William Kirk, his mind following in careless interest every motion of the outlaw, watched the dagger sway back over the shoulder of the Night Hawk, the point held firmly between the thumb and forefinger of the bandit. And then, with the last words of the man, he saw a glint of diamond brilliancy come in the eyes of Spenser and knew that he was the mark — that the poniard was about to fly on a deadly errand at his throat.
Only that hint of a suspicion saved him. At the very moment that he threw himself to the side the poniard twitched over the shoulder of the Englishman and whirled in a glittering circle towards his throat. It brushed past his ear; his movement had been too sudden to allow the Night Hawk to change his aim. The gun barked from the hand of Kirk, and Spenser settled back slowly against the rock wall.
The slayer rose to his feet, stupefied by the suddenness of the thing. There was, for the moment, no change in the expression of Spenser. Then his lower jaw sagged. He seemed to be laughing silently, with expressionless, cold, blue eyes.
"You treacherous hound," cried Kirk, "I ought to murder you in cold blood for that little trick, but —"
And then he saw that the outlaw was dead, and that it was a dead laughter which transformed the face of the Night Hawk.
The idea of death stopped his thoughts as a finger may stop the telling pendulum of a clock and still the voice of its ticking. His wits wandering, he turned, and saw the gleam of the poniard like a red eye against the wall. He plucked it out. The blade had lodged in a bit of soft rock and the perfectly tempered point was not broken by the impact of the blow. Still half sleeping, his eyes wandered from jewel to jewel; he turned again and stared full in the face of the dead man. These were the jewels; there was the price.
Then his pulse began with a fresh and quickening momentum; the horror left him. In his hand he held the price of a hundred deaths; it was his by right of conquest, won in open fight. Matched against the Night Hawk, victor in so many battles, his eye had proved the quicker, his hand more sure. A hot exultation went thrilling through him. He strode to the bandit and grasped the man's shoulder. It was limp, which had once been so powerful; the nameless feeling of dead flesh tingled in his finger tips. And suddenly Kirk felt like rushing from the cave and galloping to Kirby Creek and shouting, not: "The Night Hawk is dead!" but simply "I have killed a man!"
Yes, that was the important fact. He had killed a man. An instinct as old as the days when man first fought for meat or for a mate was satisfied in him. He had killed a man; he had justified his existence.
And by the right of conquest all that had belonged to Spenser was now the possession of Kirk. His eyes went proudly from the silver Virgin to the row of jewels along the wall. For the moment he revelled only in the gorgeous property which he had achieved with a single shot. He stepped to the black stallion and patted the smooth, shining shoulder. The horse lifted its head with a wisp of hay still bristling in its mouth, turned, and nuzzled the shoulder of the new master in complete acceptance.
All was his — all! Of course, eventually, he would bring the officers of the law to the cave and show them what he had done and turn over to them all the treasure. But why turn it over immediately? There was no hurry. The law had waited a long while for its victim. It could wait still longer. In the meantime for a few days he could ride out here often at night and take care of the black charger. He could sit in the evening against the rock where the dead Night Hawk now lay and survey the jewels of the silver Virgin, and the poniard of Piombotti. He could retell the stories of Dave Spenser; he could imagine other tales to fit each of the possessions. Yes, decidedly the law must wait.
In the meantime, the body of the bandit must be disposed of. He heaved the inert bulk over his shoulder and strode with his burden further down the passage. The glimmer of the torches faintly illumined his way. In passing he raised one from its crevice and went on, bearing the light high above his head. Almost at once he passed a pool of water, looking as black as ink by the torchlight. On the other side of it the passage descended; dropping more and more swiftly, until the water from the spring, which ebbed over the edges of the pool, trickled with increasing sound from ledge to ledge of the tunnel.
At a considerable distance, his foot rolled on a pebble and flung him to his knees; he dropped the torch in his fall and stretched out his left hand to break the descent, but the hand plunged into a vacuum and he crashed down on his breast, his head overhanging nothingness.
