"Trying them out?" queried Kirk.
"Not a bit, but simply wandering about watching the faces of men. When you've gone wrong yourself it's pretty easy to read the faces of other men and tell a dangerous fellow when you sight him. That was why I talked with you in the house of Yo Chai. I knew you were a hard man — that you would give me a run for my money if I ever crossed you. And I wanted to keep away from you, but somehow or other I couldn't do it. It was like the temptation to jump when you're high in the air — the imp of the perverse. So I spoke to you at last and what you said filled all my expectations: you'd say that that should have been enough to keep me off your path, but it was the very thing which made me wait for you on the up trail. I couldn't resist the temptation of trying to learn whether or not you could beat me to the draw and wing me with your bullet. The rest of it's simple. You did beat me, and once beaten I knew Fd be good for nothing hereafter. My confidence would be gone; Fd pull my gun with shaking hand, and some drunken Mexican would down me, at last, in a saloon fight. Rather than that I decided to end the game tonight and lose all my cards to you. So I sat here and waited for you to come."
He puffed at his pipe with philosophic calm and let his eyes wander down the row of jewels on the wall.
"Of course," mused Kirk, "this is nine-tenths a lie, but I suppose there's a germ of truth somewhere in it."
"Naturally you're bound to use your reason and call it a lie, but in your heart, Kirk, you know it's the truth — all of it."
"What staggers me," said Kirk, "is that you can so calmly prepare to go back to town with me and be lynched — probably — by the crowd. For you know how badly they want your blood, Spenser."
"Go back to town?" queried the bandit, in some surprise. "I haven't the least notion of doing that."
"Want me to shoot you down here?" asked Kirk grimly. "Dead or alive, you go back to Kirby Creek with me, my friend."
"Well, well!" said the Night Hawk, "that's a fine little speech, Kirk, but it doesn't ring true."
"Why?"
"Too Sunday school. No, you won't take me back to Kirby Creek. Listen: why should we dodge the issue like a pair of four-flushers? Be frank with me, Kirk, and I'll be frank with you."
"I don't quite follow you; but it's getting late and there's a stiff ride before us. Stand up, Spenser, and turn your back to me. I'll have to tie your hands."
"By Jove," said the other with a sort of wondering admiration. "I almost believe you'd do it!"
And he nodded, smiling, showing not the slightest intention of obeying the order.
"Stand up!" commanded Kirk sharply.
"Come, come!" said Spenser, with much the same tone of weary patience one might use with a child. "Sit down and lay your cards on the table as I've done. There's no one here within earshot to repeat what you say."
"You're a devilish curious case, Spenser," said Kirk, smiling broadly. "Just what you have up your sleeve I can't tell, but I'm willing to listen. Why are you so sure that I won't take you back to Kirby Creek?"
"Because,” said the Night Hawk, "you aren't the sort of crook who plays short on a pal even when he's in your line of business; you don't use the law for a friend."
Chapter 29
Understanding came to Kirk, and he laughed, softly and low. He sat down, still keeping the revolver vigilantly turned on the bandit.
"As they say in the Southwest, you've followed a cold trail, my friend. I'm not in your line of business, Spenser."
He chuckled again at the thought.
"In fact, I'm only down here on a little vacation. My business lies up north — and it's a good-sized business at that, Spenser, and brings me in even more than your night-riding has brought you. Why, Spenser, do I look like a night-rider? Do I talk like one?"
And he smiled with whimsical good nature on the outlaw.
"Well," responded the Night Hawk, "do I look like a night-rider? Do I talk like one?"
It silenced Kirk as effectually as a gag; he could only stare.
"My dear fellow," said the Night Hawk, "I don't mean that you are actually in my line of business now; but before long you will be."
"But why in the name of heaven,” said Kirk sharply, his amusement passing and irritation taking its place, "should I pass into outlawry? Do I need money? Have I injured any man illegally? Do I fear the law?"
"For none of those reasons," answered the Night Hawk, "but for the same reasons that I started and stay in the game."
