The Courage of Captain Plum - James Oliver Curwood (the best novels to read .TXT) 📗

/> "Yes."
There was a minute's dark silence. The ticking of Nathaniel's watch sounded like the tapping of a stick.
"What will happen?"
"I don't know. But whatever it may be it will come to us soon. Usually it happens at night."
"There is no hope?"
"Absolutely none. The whole mainland is at the mercy of Strang. He fears no retribution now, no punishment for his crimes, no hand stronger than his own. He will not even give us the pretense of a hearing. I am a traitor, a revolutionist--you have attempted the life of the king. We are both condemned--both doomed."
Neil spoke calmly and his companion strove to master the terrible pain at his heart as he thought of Marion. If Neil could go to the end like a martyr he would at least make an attempt to do as much. Yet he could not help from saying:
"What will become of Marion?"
He felt the tremor that passed through his companion's body.
"I have implored Winnsome to do all that she can to get her away," replied Neil. "If Marion won't go--" He clenched his hands with a moaning curse and sprang to his feet, again pacing back and forth through the gloomy dungeon. "If she won't go I swear that Strang's triumph will be short!" he cried suddenly. "I can not guess the terrible power that the king possesses over her, but I know that once his wife she will not endure it long. The moment she becomes that, her bondage is broken. I know it. I have seen it in her eyes. She will kill herself!"
Nathaniel rose slowly from the bench and came to his side.
"She won't do that!" he groaned. "My God--she won't do that!"
Neil's face was blanched to the whiteness of paper.
"She will," he repeated quietly. "Her terrible pact with Strang will have been fulfilled. And I--I am glad--glad--"
He raised his arms to the dripping blackness of the dungeon ceiling, his voice shaking with a cold, stifled anguish. Nathaniel drew back from that tall, straight figure, step by step, as though to hide beyond the flickering candle glow the betrayal that had come into his face, the blazing fire that seemed burning out his eyes. If what Neil had said was true--
Something choked him as he dropped alone upon the bench.
If it was true--Marion was dead!
He dropped his head in his hands and sat for a long time in silence, listening to Neil as he walked tirelessly over the muddy earth. Not until there came a rattling of the chain at the cell door and a creaking of the rusty hinges did he lift his face. It was the jailer with a huge armful of straw. He saw Neil approach him after he had thrown it down. Their low voices came to him in an indistinct murmur. After a little he caught the sound of the chinking gold pieces.
Neil came and sat down beside him as the heavy door closed upon them again.
"He took it," he whispered exultantly. "He will deliver it this morning. If possible he will bring us an answer. I kept out a hundred and told him that a reply would be worth that to him."
Nathaniel did not speak, and after a moment's silence Neil continued.
"The jury is assembling. We will know our fate very soon."
He rose to his feet, his words quivering with nervous excitement, and Nathaniel heard him kicking about in the straw. In another breath his voice hissed through the gloom in a sharp, startled command:
"Good God, Nat, come here!"
Something in the strange fierceness of Neil's words startled Nathaniel, like the thrilling twinges of an electric shock. He darted across the cell and found Marion's brother with his shoulder against the door.
"It's open!" he whispered. "The door--is--open!"
The hinges creaked under his weight. A current of air struck them in the face. Another instant and they stood in the corridor, listening, crushing back the breath in their lungs, not daring to speak. Only the drip of water came to their ears. Gently Neil drew his companion back into the cell.
"There's a chance--one chance in ten thousand!" he whispered. "At the end of this corridor there is a door--the jailer's door. If that's not locked, we can make a run for it! I'd rather die fighting--than here!"
He slipped out again, pressing Nathaniel back.
"Wait for me!"
Nathaniel heard him stealing slowly through the blackness. A minute later he returned.
"Locked!" he exclaimed.
In the opposite direction a ray of light caught Nathaniel's eye.
"Where does that light come from?" he asked.
"Through a hole about as big as your two hands. It was made for a stove pipe. If we were up there we could see into the jury room."
They moved quietly down the corridor until they stood under the aperture, which was four or five feet above their heads. Through it they could hear the sound of voices but could not distinguish the words that were being spoken.
"The jury," explained Neil. "They're in a devil of a hurry! I wonder why?"
Nathaniel could feel his companion shrug himself in the darkness.
"Lord--for my revolver!" he whispered excitedly. "One shot through that hole would be worth a thousand notes to the girls!" He caught Marion's brother by the arm as a voice louder than the others came to them.
"Strang!"
"Yes--the--king!" affirmed Neil laying an expostulating hand on him. "Hush!"
