of gravel, with great tears forced out of his eyes by the strength of the liquor, rolling down his cheeks, and noticed the details of his pitiful condition; and again, something which came into his face with the first gleam of awakening consciousness, checked them. They began to have a dim apprehension that the tale this man would have to tell would be no ordinary one. They were right.

  He still did not speak, sitting there and blinking round upon them in an odd, dazed sort of way. They were getting impatient, and one or two of them began to fire off questions.

  “What did he maul you for, eh?”

  “Reckon it was Jim as did it!”

  “Where’s Jim, anyway?”

  There was a moment’s silence. Skein turned a white, ghastly face up to them, and the nearest held their breaths.

  “Jim’s dead!” he said slowly.

  There was a little murmur amongst them, but no surprise. They had expected something of the sort. It is probable that if Christopher Skein had boldly declared that he had shot him in self-defence, and merely pointed to his miserable state, they would have slapped him On the back and gone to their work. No one would have dreamed of blaming him. But unfortunately he did not appreciate the camp temperament, and he knew nothing of their habits. He had a legal and conventional mind. Since the first gleams of daylight he had been lying on his back at the bottom of the gorge, planning how to escape from his horrible plight.

  “Did you shoot him?” asked a voice from the rear. Skein looked up. His eyes were kindled with a frightened yet malignant light. He shuddered where he sat.

  “I shoot him No! I had no firearms. Besides, he was my pard. We were pals. I shoot him! Who dare say so?” he whined.

  They looked at one another, perplexed. Dan Cooper elbowed himself to the front, and constituted himself cross-examiner.

  “If you didn’t, who did?” he asked. “Don’t be afraid, we ain’t going to hurt you. Don’t sit there shivering like a blarmed kitten. Open your mouth like a man, and tell us all about it.”

  Skein looked up and faced them. What little courage he had, he made a desperate effort to summon to his
aid. Now or never he must win his safety.

  “It’s made me feel all broke up,” he commenced, looking around to try and find a little sympathy in their hard, stolid faces, “all broke up anyhow! Jim and me had a real friendly evening together last night, and he got telling me things about himself as confidential as could be. He’d been a bad lot, he said, but he was about sick of going on anyhow. He was going to chuck this up by-and-by, and make a fresh start. Then he told me something I couldn’t quite understand, about a very valuable paper he said he had with him. It warn’t money, but it was worth a good deal more than money. He seemed to expect that it was going to bring him in a fortune by-and-by. And yet, he said, he was almost afraid to carry it about with him, for a small ring of them had caught scent of it, and they were on his track at San Francisco. One of them was a woman, he told me, and then he broke off, and he didn’t talk to me any more for a good bit, but kept muttering to himself and swearing something awful.”

  He paused and looked round for encouragement. Every one was listening most intently. Then he glanced quickly up towards the little shanty at the head of the gorge, and shuddered.

  “Get on,” said one of the men impatiently. “We want to know the end.”

  Skein blinked rapidly once or twice, and continued:

  “Well, he got talking again soon, and after swearing at her something awful, he told me something which scared me. His wife was here; had followed him from San Francisco, he said. She was up in yonder shanty with a chap he called the Britisher.”

  He pointed to Bryan’s shanty, high over their heads, with quivering finger. A little chorus of exclamations ensued.

  “Little Bones allowed he saw a stranger up there! How long has she been there, anyway?”

  “Reckon that’s why that crafty Britisher built his shanty so far away from the rest of us!”

  “Guess he thought us chaps weren’t quite the sort for lady’s society!”

  “Go on, anyway.”

  “Ay, go on!”