The torch was now spluttering out, but he raised and twirled it until it flamed brightly again; then he extended it over the ledge. Below him stretched a narrow pit walled by jagged rock. He could not see to the bottom of the pit, but he heard the far-off tinkling of water as the little stream splashed in the pool at the bottom. The stumble had saved him. Another step would have precipitated him into the abyss. The thought made his knees buckle beneath him and he sat down until the blood once more circulated freely. At least, this was a ready-made grave for the Night Hawk. He rose again, dragged the body of Spenser to the edge and sent it toppling down into the blackness. There was an appallingly long pause, then the loud, distant splash of the heavy form into the waters of the pool below.
With a certain giddiness making his head spin, he stumbled back up the tunnel to the wider space which the outlaw had used as his cave. Compared with the rough passage and the pit which ended it, everything in the cave was like a welcoming, familiar face to Kirk. It was a homecoming.
By this time the greater part of the night was gone, and he prepared to start back to Kirby Creek. It was not easy to leave the riches of the cave. He decided to take what he could conveniently dispose about him, and he selected the rich poniard of Piombotti, the revolver of the Night Hawk with its telltale notches, and a handful of broad gold pieces from the box beneath the figure of the silver Virgin. He came within an ace of prying from their setting some of the larger jewels with which the Virgin was bedecked, but he shrank from this at the last moment as from a sacrilege.
Laden with his spoil he started down the passage. The black stallion whinnied after him and he called back in a low voice, "Adieu!"
At the mouth of the tunnel he found his horse standing with head high facing the east, for the dawn had made its first faint beginning. Once in the saddle he set a brisk pace back through the crisp, cool air of the morning. Not that he was hurried; he would reach the cabin long before Sampson and Winifred were awake, but his present mood brooked no slowness of action.
Certainly he was happier than he had ever been in his life. He felt like a man who has spent many days climbing a range of mountains until at last he stands on the summit. And as the man on the great mountain feels that he can survey half the world at a glance, so William Kirk felt that life lay at his feet.
It was still semi-dark when he entered the mining district of the lower ravine, but already the miners were up. A hundred camp-fires showed dull red along the slopes; he caught the voices of men hallooing to each other. Now and again he caught the clangor of picks being sharpened; the world was awakening to the business of the day. He heard that growing sound with the ear of a master. All this valley had paid regular tribute to the Night Hawk, and now, perhaps —
Here he stopped his thoughts abruptly and spurred his horse viciously. Nevertheless the thrill of the uncompleted surmise remained with him. He was the heir of all the Night Hawk's wealth. Why not the heir of his tribute also? These were the laborers of the day. He was the lord of the night and could harvest what others sowed with pain. After all, was not might right? From the beginning of time it had been so; to the end of time it should continue: he began to sing softly. He had made the third step back into the primitive.
Chapter 32
The minutes rolled on into hours, and still there was no movement in the room save the occasional slow lifting of the slender hand of Clung and the sound of the crisp rustling of the falling leaf. It was a very ancient Chinese volume, the characters large and exceedingly black in neat columns, and the parchment leaves turning a delightful yello
w at the edges. So Clung read on, and at every lifting of his hand the loose silken sleeve fell back and exposed the girlish frailty of his wrist and forearm.
At length the door gong sounded, and Clung lifted his head slowly. From behind the screen stepped the vast bulk of his Mongol servant.
"It is a white man," he said in Chinese, "who says that his name is Marshal Clauson, and he will not go from the door but says that he will break the head of Yo Chai's servant if he is not let in."
Clung rose and slipped his thin hands into the sleeves of his robe.
"Yo Chai's servant is a pig and the son of a pig,” he said calmly. "His brain is full of fat and he cannot think. He should know that Marshal Clauson is the father of Yo Chai. And who is the son who will not receive his father?"
The servant vanished with a grunt of haste and in a moment Marshal Clauson stood at the opening of the screen. There was a succession of faint clicks behind him.
"What the hell's the idea?” exploded the Marshal. "Is that squint-eyed Oriental locking me in?”
