The B. M. Bower Megapack

by B. M. Bower

  There had been one black night in the cabin—the night before this last one, it was—when he had considered for a while how he might smuggle Helen May out of the country, suppressing the fact of her complicity. He planned just how he could put her on a train and “shoot her to Los Angeles,” as he worded it to himself. How she could take a boat there for Vancouver, and how he could hold back developments here until he knew she was safe. He figured the approximate cost and the hole it would make in his little savings account. He thought of everything, even to marrying her before she left, so that he could not be compelled to testify against her, in case she was caught.

  He had dozed afterwards, and had dreamed that he put his plan to the test of reality. He had married Helen May and taken her himself to Los Angeles. But there had not been money enough for him to go any farther, and his chief had wired him peremptorily to return and arrest the leaders of the Alliance and all connected with it. So he had bought a steerage ticket for Helen May and put her aboard the boat, where she must herd with a lot of leering Chinamen. He had stood on the pier and watched the boat swing out and nose its way to the open sea, and a submarine had torpedoed it when it had sailed beyond the three-mile limit off the coast, so he could not go after her. He was just taking off his coat to try it, anyway, when he awoke.

  That was all the good his sleep had done him: set him upright in bed with a cold sweat on his face and his hands shaking. But the reaction from that nightmare had been complete, and Starr had not again planned how he might dodge his plain duty. But he kept thinking around and around the subject for all that, as though he could not give up entirely the hope of being able to save her somehow.

  He did not know, until he passed the corral, that he was already in Sunlight Basin, and that the house stood just up the slope before him. Rabbit must have taken it for granted that Starr was bound for this place and so had kept the trail of his own accord, for Starr could not remember turning from the main road. He did not even know that he had passed not more than a hundred yards from Vic and the goats, and that Vic had shouted “hello” to him.

  He took a long breath when he glanced up and saw the house so close, but he did not attempt to dodge or even delay the final tragedy of his mission. He let Rabbit keep straight on. And when the horse stopped before the closed front door, Starr slid off and walked, like a tired old man, to the door and knocked.

  Helen May had been washing the breakfast dishes, and Starr heard the muffled sound of her high-heeled slippers clicking over the bare floor for a minute before she came into the front room and opened the door. She had a dish towel over her right arm, opening the door with her left. Starr knew that the dish towel was merely a covering for her six-shooter, and his heart hardened a little at that fresh reminder of her preparedness and her guile.

  “Why, good morning, desert man,” she said brightly, after the first little start of surprise. “Come on in. The coffee’s fine this morning; and I just had a hunch I’d better not throw it out for a while yet. There’s a little waffle batter left, too.”

  Starr had choked down a cup of coffee and a sandwich at the station lunch counter before he left San Bonito, and he was glad now that he was not hungry. He stepped inside, but he did not smile back at Helen May; nor could he have accepted her hospitality to save himself from starvation. He felt enough like Judas as it was.

  “Don’t put down your gun yet,” he said abruptly, standing beside the door with his hat in his hand, as though his visit would be very short. “You can shoot me if you want to, but that’s about all the leeway I can give you. I rounded up the revolution leaders last night. They’re likely at Fort Bliss by now, so you can take your choice between handing me a bullet, or going along with me to Fort Bliss. Because if I live, that’s where I’ll have to take you. And,” he added as an afterthought, “I don’t care much which it is.”

  Helen May stood with her chin tilted down, and stared at him from under her eyebrows. She did not speak for a minute, and Starr leaned back against the closed door with his arms folded negligently and his hat dangling from one hand, waiting her decision. He stared back at her, somberly apathetic. He had spoken the simple truth when he said he did not care which she decided to do. He had come to the limit of suffering, it seemed to him. He could look into her tawny brown eyes now without any emotion whatever.

  “You don’t smell drunk,” said Helen May suddenly and very bluntly, “and you don’t look crazy. What is the matter with you, Starr of the desert? Is this a joke, or what?”

  “It didn’t strike me as any joke,” Starr told her passionlessly. “Thirteen of them I rounded up. Holman Sommers was the head of the whole thing. Elfigo Apodaca is in jail, held for the shooting of Estan Medina. Luis Medina is in jail too, held as a witness and to keep Apodaca’s men from killing him before he can testify in court. I hated to see the kid tangled up with it—and I hate to see you in it. But that don’t give me any license to let you off. You’re under arrest. I’m a Secret Service man, sent here to prevent the revolution that’s been brewing all spring and summer. I guess I’ve done it, all right.” He stared at her with growing bitterness in his eyes. His hurt began dully to ache again. “Helen May, what in God’s name did you tangle up with ’em for?” he flashed in a sudden passion of grief and reproach.

  Helen May’s chin squared a little; but she who had not screamed when she found her father dead in his bed; she who had read his letter without whimpering held her voice quiet now, though womanlike she answered Starr’s question with another.

  “What makes you think I am tangled up with it? What reason have you got for connecting me with such a thing?”