He waved his hand towards his treasures.
"Don't you suppose that I could sell a tithe of these things and retire? Why, sir, I have enough gold cash to settle down with a gentleman's competence, and these odds and ends of trinkets could be all velvet, Mr. Kirk. For that matter, I wasn't poor when I started this game."
"You mean to say it was deliberate choice — this trade of robbery and murder?"
"Is it deliberate choice," answered the Night Hawk with his first show of irritation, "that makes the drunkard drink? Don't talk to me of choice! But the hunger for adventure — the love of chance — the game of life and death — the ridings in the night — the glory of fighting against the hand of every man — the thrill of the secrecy. These are my treasures. I sit and gloat over them at night like a miser. Not because they are valuable, but because I've risked my life and taken lives for almost every one of them."
He leaned forward and stretched his bandaged hand towards Kirk.
"What! Kirk, haven't you felt the same thing? Nonsense! Of course you have! I read it in your face when I saw you in the house of Yo Chai. The same wildness that's in mine, no matter how we mask it. I saw it and understood, perhaps even more clearly than you understand yourself. The jaw and the eye of the man-killer, Kirk. I saw it in you!"
And Kirk, staring at the outlaw, felt like a child who hears a strange prophecy from a mysterious soothsayer.
"Yes," nodded the Night Hawk, "you're afraid. Of what? Of yourself, Mr. Kirk. No, you won't take me back to Kirby Creek!"
"By God!" exclaimed Kirk, "I don't believe I can! Spenser, I feel as if I were being hypnotized!"
"When a man sees the inside of himself," answered the other, "it often makes him feel that way. But the strangeness of it will pass; take a moment and think."
In fact, Kirk needed time for thought. The world spun before his eyes. He remembered the strange urge which had been in him ever since he started on the trail of Clung, freshening when he entered wild Kirby Creek, and when he beat the roulette wheel in Yo Chai's gaming house, and coming like thunder on his ears when he beat the Night Hawk in single encounter. And now this seemed the logical end of the trail — outlawry, battle against other men, the tricky balance of chance wavering this way and that. He felt as if he were being tempted and was about to fall. Something like hate for the Night Hawk rose in him. Common sense, in a cold wave, brought him back to reason; but at the same time it took a fierce and happy thrill from his blood. He shrugged his shoulders and scowled at the Night Hawk.
"You think you've got back to reason," nodded the outlaw, "but you haven't, Kirk. You'll probably leave the cave tonight and go back to Kirby Creek, but when you're safe in your house you'll remember the secrecy of this place and the ease with which you could play a double part and live two lives, one by day and one by night. You'll remember that I'm out here waiting for you to come back — and you'll come eventually."
"Are you sure?" asked Kirk, with an attempt at a mocking smile.
"Listen!" said the Night Hawk sharply, like one who wished to brush away a veil of deceit with a single phrase. "Have you never done wrong to another man? Think!"
The suddenness of the question wrenched at Kirk's inner self, and the answer burst forth involuntarily: "Clung!"
It was the turn of the Night Hawk to start, and he stirred so violently that Kirk wondered.
"What of Clung?" he asked.
"I wronged him,” muttered Kirk, "but he drew it on himself."
The Night Hawk drew a long breath.
> "I’d rather see the devil than hear the name of Clung,” he said. "Queer thing, Kirk, but the only two men I’ve ever dodged have been two Chinks: Clung and that dark-eyed fiend Yo Chai. I’ve never seen Clung but I’ve heard of his work; I have seen Yo Chai and Pd rather throw my money away than play against him.”
"I beat his wheel,” said Kirk, with a rather boyish triumph.
"But not Yo Chai,” said the other, unmoved.
"However, Pll try him later on.”
The outlaw shrugged his shoulders.
"You're too rare a fellow to turn over to the law, Spenser,” went on Kirk, "and I suppose I will leave you here. But I’ll never come back.”
"Why?”
"Because if I can't face temptation I can at least run away from it."
