And now, directly ahead, he saw clear grey sky low through the trees.
The wood’s edge!
He began to run.
As he emerged from the edge of the woods, waist-deep in brush and weeds, wide before his blood-shot eyes spread Star Pond.
Even in his half-stupefied brain there was memory enough left for recognition.
He remembered the lake. His gaze travelled to the westward; and he saw Clinch’s Dump standing below, stark, silent, the doors swinging open in the wind.
When terror had subsided in a measure and some of his trembling strength returned, he got up out of the clump of rag-weeds where he had lain down, and earnestly nosed the unpainted house, listening with all his ears.
There was not a sound save the soughing of autumn winds and the delicate rattle of falling leaves in the woods behind him.
He needed food and rest. He gazed earnestly at the house. Nothing stirred there save the open doors swinging idly in every vagrant wind.
He ventured down a little way — near enough to see the black cinders of the burned bar, and close enough to hear the lake waters slapping the sandy shore.
If he dared ——
And after a long while he ventured to waddle nearer, slinking through the brush and frosted weed, creeping behind boulders, edging always closer and closer to that silent house where nothing moved except the wind-blown door.
And now, at last, he set a furtive foot upon the threshold, stood listening, tip-toed in, peered here and there, sidled to the dining-room, peered in.
* * * * *
When, at length, Emanuel Sard discovered that Clinch’s Dump was tenantless, he made straight for the pantry. Here was cheese, crackers, an apple pie, half a dozen bottles of home-brewed beer.
He loaded his arms with all they could carry, stole through the dance-hall out to the veranda, which overlooked the lake.
Here, hidden in the doorway, he could watch the road from Ghost Lake and survey the hillside down which an intruder must come from the forest.
And here Sard slaked his raging thirst and satiated the gnawing appetite of the obese, than which there is no crueller torment to an inert liver and distended paunch.
Munching, guzzling, watching, Sard squatted just within the veranda doorway, anxiously considering his chances.
He knew where he was. At the foot of the lake, and eastward, he had been robbed by a highwayman on the forest road branching from the main highway. Southwest lay Ghost Lake and the Inn.
Somewhere between these two points he must try to cross the State Road. … After that, comparative safety. For the miles that still would lie between him and distant civilisation seemed as nothing to the horror of that hell of trees.
He looked up now at the shaggy fringing woods, shuddered, opened another bottle of beer.
In all that panorama of forest, swale, and water the only thing that had alarmed him at all by moving was something in the water. When first he noticed it he almost swooned, for he took it to be a swimming dog.
In his agitation he had risen to his feet; and then the swimming creature almost frightened Sard out of his senses, for it tilted suddenly and went down with a report like the crack of a pistol.
However, when Sard regained control of his wits he realised that a swimming dog doesn’t dive and doesn’t whack the water with its tail.
He dimly remembered hearing that beavers behaved that way.
Watching the water he saw the thing out there in the lake again, swimming in erratic circles, its big, dog-like head well out of the water.
It certainly was no dog. A beaver, maybe. Whatever it was, Sard didn’t care any longer.
Idly he watched it. Sometimes, when it swam very near, he made a sudden motion with his far arm; and crack! — with a pistol-shot report down it dived. But always it re-appeared.
What had a creature like that to do with him? Sard watched it with failing interest, thinking of other things — of Quintana and the chances that the dogs had caught him, — of Sanchez, the Ghoul, hoping that dire misfortune might overtake him, too; — of the dead man sprawling under the cedar-tree, all sopping crimson —— Faugh!
Shivering, Sard filled his mouth with apple-pie and cheese and pulled the cork from another bottle of home-brewed beer.
* * * * *
III
About that time, a mile and a half to the southward, James Darragh came out on the rocky and rushing outlet to Star Pond.
Over his shoulder was a rifle, and all around him ran dogs, — big, powerful dogs, built like foxhounds but with the rough, wiry coats of Airedales, even rougher of ear and features.