  A stain of anger reddened Starr’s cheek bones, that had been pale. “What reason? Well, I’ll tell you. In the office of Las Nuevas, in that little, inside room with the door opening out of a closet to hide it, where I got my first real clue, I found two sheets of paper with some strong revolutionary stuff written in English. Also I found a pamphlet where the same stuff had been printed in Spanish. I kept that writing, and I kept the pamphlet. I’ve got it now. I’d know the writing anywhere I saw it, and I saw a sample of it here in this very room, when the wind blew those papers off your desk.”

  “You—in this room!” Helen May caught her breath. “Why—why, you couldn’t have! I never wrote any revolution stuff in my life! Why—I don’t know the first thing about Las Nuevas, as you call it. How could my writing—?” She caught her breath again, for she remembered.

  “Why, Starr of the desert, that was Holman Sommers’ writing you saw! I remember now. Some pages of his manuscript blew off the desk when you were here. See, I can show you a whole pile of it!” She ran to the desk, Starr following her mechanically. “See? All kinds of scientific junk that he wanted typed. Isn’t that the writing you meant? Isn’t it?” Her hands trembled so that the papers she held close to Starr’s face shook, but Starr recognized the same symmetrical, hard-to-read chirography.

  “Yes, that’s it.” His voice was so husky that she could hardly hear him. He moistened his lips, that had gone dry. Was it possible? His mind kept asking over and over.

  “And here! I don’t ask you to take my word for it—I know that just those pages don’t prove anything, because I might have written that stuff myself—if I knew enough! But here’s a lot that he sent over by the stage driver yesterday. I haven’t even opened it yet. You can see the same handwriting in the address, can’t you? And if he has written a note—he does sometimes—and signed it—he always signs his name in full—why, that will be proof, won’t it?” Her eyes burned into his and steadied a little his whirling thoughts.

  “Open it, desert man! Open it, and see if there’s a note! And you can ask the stage driver, if you don’t believe me; here, break the string!”

  She was now more eager than he to see what was inside the wrapping of newspaper. “See? That’s an El Paso paper—and I don’t take anything but the Times from Los Angeles! Oh, goody! There is a note! You read it, Starr. Read it out loud.
If that doesn’t convince you, why—why I can prove by Vic—”

  Starr had unfolded the sheet of tablet paper, and Helen May interrupted herself to listen. Starr’s voice was uneven, husky when he tried to control the quiver in it. And this he read, in the handwriting of which he had such bitter knowledge:

  “My Dear Miss Stevenson:

  “I am enclosing herewith a part of Chapter Two, which I have revised considerably and beg you to retype for me. If you have no asterisk sign upon your machine, will you be so kind as to make use of the period sign to indicate a break in the context of the quotations from the various authors whom I have cited?

  “I wish to inform you that I am deeply sorry to place this extra burden of work upon you, and also assure you that I am more than delighted with the care you have exercised in deciphering correctly my most abominable chirography.

  “May I also suggest, with all due respect to your intelligence and with a keen appreciation of the potent influences of youth and romance upon even the drudgery of an amanuensis, that in writing “stars of the universe” in a scientific document, the connotation is marred somewhat when stars is spelled “Starr’s.”

  “Very apologetically your friend,

  “HOLMAN SOMMERS.”

  It took several seconds for the full significance of that last paragraph to sink into minds so absorbed with another matter. But when it did sink in—

  “Oh-h!” gasped Helen May, and backed a step, her face the color of a red hollyhock.

  Starr looked up from reading those pregnant words a second time to himself. He reached out and caught Helen May by her two shoulders.

  “Did you do that?” he whispered impellingly. “Did you spell my name into that man’s manuscript?”

  “No, I didn’t! I don’t believe I did—I never noticed—well, even if I did, that doesn’t mean—anything.” I hope the printers will set that anything in their very smallest type, just to show you how weak and futile and scarcely audible and absolutely unconvincing the word sounded. For one reason, Helen May did not have much breath to say it with; and for another reason, she knew there was not much use in saying it.

  * * * *

  Helen May, sitting unabashed on Starr’s lap, with an arm around his neck and her head on his shoulder, with her dish towel and gun lying just where she had dropped them on the floor some time before, took Peter’s last letter from Starr’s fingers and drew it tenderly down along her cheek.

  “I only wish you could have known dad,” she said with a gentle melancholy that was a great deal lightened by her present happiness. “He wasn’t at all striking on the surface; he was so quiet and so unassuming. But he was just the dearest and the bravest man—and when I think what he did for me…”

  “I know he was dear and brave; I can judge by his daughter.” Starr reached up and prisoned hand and letter together and held them against his lips. “Seems like a nightmare now that I ever thought— And to think I headed out here to…”

  “Well, I am your prisoner.” Helen May answered that part of the sentence which Starr had left unspoken. “Listen, desert man o’ mine. I—I want to be your prisoner forever and ever and ever!”

  “You won’t get anything less than a life sentence, lady! And—”

  “Hully gosh!” Vic, bursting open the door just in the middle of a kiss, skidded precipitately through to the kitchen. “Fade out!” he advised himself as he went. “But say! When you get around to it, I’d like something to eat, Helen Blazes!”