CHAPTER XI
Perhaps old Cappeze had spoken too late when he sounded his sharpwarning to the newcomer against unsettling the simple contentment ofhis daughter's mind. Always realizing his transient status in thealoofness of this life, Spurrier had scrupulously guarded his contactwith the girl who belonged to it and who had no prospect of escapingit. He had sought to behave to her as he might have behaved to achild, with grave or gay friendliness untouched by those gallantriesthat might have been misunderstood, yet treating her intelligence withfull and adult equality.
But his inclination to see more of her than formerly was one that heindulged because it gave him pleasure and because a failure to do sowould have had the aspect of churlishness.
Those self-confessed traces of snobbery that adhered to this courtierat the throne of wealth, were attributes of which the girl sawnothing. Neither did she see the shell of cynicism which Spurrier hadcultivated and this was not because her insight failed of keenness,but because in these surroundings they were dormant qualities.
The self that he displayed here was the self of the infectious smile,of the frank boldness and good humor that had made him beloved amonghis army mess-mates before these more gracious qualities had beenwinter-killed by misfortune.
So he was the picturesque and charming version of himself, and hebecame to Glory an object of hero worship, whose presence made the dayeventful and whose intervals of absence were filled with dreams of hisnext coming.
It was about this time that John Spurrier, the "opportunity hound,"made a disquieting discovery. It came upon him one night as he sat onthe porch of Dyke Cappeze's log house at twilight, with pipes glowingand seductive influences stealing into the senses. Daylight color hadfaded to the mistiness of tarnished silver except for a lemonafterglow above western ridges that were violet-gray, and the eveningstar was a single lantern hanging softly luminous, where soon therewould be many others.
Cadenced and melodious as a lullaby fraught with the magic of thesolitudes, the night song of frog and whippoorwill rose stealingly outof silence, and the materialist who had been city bound so much sinceconviction of crime had shadowed his life discovered the thing whichthreatened danger.
It came to him as his eyes met those of Glory, who sat in the doorwayitself--since she, at least, need not fear to show her face to anylurking rifleman.
The yellow lamplight from within outlined the lovely contour of herrounded cheek and throat and livened her hair, but it was not only herundeniable beauty that caused Spurrier sudden anxiety. It was the eyesand what he read in them. Instantly as their gazes engaged she droppedher glance but, in the moment before she had masked her expression,Spurrier knew that she had fallen in love with him. The eyes had saidit in that instant when he had surprised them. They had immediatelyseized back their secret and hidden it away, but not in time.
The opportunity hound rose and knocked the ash from his pipe. Hewondered whether old Dyke Cappeze, sitting there inscrutable and dimlyshaped in the shadows, had shared his discovery--that grizzled oldwatchdog who was not too far gone to fight for his own with thestrength of his yellowed fangs.
The visitor shook hands and walked moodily home, and as he went hesought to dismiss the matter from his mind. It was all a delusion, heassured himself; some weird psychological quirk born of a man's innatevanity; incited by a girl's physical allurement. He would go to sleepand to-morrow he would laugh at the moonshine problem. But he did notfind it so easy to sleep. He remembered one of those men in theislands who had become a melancholiac. The fellow had been normal atone moment; then without warning something like an impenetrable shadowhad struck across him. He had never come out of the shadow. So thisdisquiet--though it was abnormal elation rather than melancholy, hadsuddenly become a fact with himself, and instead of dismissing itSpurrier found himself reacting to it. Not only was Glory Cappeze inlove with him but--absurdity of absurdities--he was in love withGlory!
It was as irreconcilable with all the logic of his own nature as anyconceivable thing could be, yet it was undeniably true.
But Spurrier had been there in the hills when summer had overcomewinter. He had seen trickles of water grow into freshets and feedrivers. He had seen clouds as large as one's hand swell abruptly intotempests that cannonaded mightily through the peaks, with the lashingof torrents, the sting of lightnings, and the onsweep of hurricanes.He had seen the pink flower of laurel and rhododendron make fragrantmagic over wastes of chocolate and slag-gray mountain sides, and inhimself something akin to these elemental forces had declared itself.He found himself two men, and though he swore resolutely that hisbrain should dominate and govern, he also recognized in himself theman of new-born impulses who drew the high air into his chest with akeen elation, and who wanted to laugh at the artificial things thatlife has wrought into its structure of accepted civilization.
That insurgent part of himself found a truer congeniality in thecompany of grizzled old Dyke Cappeze than that of Martin Harrison; astronger comradeship in the frank laugh of Glory than in the coolintelligence of Vivien's smile.