The dogs, — half a dozen or so in number, — seemed very tired. All ran down eagerly to the water and drank and slobbered and panted, lolling their tongues, and slaking their thirst again and again along the swirling edge of a deep trout pool.
Darragh’s rifle lay in the hollow of his left arm; his khaki waistcoat was set with loops full of cartridges. From his left wrist hung a raw-hide whip.
Now he lad aside his rifle and whip, took from the pocket of his shooting coat three or four leather dog-leashes, went down among the dogs and coupled them up.
They followed him back to the bank above. Here he sat down on a rock and inspected his watch.
He had been seated there for ten minutes, possibly, with his tired dogs lying around him, when just above him he saw a State Trooper emerge from the woods on foot, carrying a rifle over one shoulder.
“Jack!” he called in a guarded voice.
Trooper Stormont turned, caught sight of Darragh, made a signal of recognition, and came toward him.
Darragh said: “Your mate, Trooper Lannis, is down stream. I’ve two of my own game wardens at the cross-roads, two more on the Ghost Lake Road, and two foresters and an inspector out toward Owl Marsh.”
Stormont nodded, looked down at the dogs.
“This isn’t the State Forest,” said Darragh, smiling. Then his face grew grave: “How is Eve?” he asked.
“She’s feeling better,” replied Stormont. “I telephoned to Ghost Lake
Inn for the hotel physician. … I was afraid of pneumonia, Jim. Eve
had chills last night. … But Dr. Claybourn thinks she’s all right. …
So I left her in care of your housekeeper.”
“Mrs. Ray will look out for her. … You haven’t told Eve who I am, have you?”
“No.”
“I’ll tell her myself to-night. I don’t know how she’ll take it when she learns I’m the heir to the mortal enemy of Mike Clinch.”
“I don’t know either,” said Stormont.
There was a silence; the State Trooper looked down at the dogs:
“What are they, Jim?”
“Otter-hounds,” said Darragh, “ — a breed of my own. … But that’s all they are capable of hunting, I guess,” he added grimly.
Stormont’s gaze questioned him.
Darragh said: “After I telephoned you this morning that a guest of mine at Harrod Place, and I, had been stuck up and robbed by Quintana’s outfit, what did you do, Jack?”
“I called up Bill Lannis first,” said Stormont, “ — then the doctor. After he came, Mrs. Ray arrived with a maid. Then I went in a spoke to Eve. Then I did what you suggested — I crossed the forest diagonally toward The Scaur, zig-zagged north, turned by the rock hog-back south of Drowned Valley, came southeast, circled west, and came out here as you asked me to.”
“Almost on the minute,” nodded Darragh. … “You saw no signs of
Quintana’s gang?”
“None.”
“Well,” said Darragh, “I left my two guests at Harrod Place to amuse each other, got out three couple of my otter-hounds and started them, — as I hoped and supposed, — on Quintana’s trail.”
“What happened?” inquired Stormont curiously.
“Well — I don’t know. I think they were following some of Quintana’s gang — for a while, anyway. After that, God knows, �
� deer, hare, cotton-tail — I don’t know. They yelled their bally heads off — I on the run — they’re slow dogs, you know — and whatever they were after either fooled them or there were too man trails. … I made a mistake, that’s all. These poor beasts don’t know anything except an otter. I just hoped they might take Quintana’s trail if I put them on it.”
“Well,” said Stormont, “it can’t be helped now. … I told Bill Lannis that we’d rendezvous at Clinch’s Dump.”
“All right,” nodded Darragh. “Let’s keep to the open; my dogs are leashed couples.”
They had been walking for twenty minutes, possibly, exchanging scarcely a word, and they were now nearing the hilly basin where star Pond lay, when Darragh said abruptly:
“I’m going to tell you about things, Jack. You’ve taken my word so far that it’s all right — —”
“Naturally,” said Stormont simply.
The two men, who had been brother officers in the Great War, glanced at each other, slightly smiling.
“Here it is then,” said Darragh. “When I was on duty in Riga for the Intelligence Department, I met two ladies in dire distress, whose mansion had been burned and looted, supposedly by the Bolsheviki.
