The Barrier, Rex Beach [top books to read TXT] 📗

God! I'm shaking like a leaf."

"Bah! She's feel purty bad! She's go out by herse'f. Dat's all right."

"I tell you something has happened to her; there's hell to pay. I found her clothes at the house torn to ribbons and all muddy and wet."

Poleon cried out at this.

"We've got to find her and Gale, and we haven't a minute to lose. I'm afraid we're too late as it is. I wish it was daylight. Damn the darkness, anyhow! It makes it ten times harder."

His incoherence alarmed his listener more than his words.

"Were have you look?"

"I've been to the house, but Alluna is crazy, and says Gale has gone to kill Stark, as near as I can make out. Both of them were at my quarters to-night, and I'm afraid the squaw is right."

"But w'ere is Necia?"

"We don't know; maybe Stark has got her."

The Frenchman cursed horribly. "Have you try hees cabane?"

"No."

Without answer the Frenchman darted away, and the Lieutenant sped after him through the deserted rows of log-houses.

"Ha! Dere's light," snarled Doret, over his shoulder, as they neared their goal.

"Be careful," panted Burrell. "Wait! Don't knock." He forced Poleon to pause. "Let's find out who's inside. Remember, we're working blind."

He gripped his companion's arm with fingers of steel, and together they crept up to the door, but even before they had gained it they heard a voice within. It was Stark's. The walls of the house were of moss-chinked logs that deadened every sound, but the door itself was of thin, whip-sawed pine boards with ample cracks at top and bottom, and, the room being of small dimensions, they heard plainly. The Lieutenant leaned forward, then with difficulty smothered an exclamation, for he heard another voice now—the voice of John Gale. The words came to him muffled but distinct, and he raised his hand to knock, when, suddenly arrested, he seized Poleon and forced him to his knees, hissing into his ear:

"Listen! Listen! For God's sake, listen!"

For the first time in his tempestuous life Ben Stark lost the iron composure that had made his name a by-word in the West, and at sight of his bitterest enemy seated in the dark of his own house waiting for him he became an ordinary, nervous, frightened man faced by a great peril. It was the utter unexpectedness of the thing that shook him, and before he could regain his balance Gale spoke:

"I've come to settle, Bennett."

"What are you doing here?" the gambler stammered.

"I was up at the soldier's place just now and heard you. I didn't want any interruptions, so I came here where we can be alone." He paused, and, when Stark made no answer, continued, "Well, let's get at it." But still the other made no move. "You've had all the best of it for twenty years," Gale went on, in his level voice, "but to-night I get even. By God! I've lived for this."

"That shot in Lee's cabin?" recalled Stark, with the light of a new understanding. "You knew me then?"

"Yes."

Stark took a deep breath. "What a damned fool I've been!"

"Your devil's magic saved you that time, but it won't stop this." The trader rose slowly with the knife in his hand.

"You'll hang for this!" said the gambler, unsteadily, at which Gale's face blazed.

"Ha!" exclaimed the trader, exultingly; "you can feel it in your guts already, eh?"

With an effort Stark began to assemble his wits as the trader continued:

"You saddled your dirty work on me, Ben Stark, and I've carried it for fifteen years; but to-night I put you out the way you put her out. An eye for an eye!"

"I didn't kill her," said the man.

"Don't lie. This isn't a grand jury. We're all alone."

"I didn't kill her."

"So? The yellow is showing up at last. I knew you were a coward, but I didn't think you'd be afraid to own it to yourself. That thing must have lived with you."

"Look here," said Stark, curiously, "do you really think I killed Merridy?"

"I know it. A man who would strike a woman would kill her—if he had the nerve."

Stark had now mastered himself, and smiled.

"My hate worked better than I thought. Well, well, that made it hard for you, didn't it?" he chuckled. "I supposed, of course, you knew—"

"Knew?" Gale's face showed emotion for the first time. "Knew what—?" His hands were quivering slightly.

"She killed herself."

"So help you God?"

"So help me God!"

There was a long pause.

"Why?"

"Say, it's kind of funny our standing here talking about that thing, isn't it? Well, if you want to know, I came home early that night—I guess you hadn't been gone two hours—and the surprise did it, more than anything else, I suppose—she hadn't prepared a story. I got suspicious, named you at random, and hit the nail on the head. She broke down, thought I knew more than I did, and—and then there was hell to pay."

"Go on."

"I suppose I talked bad and made threats—I was crazy over you—till she must have thought I meant to kill her, but I didn't. No. I never was quite that bad. Anyhow, she did it herself."

Gale's face was like chalk, and his voice sounded thin and dry as he said:

"You beat her, that's why she did it."

Stark made no answer.

"The papers said the room showed a struggle."

When the other still kept silent, Gale insisted:

"Didn't you?"

At this Stark flamed up defiantly.

"Well, I guess I had cause enough. No woman except her was ever untrue to me—wife or sweetheart."

"You didn't really think—?"

"Think hell! I thought so then, and I think so now. She denied it, but—"

"And you knew her so well, too. I guess you've had some bad nights yourself, Bennett, with that always on your mind—"

"I swore I'd have you—"

"—and so you put her blood on my head, and made me an outlaw." After an instant: "Why did you tell me this, anyhow?"

"It's our last talk, and I wanted you to know how well my hate worked."