The Night Hawk smiled sourly.
"Try it and see. No, Kirk, you'll be back. This is the beginning of a partnership."
"Perhaps,” grinned Kirk, "and if it is, here's my hand on it."
The outlaw held out his left hand and they shook, clumsily.
"I wonder if there's a meaning in that left-handed shake?" said Kirk, half in suspicion, half whimsically.
"You see the other's wounded?"
"Let it go, but to continue our charming frankness, Spenser, I've an idea that if I turned my back you'd as soon knife me as light your pipe."
"Before you're through," said the bandit, "you'll understand me better than this."
"Perhaps. In the meantime let's hear some of the stories of your night-riding."
"Is this turning your back on temptation?"
"The devil take temptation. That silver Virgin, Spenser?"
The eye of the Night Hawk passed like a caress over the bright image.
"That," he said, "was the beginning."
He unbuckled his gun belt and tossed it across to Kirk.
"The first four notches are charged to the silver Virgin, Mr. Kirk."
Kirk drew out the long, shining revolver and balanced it easily in his hand. The weight was perfect; it seemed impossible that a man could miss his shot with such a weapon. He spun the cylinder; the action was perfect.
"I thought the same thing/' said the Night Hawk, "when I first put my hand on that gun."
And Kirk, glancing up sharply, frowned. It was not the first time that his mind had been read that night. Yet he said nothing and examined the butt of the revolver. There were no notches there.
"Under the barrel,” suggested the Night Hawk.
Kirk obediently ran his forefinger under the barrel of the weapon and found a row of little notches filed slightly into the steel. They came in swift succession and he numbered them with a growing feeling which was neither horror nor awe. Once more he glanced up at the outlaw, but those cold blue eyes were raised to the roof of the cave in pleasant meditation.
Chapter 30
"When the Aztecs were in their prime,” began the narrator, "you know that they used to make their gods out of precious metals, and when the Spaniards gave them a new creed they retained their old habit wherever the conquerors left them enough riches for the purpose. There was one of these native metal workers who possessed such rare talents that his Spanish master sent him to Spain when he was still a boy to study his craft there. He came back with a high reputation and was almost immediately engaged by an Indian prince of enormous wealth and a new convert to the faith. His work was the silver Virgin you see there. Yet the wealth of his master was not sufficient for the completion of the Indian's design. It furnished the precious metals but not all the jewels for the border of the robe and left the eyes of the Virgin blank hollows. Each of them, you see, is filled with an enormous black diamond. "For half a dozen generations various pious men and women of wealth gave great sums of money for the completion of the image, and finally the eyes were placed in the forehead and the border design of jewels was completed. For a long time it was the admiration of a million pilgrims until finally the church of Guadalupe, in which it was placed, was destroyed by an explosion of gunpowder placed there during a revolution. The silver Virgin was lost hopelessly in the ruins and it was not until a very few years ago that a man of wealth conducted a careful search for the lost and almost forgotten treasure. It was found after weeks of excavation; and it was discovered in the miraculous state of preservation in which you now see it.
"The party of the excavation started back from the ruins but the fame of the discovery was already noised abroad and before they had journeyed many miles towards the City of Mexico, they were waylaid by a half dozen bandits who attacked the caravan in the middle of the day and through their boldness escaped with the silver Virgin and the loss of only two of their number.
"If you had been in the City of Mexico at that time you would have heard of the daring robbery. Among others, it came to the ear of a young Englishman. He had recently arrived in Mexico on his way from India back to England, for he was completing his Oxford education through traveling. He was naturally of an adventurous disposition and he decided to strike out boldly through the mountains in search of the bandits. He figured that they would never fear the approach of one man and for that very reason he might be able to take them by surprise. It turned out exactly as he had hoped. He came on the band and knew them by the description which had been published broadcast. He took them by surprise, shot down two in the first attack, and forced the remaining two to surrender.
"With that he bound them securely hand and foot and examined the treasure. It was — but you see it before you, sir; and much as you may admire it, the Englishman admired it still more, for he was by nature a lover of the beautiful. He knew that he could never part with the silver Virgin.