"My servant,” said Clung, "is closing all the doors so that Yo Chai may be alone with his white father.”
"H-m-m!” rumbled the Marshal. "If you wasn't my friend, Clung, I’d raid this joint. It looks spooky to me; listens like a hop-joint.”
He sank on to a divan so low that his legs thrust out far before him and accentuated the size of his stomach. In this position he pushed his hat far back from his forehead and wiped off the sweat, for it was a hot night.
He looked leisurely around the apartment. His eyes gleamed with approbation.
"When a Chink puts on style,” he said, "he don't spare the coin. There ain’t no way of doubting that. Why, Clung, if you had a decent chair to sit on, and a table to eat off that a man could put his legs under, and a calendar or two hangin' on the wall, I wouldn't mind stablin' here myself."
"I shall bring you everything you wish,” said Clung, and with that he tapped a number of times on his gong, in a sort of telegraphic code.
The sound scarcely died away before a withered little Chinese entered at a sort of dog-trot and arranged on an ebony table at the side of Marshal Clauson a tall bottle of rye whiskey flanked with seltzer water and glasses.
"If I drink some of this,” grinned the Marshal, "I won't be thinkin' of your furniture, Clung?"
"It is red magic," said Clung, pouring a drink and holding it for the Marshal.
The latter tasted it, sighed deeply, and then swallowed the glassful.
"And how," he queried, wiping his lips, "how in the name of sixteen saints did liquor like that come to Kirby Creek?"
Clung filled his visitor's second glass.
"Clung brought it," he said, "for he hoped that Marshal Clauson would visit him."
"Clung," grinned the Marshal, "I like to hear you talk even when I know you're lyin'. Here's kind regards!"
And he downed the formidable drink at a gulp.
"How's business? Robbing the miners, Clung?"
"At first/' said Clung, "I made much money, but now for four days — five days — I have lost steadily and much. There is one man who wins it all at roulette. His name is William Kirk."
"Him!" grunted Clauson. "That swine still around?"
"He always wins," said Clung unemotionally. "The gods must love him."
"Then," said the Marshal, "they love a skunk. I tell you what, Clung, a man that'd do what he done to you is a coyote in a man's skin."
"It was only one thing," said Clung, deprecatory.
The Marshal raised an argumentative forefinger.
"It don't take more'n one thing to show the color of a feller's insides. You can lay to that. And now this swine is up here breakin' your game, Clung?"
"Clung has very little left, but he waits."
"For what?"
The head of Clung tilted back and he smiled.
"Clung waits until William Kirk leaves the roulette wheel and comes to play at Clung's table."
The Marshal grunted his admiration.
"And then?" he asked.
Clung waved his almost transparently frail hand.
"It will be very pleasant,” he said, and smiled again.
"Pleasant?" bellowed the Marshal with great enthusiasm. "It'll be slaughter, lad, and I'd give an eye to see you trim him."
He grew more sober.
"But I got to get down to business, Clung. First, have you got time to help me out on a deal?"
"The time of Clung is the time of his father."
"That sounds good to me. Now, Clung, you've heard a pile about the Night Hawk, which some thinks is a gent named Dave Spenser, without anybody having seen his face?"
"Clung has heard."
"Kirby Creek is in my district and I've got to stop the Night Hawk or I'm through. That's straight. Clung, you're handy to this spot. All I ask is for you to keep them eyes of yours open and when you get any dope, slip it on to me. I'll come up from Mortimer and try my hand with the Night Hawk. When the shooting party comes maybe you'd trot along with me. I'd rather have you than any man that ever packed a six-gun."
"Clung will be all eyes. A little time ago he followed a man he thinks was the Night Hawk, and the man disappeared in a ravine. Clung will follow him again.”
"That,” sighed the Marshal, "is simple and to the point and I wouldn't be in the Night Hawk's boots for all the gold in Kirby Creek. One more little talk with your red magic, Clung” — here he poured and swallowed a prodigious drink — "and I'm on my way.”
He puffed out his whiskers like a panting walrus.