“They were actually hungry an penniless; the only clothing they possessed they were wearing. These ladies were the Countess Orloff-Strelwitz, and a young girl, Theodorica, Grand Duchess of Esthonia. … I did what I could for them. After a while, in the course of other duty, I found out that the Bolsheviki had had nothing to do with the arson and robbery, but that the crime had been perpetrated by Jose Quintana’s gang of international crooks masquerading as Bolsheviki.”
Stormont nodded: “I also came across similar cases,” he remarked.
“Well, this was a flagrant example. Quintana had burnt the chateau and
made off with over two million dollars worth of the little Grand
Duchess’s jewels — among them the famous Erosite gem known as The
Flaming Jewel.”
“I’ve heard of it.”
“There are only two others known. … Well, I did what I could with the
Esthonian police, who didn’t believe me.
“But after a short time ago the Countess Orloff sent me word that
Quintana really was the guilty one, and that he had started for America.
“I’ve been after him ever since. … But, Jack, until this morning
Quintana did not possess these stolen jewels, Clinch did!”
“What!”
“Clinch served over-seas in a Forestry Regiment. In Paris he robbed
Quintana of these jewels. That’s why I’ve been hanging around Clinch.”
Stormont’s face was flushed and incredulous. Then it lost colour as he thought of the jewels that Eve had concealed — the gems for which she had risked her life.
He said: “But you tell me Quintana robbed you this morning.”
“He did. The little Grand Duchess and the Countess Orloff-Strelwitz are my guests at Harrod Place.
“Last night I snatched the case containing these gems from Quintana’s fingers. This morning, as I offered them to the Grand Duchess, Quintana coolly stepped between us — —”
His voice became bitter and his features reddened with rage poorly controlled:
“By God, Jack, I should have shot Quintana when the opportunity offered. Twice I’ve had the chance. The next time I shall kill him any way I can. … Legitimately.”
“Of course,” said Stormont gravely. But his mind was full of the jewels which Eve had. What an whose were they, — if Quintana again had the Esthonian gems in his possession?
“Had you recovered all the jewels for the Grand Duchess?” he asked
Darragh.
“Every one, Jack. … Quintana has done me a terrible injury. I shan’t let it go. I mean to hunt that man to the end.”
Stormont, terribly perplexed, nodded.
A few minutes later, as they came out among the willows and alders on the northeast side of Star Pond, Stormont touched his comrade’s arm.
“Look at that enormous dog-otter out there in the lake!”
“Grab those dogs! They’ll strangle each other,” cried Darragh quickly. “That’s it — unleash them, Jack, and let them go!” — he was struggling with the other two couples while speaking.
And now the hounds, unleashed, lifted frantic voices. The very sky seemed full of the discordant tumult; wood and shore reverberated with the volume of convulsive and dissonant baying.
“Damn it,” said Darragh, disgusted, “ — that’s what they’ve been trailing all the while across-woods, — that devilish dog-otter yonder. … And I had hoped they were on Quintana’s trail — —”
A mass rush and scurry of crazed dogs nearly swept him off his feet, and both men caught a glimpse of a large bitch-otter taking to the lake from a ledge of rock just beyond.
Now the sky vibrated with the deafening outcry of the dogs, some taking to water, others racing madly along the shore.
Crack! The echo of the dog-otter’s blow on the water came across to them as the beat dived.
“Well, I’m in for it now,” muttered Darragh, starting along the bank toward Clinch’s Dump, to keep an eye on his dogs.
Stormont followed more leisurely.
* * * * *
IV
A few minutes before Darragh and Stormont had come out on the father edge of Star Pond, Sard, who had heard from Quintana about the big drain pipe which led from Clinch’s pantry into the lake, decided to go in and take a look at it.
He had been told all about its uses, — how Clinch, — in the event of a raid by State Troopers or Government enforcement agents, — could empty his contraband hootch into the lake if necessary, — and even could slide a barrel of ale or a keg of rum, intact, into the great tile tunnel and recover the liquor at his leisure.