Glory's brain was as alert as quicksilver, and her heart as high andclean as the hills. Yet in his own world these two would be asunplaced as gypsies strayed from their dilapidated caravan. Moreover,it was ordained that he was to win his game and upon him was to beconferred an accolade--the hand, in marriage, of his principal'sdaughter.
Spurrier laughed a little grimly to himself. Of the woman whose handhad been half-promised him he could think dispassionately and of thisother, whom he could not take with him into his world of artificialvalues, he could not think at all without a pounding of pulses and atumult which he thought he had left behind him with his early youth.
In character and genuine metal of mind, Glory was the superior of mostof those women he knew, yet because she was country bred and trainedto a code that did not obtain elsewhere, she could no more be removedfrom her setting than a blooming eidelweiss could be successfullytransplanted in a conservatory. He himself was fixed into a certainplace which he had attained by fighting his way, in the figurativesense at least, over the bodies of the less successful and the lessenduring. It was too late for him to transplant himself, and he andshe were plants of differing soil, as though one were a snow flowerand one a tropic growth.
Also there were immediate things of which to think, such as anunexpired threat upon his life.
Already he had escaped the assassin's first effort, and he had noguess where the enmity lay which had actuated that attack. That itstill existed and would strike again he had a full realization. He wasnot walking in the shadow of dread but, because he knew of the menacelurking where all the faces were friendly, he had begun to feel thatcompanionship of suspense: that nearness of something in hiding underwhich men lived here; and under which women grew old in theirtwenties.
And it is not given to a man to live under such conditions, and remainthe man who fights only across mahogany tabletops in offices. Yet JohnSpurrier scornfully reasoned that if he could not remain himself evenin a new and altered habitat, he was a weakling, and he had nointention of proving a weakling.
His hand had grasped the plow-haft and, for the present, at least, hisloyalty belonged to his undertaking.
This inward conflict went with him as he rode across the singing hillsto gather up his mail at the nearest post office and he told himself,"I am a fool to ponder it."
Then his thoughts ran on: "It is dwelling on factitious things thatgives them force. Life presents a Janus aspect of the double-faced attimes, but a man must choose his way and ignore the turnings. Gloryhas pure charm. She has a quick mind and a captivating beauty, but sofar as I'm concerned, she is simply out of the picture. I could be madabout her, if I let myself--but presumably I am not adrift on a gulfstream of emotionalism."
When he had spent an hour in the dusty little town and turned againinto the coolness of the hills, he dismounted under the shade of a"cucumber tree" and glanced through those letters that were stillunopened. One envelo
pe was addressed in a hand that tantalized memorywith a half sense of the familiar, and Spurrier's brow contracted inperplexity.
Then his face grew abruptly grave. "By heavens!" he exclaimed. "It'sWithers--Major Withers! What can he be writing about?"
He opened it and drew out the sheet of paper, and, as he read, hisexpression went through the gamut of surprise and incredulity to asettled sternness of purpose that made his face stony.
"If it's true," he exclaimed, "the man is mine to kill! No, not tokill, either, but to take alive at all costs."
He stood for a moment, his sinewy body answering to a tremor of deeplyshaken emotion. Had he been mountain-bred and feud-nurtured, thesinister glitter of his eyes could have been no more relentless. Hewas for that moment a man dedicating himself to the blood oath ofvengeance.
Then he composed his features and smoothed out the letter that hisclenched fingers had unconsciously crumpled. Again he read what MajorWithers had to say:
I am writing because though I infer that you have succeeded in material ways, I have heard nothing of your progress in clearing your name and I know that until that is accomplished, no success will be complete for you.
Quite recently I have had as my striker a fellow named Wiley, who used to be in your platoon--and I have talked with him a good bit. Not long ago he declared to me his belief that Private Grant who is listed as officially dead, did _not_ die in the Islands.
He seems to think that Grant made a clean getaway and went back to the Kentucky mountains from which he came. He confesses that he gets this idea from nothing more tangible than casual hints dropped by Private Severance, whose discharge came shortly after you left us, yet his impression is so strong as to amount to conviction. Possibly if you could trace Severance you might learn something. It's a vague clew, I admit, but I pass it along to you for whatever it may be worth.
Slowly, as though his tireless limbs had grown suddenly old, Spurriermounted and rode on with reins hanging. He was so deep in thought thathe forgot the other unopened letters in his pocket.
Grant might be in these same hills with himself; Grant upon whom hiscounsel had sought to place the blame for the murder of CaptainComyn. If they could meet alone for the period of a brief interview,either that question would be finally answered or in the reckoning oneof them would have to die.
