The Valley of Fear, Arthur Conan Doyle [books to read in your 30s TXT] 📗

I do it? You don’t suppose that the lodge would let a man go free with all its secrets?”

“I’ve thought of that, Jack. I’ve planned it all. Father has saved some money. He is weary of this place where the fear of these people darkens our lives. He is ready to go. We would fly together to Philadelphia or New York, where we would be safe from them.”

McMurdo laughed. “The lodge has a long arm. Do you think it could not stretch from here to Philadelphia or New York?”

“Well, then, to the West, or to England, or to Germany, where father came from⁠—anywhere to get away from this Valley of Fear!”

McMurdo thought of old Brother Morris. “Sure, it is the second time I have heard the valley so named,” said he. “The shadow does indeed seem to lie heavy on some of you.”

“It darkens every moment of our lives. Do you suppose that Ted Baldwin has ever forgiven us? If it were not that he fears you, what do you suppose our chances would be? If you saw the look in those dark, hungry eyes of his when they fall on me!”

“By Gar! I’d teach him better manners if I caught him at it! But see here, little girl. I can’t leave here. I can’t⁠—take that from me once and for all. But if you will leave me to find my own way, I will try to prepare a way of getting honourably out of it.”

“There is no honour in such a matter.”

“Well, well, it’s just how you look at it. But if you’ll give me six months, I’ll work it so that I can leave without being ashamed to look others in the face.”

The girl laughed with joy. “Six months!” she cried. “Is it a promise?”

“Well, it may be seven or eight. But within a year at the furthest we will leave the valley behind us.”

It was the most that Ettie could obtain, and yet it was something. There was this distant light to illuminate the gloom of the immediate future. She returned to her father’s house more lighthearted than she had ever been since Jack McMurdo had come into her life.

It might be thought that as a member, all the doings of the society would be told to him; but he was soon to discover that the organization was wider and more complex than the simple lodge. Even Boss McGinty was ignorant as to many things; for there was an official named the County Delegate, living at Hobson’s Patch farther down the line, who had power over several different lodges which he wielded in a sudden and arbitrary way. Only once did McMurdo see him, a sly, little gray-haired rat of a man, with a slinking gait and a sidelong glance which was charged with malice. Evans Pott was his name, and even the great Boss of Vermissa felt towards him something of the repulsion and fear which the huge Danton may have felt for the puny but dangerous Robespierre.

One day Scanlan, who was McMurdo’s fellow boarder, received a note from McGinty inclosing one from Evans Pott, which informed him that he was sending over two good men, Lawler and Andrews, who had instructions to act in the neighbourhood; though it was best for the cause that no particulars as to their objects should be given. Would the Bodymaster see to it that suitable arrangements be made for their lodgings and comfort until the time for action should arrive? McGinty added that it was impossible for anyone to remain secret at the Union House, and that, therefore, he would be obliged if McMurdo and Scanlan would put the strangers up for a few days in their boarding house.

The same evening the two men arrived, each carrying his gripsack. Lawler was an elderly man, shrewd, silent, and self-contained, clad in an old black frock coat, which with his soft felt hat and ragged, grizzled beard gave him a general resemblance to an itinerant preacher. His companion Andrews was little more than a boy, frank-faced and cheerful, with the breezy manner of one who is out for a holiday and means to enjoy every minute of it. Both men were total abstainers, and behaved in all ways as exemplary members of the society, with the one simple exception that they were assassins who had often proved themselves to be most capable instruments for this association of murder. Lawler had already carried out fourteen commissions of the kind, and Andrews three.

They were, as McMurdo found, quite ready to converse about their deeds in the past, which they recounted with the half-bashful pride of men who had done good and unselfish service for the community. They were reticent, however, as to the immediate job in hand.

“They chose us because neither I nor the boy here drink,” Lawler explained. “They can count on us saying no more than we should. You must not take it amiss, but it is the orders of the County Delegate that we obey.”

“Sure, we are all in it together,” said Scanlan, McMurdo’s mate, as the four sat together at supper.

“That’s true enough, and we’ll talk till the cows come home of the killing of Charlie Williams or of Simon Bird, or any other job in the past. But till the work is done we say nothing.”

“There are half a dozen about here that I have a word to say to,” said McMurdo, with an oath. “I suppose it isn’t Jack Knox of Ironhill that you are after. I’d go some way to see him get his deserts.”

“No, it’s not him yet.”

“Or Herman Strauss?”

“No, nor him either.”

“Well, if you won’t tell us we can’t make you; but I’d be glad to know.”

Lawler smiled and shook his head. He was not to be drawn.

In spite of the reticence of their guests, Scanlan and McMurdo were quite determined to be present at what they called “the fun.” When, therefore, at an early hour one morning McMurdo heard them creeping down the