Also, and grimly, Quintana had admitted that through this drain Eve
Strayer and the State Trooper, Stormont, had escaped from Clinch’s Dump.
So now Sard, full of curiosity, went back into the pantry to look at it for himself.
Almost instantly the idea occurred to him to make use of the drain for his own safety and comfort.
Why shouldn’t he sleep in the pantry, lock the door, and, in case of intrusion, — other exits being unavailable, — why shouldn’t he feel entirely safe with such an avenue of escape open?
For swimming was Sard’s single accomplishment. He wasn’t afraid of the water; he simply couldn’t sink. Swimming was the only sport he ever had indulged in. He adored it.
Also, the mere idea of sleeping alone amid that hell of trees terrified Sard. Never had he known such horror as when Quintana abandoned him in the woods. Never again would he gaze upon a tree without malignant hatred. Never again did he desire to lay eyes upon even a bush. The very sight, now, of the dusky forest filled him with loathing. Why should he not risk one night in this deserted house, — sleep well and warmly, feed well, drink his bellyfull of Clinch’s beer, before attempting the dead-line southward, where he was only too sure that patrols were riding and hiding on the lookout for the fancy gentlemen of Jose Quintana’s selected company of malefactors?
Well, here in the snug pantry were pies, crullers, bread, cheese, various dried meats, tinned vegetables, ham, bacon, fuel and range to prepare what he desired.
Here was beer, too; and doubtless ardent spirits if he could nose out the hidden demijohns and bottles.
He peered out of the pantry window at the forest, shuddered, cursed it and every separate tree in it; cursed Quintana, too, wishing him black mischance. No; it was settled. He’d take his chance here in the pantry. … And there must be a mattress somewhere upstairs.
He climbed the staircase, cautiously, discovered Clinch’s bedroom, took the mattress and blankets from the bed, and dragged them to the pantry.
Could any honest man be more tight and snug in this perilous world of the desperate and undeserving? Sard thought
not. But one matter still troubled him; the lock of the pantry door had been shattered. To remedy this he moused around until he discovered some long nails and a claw-hammer. When he was ready to go to sleep he’d nail himself in. Sard chuckled again for the first time since he had set eyes upon the accursed region.
And now the sun came out from behind a low bank of solid grey cloud, and fell upon the countenance of Emanuel Sard. It warmed his parrot-nose agreeably; it cheered and enlivened him.
Not for him a night of terrors in that horrible forest which he could see through the pantry window.
A sense of security and of well-being pervaded Sard to his muddy shoes.
He even curled his fat toes in them with animal contentment.
A little snack before cooking a heavily satisfactory dinner? Certainly.
So he tucked a couple of bottles of beer under one arm, a loaf of bread and a chunk of cheese under the other, and waddled out to the veranda door.
At that instant the very heavens echoed with that awful tumult which had first paralysed, then crazed him in the woods.
Bottles, bread, cheese fell from his grasp and his knees nearly collapsed under him. In the bushes on the lake shore he saw animals leaping and racing, but, in his terror, he did not recognise them for dogs.
Then, suddenly, he saw a man, close to the house, running: and another man not far behind. That he understood, and it electrified him into action.
It was too late to escape from the house now. He understood that instantly.
He ran back through the dance-hall and dining-room to the pantry; but he dared not let these intruders hear the noise of hammering.
In an agony of indecision he stood trembling, listening to the infernal racket of the dogs, and waiting for the first footstep within the house.
No step came. But, chancing to look over his shoulder, he saw a man peering through the pantry window at him.
Ungovernable terror seized Sard. Scarcely aware what he was about, he seized the edges of the big drain-pipe and crowded his obese body into it head first. He was so far and heavy that he filled the tile. To start himself down he pulled with both hands and kicked himself forward, tortoise-like, down the slanting tunnel, sticking now and then, dragging himself on and downward.
Works of Robert W Chambers Page 1025