But how to trace him in this ragged territory covering a great andbroken area--a territory which God had seemed to build, as a haven anda hiding place for men who sought concealment? Grant would in alllikelihood see him first and--he entertained no illusions as to theresult--the deserter would kill him on sight. On the other hand, itwould do Spurrier no good to kill Grant. If Grant were to serve him itmust be with a confession wrung from living lips, and on oath.
Of course, too, the years would have changed Grant so that if theycame face to face he would probably fail to recognize the man he hadknown only in khaki.
The scarred chin? A beard would obliterate that. The stature? Addedweight or lost weight would make it seem another man's.
By processes of elimination Spurrier culled over the possibilitiesuntil at length his glance brightened.
In one particular Private Grant could scarcely disguise himself. Hiseyes were in a fashion mismated. One was light gray and one pale blue.Yes, if ever they met he would have his clew in that.
And that memory reminded him that he had recently been impressed to anunusual degree by a pair of eyes. Whose were they? Oh, yes, heremembered now. It was the man at whose house he had met SamMosebury--Sim Colby who dwelt over beyond Clubfoot Branch.
But Colby's eyes had been noticeable by reason of their extraordinaryblackness. So that only helped him in so far as it enabled him toeliminate from all the thousands of possible men the one man, SimColby.
The afternoon had spent itself toward sunset as he dismounted andstabled his horse, and it was with a face still somberly thoughtfulthat he fitted his key into the padlock which held his door andentered.
The interior was dusky in contrast with the outer light, but from onewindow a shaft of golden radiance slanted inward and in it the dustmotes danced.
Spurrier paused and glanced about him, but before he had thrown downthe hat he had taken from his perspiring forehead, a sound hideouslyunmistakable caused his heartbeat to miss its rhythm and pound incommotion.
Every man has his one terror, or, at least, one antipathy which he isunable to treat with customary calmness. With Spurrier it waseverything reptilian. In the islands he had dreaded the snake menacemore than fever or head hunters. Now, from the darkened floor near hisfeet came the vicious whir of rattles, and as his eyes flashed towardthe sound he saw coiled there a huge snake with its flat, arrow-shapedhead sinuously waving from side to side.
With an agility made lightning-quick by necessity, he leaped asideand, at the same instant, the snake launched itself with such venomousforce that the sound of its striking and falling on the puncheon floorwas like the lashing of a mule whip. The man had felt the disturbedair of its passing as of a sword stroke that had narrowly missed him.
But he had no leisure to regain the breath that had caught startledin his throat, before, from his left, he heard again the ominous noteof warning, and felt his scalp creep with horror. The place which hehad left locked and believed to be mosquito proof, now seemed alivewith the loathsome trespassers.
As Spurrier leaped for his couch he heard again the sound of a livingcoil released and its hawserlike lashing of the floor. Now he couldsee more plainly and, calculating his distance, he jumped for thetable from which he could reach the loaded shotgun that hung on hiswall. If he fell short, he would come down at their mercy--but helanded securely and without capsizing his support. His elevation gavehim a precarious sort of safety, but on the floor below him he countedthree rattlesnakes, crawling and recoiling; their cold-blooded eyesfollowing his movements with baleful intentness.
Spurrier was conscious of his trembling hands as he leveled theweapon, and of a crawling sensation of loathing along his spine.
Twice the gun roared, splintering the flooring and spattering itsricochetting pellets, and two of the rattlers twisted in convulsivebut harmless writhings. But the third head--and it seemed the largestof the three--had withdrawn under the cot. He was not even sure thatthese three made up the total. There might be others.
With painstaking care Spurrier came down and armed himself with astout hickory flail which had been used in other days by somehousewife in her primitive laundry work as a "battling stick."
Then he advanced to the battle, swinging one end of the cot wide andshiftily sidestepping. The rattler which lay in piled circles ofcoppery length regarded him with steely venom, turning its swayinghead deliberately as its enemy circled. With the startling abruptnessof an electric buzzer it warned and sprang. He escaped by anuncomfortable margin and attacked it with the flail before it couldrearrange its coils. Finally he stood panting with exertion over thescene of slaughter.
As he searched the place with profoundest particularity his mind wasanalyzing the strange invasion. His house was as tight as he hadthought it. There was no cranny that would have let in three largerattlers. How had they come there?
Spurrier went out and studied his door. The hasps that held hispadlock were in place, but the woodwork about them had been recentlyscarred. The lock fastenings had been pulled out and replaced.
With a nervous moisture on his brow the man recognized the fiendishingenuity of his mysterious enemy. These slithering creatures had comehere by human agency as brute accomplices in the murder that hadfailed from the rifle muzzle. The pertinacity and cunning of thescheme's anonymous author gave promise of eventfulness hereafter.