"So he went to the two bandits who remained alive and he killed them both while they slept. Then he took two of their horses, one a sturdy brute which could bear the weight of the silver Virgin, and the other the finest specimen of horseflesh he had ever seen — that black stallion, sir, which stands yonder!"
"Ah," said Kirk, "and you met the Englishman, and —"
"And I am the Englishman," finished the Night Hawk. "For after I had my feet well started on the way I could not draw back — as you will find.”
The emotion which was neither horror nor awe rose again in William Kirk. He found it to be envy — a great and soul-filling envy. As if to flee from that feeling he rose hastily as if to stretch his cramped legs.
"Any other tales to match that one?” he asked, and all the time he kept the revolver automatically directed towards the outlaw.
"A thousand,” said the Night Hawk. "I could keep you amused for a month. That little iron box over there — it is filled with nuggets and dust and a dozen men have helped to fill it. This case here at my left — yes, you'll be interested in this. On the whole, I think it's greater treasure than the silver Virgin — so great a treasure that I always keep it covered.”
And so saying, he raised from the little case the most marvelous knife which the eyes of Kirk had ever rested upon. It was a poniard with a guard, a sort of stiletto except that the blade was triangular and grooved deeply. The blade itself was about eight inches in length and the handle scarcely two and a half. And such a handle! The knob on the end which gave it weight and balance was an enormous ruby; four great diamonds, each worthy of being a pendant at the throat of a queen, faced the four sides where the hilt joined the top of the blade.
"A dainty little weapon, eh?" smiled the Night Hawk, and he balanced the poniard deftly, resting the point on the nail of his thumb. That point was drawn to a needle fineness and Kirk guessed that the slightest jar would send the deadly little blade through the thumb-nail and through the flesh of the finger below.
"A toy for a king," continued the Night Hawk, and he narrowed his eyes like a connoisseur to regard the poniard, "with a story, moreover, attached to it. Among the followers of Cortez was Piombotti, a one-armed Italian. He had been in his time a great warrior and had distinguished himself in a dozen pitched battles until in the last of these he was
literally cut to pieces and left for dead on the field of battle. Afterwards, however, he recovered. His right arm had to be cut off at the shoulder and the left arm was badly torn with wounds. So badly, that it was only possible for him to use one violent motion, an over-hand motion like a pitcher throwing a baseball in your country, Mr. Kirk. Piombotti labored for hours every day taking a knife by the point and throwing it. He used a round-bladed poniard, so that he could hold it without danger of cutting his fingers when he threw.
"Finally he took a ship to Spain, won the sympathy of Cortez for his singular accomplishment and sailed with the conqueror to Mexico. There he fought through the wild battles which ended with the destruction of Montezuma and his empire. In every conflict Piombotti exposed himself recklessly, and every time he threw his poniard it brought down a man. A hundred times, I suppose, blood has spurted over the length of this poniard, sir.
"And Piombotti came to have an almost superstitious regard for the weapon. Cortez rewarded his followers for their deeds, and Piombotti came in for a large share of these rewards. For every fresh exploit lands and treasure were showered upon him, and each time he added something to the adornment of his poniard. Every one of these emeralds — see! — means at least one death; a score of lives, perhaps, went to the purchase of this big ruby, red, you see, as blood. Until half the wealth of Piombotti was lodged in his poniard.
"When I got the poniard I was more interested in the story of Piombotti, I think, than I was in the jewels. I used to practice as he must have practiced with it, throwing it at a slab of soft wood; and though I never attained a tithe of his expertness, still the poniard became in my hands a pretty sure weapon. Yes, many an hour I've sat much like this, and taken the poniard, much like this, between my thumb and my forefinger — using the left hand, you see, as Piombotti did — and I have spent the hours tilting it slowly back over my shoulder in this manner and fixing my eyes on the mark —"
Chapter 31
Brand, Max - 1924 Page 13