"I’ll be thinkin’ of you often, Clung, and I’ll dream of your liquor. S’ long.”
"Good-bye,” said Clung, and he attended his guest to the door.
"Ch'u men chien hsi," he said.
"Whatever that means,” grinned the Marshal from the door-step, "the same to you, and a million dollars in luck, my lad.”
"And is there any trail of the Night Hawk to follow?” asked Clung.
"Only two things we know. One is that he packs a gun with notches filed on the under side of the barrel. The other is that he lifted about a thousand dollars in twenties from Buck Lawson, and old Buck had marked every one of the coins with a little knife cut on the tail side of the coin. If one of them marked coins comes across your table, Clung, you can know that it comes straight from the Night Hawk." And he vanished into the night.
Chapter 33
"Listen,” said John Sampson, and held up a warning forefinger. From the next room came a thrilling voice:
"What made the ball so fine?
Robin Adair; What made the assembly shine?
Robin Adair!”
"She's up at last,” commented Kirk. "Well, isn't it time? Near noon, Sampson."
"Time!" grunted the financier, disgusted. "Kirk, there isn't an eye left to you, no, nor an ear! D'you ever hear of a girl waking up at noon and starting to sing?"
"Why," said Kirk, "Winifred always had a cheerful disposition."
"Until she started on the trail of Clung," corrected her father.
"I don't follow you."
"Kirk, you're a total loss. You go about with your head in the air and fire in your eyes like a man about to make a million dollars. What do you do with yourself? Still spending your time in Yo Chai's house?"
"Part of it,” said Kirk, noncommittally.
"In fact,” said the gloomy millionaire, "you act so much like Winifred that sometimes I think there's a secret between you. Out with it, Kirk! What's the secret?"
The big man started and eyed the other carefully for a moment. Then, convinced that there was no covert suggestion in the remark, he answered: "No secret. None between us, at least. You've grown suspicious, Sampson. This Clung business is getting on your nerves."
I've lost twenty pounds," groaned Sampson, "because of that damned man-killer. You came down here to help me. Why the devil don't you do it?"
"Tell me where to start," suggested Kirk.
"If I knew whe
re to start for him," responded the other, "I'd send a posse and not one man."
His manner changed; the father came into his voice as he laid a hand on the shoulder of Kirk and went on: "As a matter of fact, I'm seriously worried, Kirk, and I need your help."
"You can count on me to the limit."
"I know I can, I know I can, my lad, and there's a lot of comfort in the thought. I always prized you, Kirk — in a good many ways — but since you've come South this time, you seem much more of a prize than before. You seem more alert — stronger — keener — more of a man; you seem, in a word, to have come into your own!"
"I think," said Kirk softly, and his eyes smiled rather grimly into the distance, "that you're right."
"Enough of that," went on Sampson, "my trouble just now is less with Clung than with Winifred herself. You know how little she's said about Clung the last few days — ever since we reached Kirby Creek, in fact?"
"Yes. But she's found something else to think about."
"You don't know her, lad. She's a veritable bulldog for hanging on to an idea. Nothing but death will part her from something she wants. Haven't I raised her, confound it? Well, Kirk, I've wondered at the way she allowed Clung to lapse, and I've watched her closely for the last few days, and last night, after she'd gone to bed, I sat up for a time thinking. Finally I decided to go to her pointblank with a question. I went to her door and knocked. Gad, man, what do you think happened?"
Sampson started violently.
"By the Lord,” he cried, "you and she are playing some sort of a midnight game together! You're right, there was no answer, and when I opened her door and went in I found the room empty and there was no sign of Winifred. The bed had not been touched. Kirk, what's the meaning of this?"
"I think I can tell you — in a way."
"What do you mean? c In a way!' "
"Just this. The first night we came here you remember we came back pretty late after going down to Yo Chai's gaming house and seeing the shooting."
"Exactly. The same night you went back and played the wheel. That's what started you on this infernal gambling, Kirk."
Brand, Max - 1924 Page 14