"Well, I guess that's all," said Gale. So far they had watched each other with unwavering, unblinking eyes, straining at the leash and taut in every nerve. Now, however, the trader's fingers tightened on the knife-handle, and his knuckles whitened with the grip, at which Stark's right hand swept to his waist, and simultaneously Gale lunged across the table. His blade nickered in the light, and a gun spoke, once—twice—again and again. A cry arose outside the cabin, then some heavy thing crashed in through the door, bringing light with it, for with his first leap Gale had carried the lamp and the table with him, and the two had clenched in the dark.

Burrell had waited an instant too long, for the men's voices had held so steady, their words had been so vital, that the finish found him unprepared, but, thrusting the lantern into Poleon's hand, he had backed off a pace and hurled himself at the door. He had learned the knack of bunching his weight in football days, and the barrier burst and splintered before him. He fell to his knees inside, and an instant later found himself wrestling for his life between two raging beasts. The Lieutenant knew Doret must have entered too, though he could not see him, for the lantern shed a sickly gloom over the chaos. He was locked desperately with John Gale, who flung him about and handled him like a child, fighting like an old gray wolf, hoary with years and terrible in his rage. Burrell had never been so battered and harried and torn; only for the lantern's light Gale would doubtless have sheathed his weapon in his new assailant, but the more fiercely the trader struggled, the more tenaciously the soldier clung. As it was, Gale carried the Lieutenant with him and struck over his head at Stark.

Poleon had leaped into the room at Burrell's heels, to receive the impact of a heavy body hurled backward into his arms as if by some irresistible force. He seized it and tore it away from the thing that pressed after and bore down upon it with the ferocity of a wild beast. He saw Gale reach over the Lieutenant's head and swing his arm, saw the knife-blade bury itself in what he held, then saw it rip away, and felt a hot stream spurt into his face. So closely was the Canadian entangled with Stark that he fancied for an instant the weapon had wounded both of them for the trader had aimed at his enemy's neck where it joined the shoulder, but, hampered by the soldier, his blow went astray about four inches. Doret glimpsed Burrell rising from his knees, his arms about the trader's waist, and the next instant the combatants were dragged apart.

The Lieutenant wrenched the dripping blade from Gale's hand; it no longer gleamed, but was warm and slippery in his fingers. Poleon held Stark's gun, which was empty and smoking.

The fight had not lasted a minute, and yet what terrible havoc had been wrought! The gambler was drenched with his own blood, which gushed from him, black in the yellow flicker, and so plentifully that the Frenchman was befouled with it, while Gale, too, was horribly stained, but whether from his own or his enemy's veins it was hard to tell. The trader paid no heed to himself nor to the intruders, allowing Burrell to push him back against the wall, the breath wheezing in and out of his lungs, his eyes fastened on Stark.

"I got you, Bennett!" he cried, hoarsely. "Your magic is no good." His teeth showed through his grizzled muzzle like the fangs of some wild animal.

Bennett, or Stark, as the others knew him, lunged about with his captor, trying to get at his enemy, and crying curses on them all, but he was like a child in Poleon's arms. Gradually he weakened, and suddenly resistance died out of him.

"Come away from here," the Lieutenant ordered Gale.

But the old man did not hear, and gathered himself as if to resume the battle with his bare hands, whereupon the soldier, finding himself shaking like a frightened child, and growing physically weak at what he saw, doubted his ability to prevent the encounter, and repeated his command.

"Come away!" he shouted, but the words sounded foolishly flat and inane.

Then Stark spoke intelligibly for the first time.

"Arrest him! You've got to believe what I told you now, Burrell." He poured forth a stream of unspeakable profanity, smitten by the bitter knowledge of his first and only defeat. "You'll hang, Gaylord! I'll see your neck stretched, damn your heart!" To Poleon he panted, excitedly: "I followed him for fifteen years, Doret. He killed my wife."

"Dat's damn lie!" said the Frenchman.

"No, it isn't. He's under indictment for it back in California. He shot her down in cold blood, then ran off with my kid. That's her he calls Necia. She's mine. Ain't I right, Lieutenant?"

At this final desperate effort to fix the crime upon his rival, Burrell turned on him with loathing.

"It's no use, Stark. We heard you say she killed herself. We were standing outside the door, both of us, and got it from your own lips."

Until this moment the man had stood on his own feet, but now he began to sag, seeing which, Poleon supported him to the bed, where he sank weakly, collapsing in every joint and muscle.

"It's a job," he snarled. "You put this up, you three, and came here to gang me." An unnatural shudder convulsed him as his wounds bit at him, and then he flared up viciously. "But I'll beat you all. I've got the girl! I've got her!"

"Necia!" cried Burrell, suddenly remembering, for this affray had driven all else from his mind.

Stark crouched on the edge of his bunk—a ghastly, gray, grinning thing! One weapon still remained to him, and he used it.

"Yes, I've got my daughter!"

"Where is she?" demanded the trader, hoarsely. "Where's my girl?"

The gambler chuckled; an agony seized him till he hiccoughed and strangled; then, as the spell passed, he laughed again.

"She's got you in her head, like the mother had, but I'll drive it out; I'll treat her like I did her—"

Gale uttered a terrible cry and moved upon him, but Burrell shouldered the trader aside, himself possessed by a cold fury that intensified his strength tenfold.

"Stop it, Gale! Let me attend to this. I'll make him tell!"

"Oh, will you?" mocked the girl's father.

"Where is she?"

"None of your damned business." Again he was seized with a paroxysm that left him shivering and his lips colorless. The blankets were soaked and soggy with blood, and his feet rested in a red pool.

"Ben Stark," said the tortured lover, "you're a sick man, and you'll be gone in half an hour at this rate. Won't you do one decent thing