Had he been struck, according to the evident intention, as he enteredhis house, he would probably have died there, unsuccored, leaving thedoor open. The rattlers would either have found their way out afterthat, or, when his body was discovered, the open door would haveexplained their presence inside, and no suspicion
of a man'sconspiracy would have remained.
One thing stood out clear in Spurrier's summing-up. Whatever thesource of the enmity which pursued him, it had its nerve center in aningenious brain and it threw about itself that element of mysterywhich a timid man would have found terrifying and unendurable. Also itoperated with a patience which was a manifest of its unswervingdetermination. Effort might be expected to follow effort until successcame--or the unknown plotter were discovered and disposed of.
Yet the author of these malignant attempts worked with an unflurrieddeliberation, allowing passive intervals to elapse between activities,like the volcano that rests in the quiet of false security betweenfatal eruptions.
Of course, the letter with the mention of Private Grant might be aclew of identity, yet calm reflection discounted that assumption as awild and unconfirmed grasping out after something tangible.
Perhaps Spurrier as nearly approached the absolute in physicalfearlessness as it is given to man to come--but the mystery of apursuing hatred which could not be openly faced, filled him with asense of futility, and the futility inspired rage which was unsettlingand must be combated.
That night he lay long awake, and after he had fallen asleep he cameoften to a sudden and wide-eyed wakefulness again at the sound of anowl's call or the creaking of a tree limb.
The next morning found him restless of spirit, and it occurred to himthat his secret enemy might be lurking near to inspect the results ofhis handiwork, so he went down to the road and hung the three deadrattlesnakes along the fence where no passer-by could miss seeingtheir twisted and mutilated lengths. That should be his retort to anyinquiring and hostile eye, that he was alive and the creatures putthere to destroy him had paid with their lives.
From a place screened from view he meant to watch that gruesomeexhibit and mark its effect upon any one who paused to inspect it.Possibly in that way a clew might be vouchsafed--but he did not atonce take cover in the thickets.
It was a glorious morning. The sun had ripped away the mists that, inthe mountains, always hang damp and veillike between gray dawning andcolorful day. The cool forest recesses were vocal with the twitteringsand song from feathered throats.
Spurrier sat down by the road and gave himself up to thoughts that itwas safer to banish: thoughts that came with those sights and soundsand that made long-stilled pulses awaken and throb in him.
This morning made him feel Glory's presence and gave him a finerecklessness as to responsibility and consequence. Suddenly he came tohimself and seemed to hear the cool cynicism of Martin Harrison'svoice inquiring, as it had once actually inquired: "Growingsentimental?"
He pulled himself together and stiffened his expression into one moresuitable upon the face of a man who has taken the severe vows ofservice to a cold ambition.
But a little later he heard a sound and looked up sidewise to seeGlory herself standing near him in the road; a materialization of thetruant dreams he had been entertaining.
She wore a dress whose simplicity accentuated the slender erectnessof her young body and the litheness of her carriage. Her hair hung inbraids and the sunbonnet had fallen back from the brightness of herhair. In her eyes played the violet lights of a merriment that liftedand curved her lips beguilingly.
Spurrier came to his feet, and perhaps Glory, who had succumbed to hermoment of self-revelation there on the twilight porch, had her revengenow. For that first startled moment as their glances met, the eyesthat looked into hers were lover's eyes, and their unspoken messagewas courtship. If he maintained the stoic's silence forever, as towords, at least his heart had spoken.
"Before Heaven," said the man slowly, and the tremor of his voice wasout of keeping with the ingrained poise of his usual self-command,"when they called you Glory, they didn't misname you!"
The girl flushed pink, and he took a step toward her with the absorbedintensity of a sleep-walker.
Glory stood there--watched him coming and did not move. To her, thoughshe had sought to hide it, he had become the One Man. Her unconfessedlove had magnified and deified him--and now his own eyes were blazingresponsively with love for her!
Suddenly she was shaken by a rapturous tremor that seemed almost likeswooning or being lifted on some powerful wave that swept her clear ofthe earth, so that she made no effort at disguise, but let thelaughing light in her eyes become softer, yet more glowingly intense.
It was as if they had met in the free realm of dreams where there areno hamperings of impossibility. As he drew near her, his arms cameout, and he halted so that, under that same delightful sense ofirresponsibility, it seemed to her quite natural to step into theirwelcome.
Possibly the happenings of yesterday and the sleepless hours of lastnight had left Spurrier momentarily light-headed. Certainly had one ofthe rattlers stung him and poisoned his reason, he could not be doinga thing more foreign to his program of intention.
He felt his arms close about her; felt the fragrance of her breath,found himself pressing his kisses on lips that welcomed them, andforgot everything except that this was a moment of ecstasy andpassion.