"I would like to see--"
Even in these last hours of failure and defeat the fire of adventure flamed up in Nathaniel's blood. He felt his nerves leaping again to action, his arms grew tense with new ambition--almost he forgot that death had him cornered and was already preparing to strike him down. Another thought replaced all fear of this. A few feet beyond that log wall were gathered the men whose bloodthirsty deeds had written for them one of the reddest pages in history--men who had burned their souls out in the destruction of human lives, whose passions and loves and hatreds carried with them life and death; men who had bathed themselves in blood and lived in blood until the people of the mainland called them "the leeches."
"The Mormon jury!" Nathaniel spoke the words scarcely above his breath.
"I'd like to take a look through that hole, Neil," he added.
"Easy enough--if you keep quiet. Here!" He doubled himself against the wall. "Climb up on my shoulders."
No sooner had Nathaniel's face come to a level with the hole than a soft cry of astonishment escaped him. Neil whispered hoarsely but he did not reply. He was looking into a room twice as large as the dungeon cell and lighted by narrow windows whose lower panes were on a level with the ground outside. At the farther end of the room, in full view, was a platform raised several feet from the main floor. On this platform were seated ten men, immovable as statues, every face gazing straight ahead. Directly in front of them, on the lower floor, stood the Mormon king, and at his side, partly held in the embrace of one of his arms was Winnsome!
Strang's voice came to him in a low, solemn monotone, its rumbling depth drowning the words he was speaking, and as Nathaniel saw him lift his arm from about the girl's shoulders and place his great hand upon her head he dug his own fingers fiercely into the rotting logs and an imprecation burned in his breath. He did not need to hear what the king was saying. It was a pantomime in which every gesture was understandable. But even Neil, huddled against the wall, heard the last words of the prophet as they thundered forth in sudden passion.
"Winnsome Croche demands the death of her father's murderer!"
Nathaniel felt his companion's shoulders sinking under his weight and he leaped quickly to the floor.
"Winnsome is there!" he panted desperately. "Do you want to see her?"
Neil hesitated.
"No. Your boots gouge my shoulder. Take them off."
The scene had changed when Nathaniel took his position again. The jury had left its platform and was filing through a small door. Winnsome and the king were along.
The girl had turned from him. She was deathly pale and yet she was wondrously beautiful, so beautiful that Nathaniel's breath came in quick dread as the king approached her. He could see the triumph in his eyes, a terrible eagerness in his face. He seized Winnsome's hand and spoke to her in a soft, low voice, so low that it came to Nathaniel only in a murmur. Then, in a moment, he began stroking the shimmering glory of her hair, caressing the silken curls between his fingers until the blood seemed as if it must burst, like hot sweat from Nathaniel's face. Suddenly Winnsome drew back from him, the pallor gone from her face, her eyes blazing like angry stars. She had retreated but a step when the prophet sprang to her and caught her in his arms, straining her to him until the scream on her lips was choked to a gasping cry. In answer to that cry a yell of rage hurled itself from Nathaniel's throat.
"Stop, you hell-hound!" he cried threateningly. "Stop!"
He shrieked the words again and again, maddened beyond control, and the Mormon king, whose self-possession was more that of devil than man, still held the struggling girl in his arms as he turned his head toward the voice and saw Nathaniel's long arm and knotted fist threatening him through the hole in the wall. Then Neil's name in a piercing scream resounded through the dungeon corridor and in response to it the man under Nathaniel straightened himself so quickly that his companion fell back to the floor.
"Great God! what is the matter, Nat? Quick! let me up!"
Nathaniel staggered to his feet, the breath half gone out of his body, and in another instant Neil was at the opening. The great room into which he looked was empty.
"What was it?" he cried, leaping down. "What were they doing with Winnsome?"
"It was the king," said Nathaniel, struggling to master himself. "The king put his arms around Winnsome and--she struck him!"
"That was all?"
"He kissed her as she fought--and I yelled."
"She struck him!" Neil cried. "God bless little Winnsome, Nat! and--God bless her!"
Neil's breath came fast as he caught the other's hand.
"I'd give my life if I could help you--and Marion!"
"We'll give them together," said Nathaniel coolly, turning down the corridor. "Here's our chance. They'll come through that door to relock us in our cell. Shall we die fighting?"
He was groping about in the mud of the floor for some object.
"If we had a couple of stones--"
"It would be madness--worse than madness!" interposed Neil, steadying himself. "There will be a dozen rifles at that door when they open it. We must return to the cell. It is worth dying a harder death to hear from Marion and Winnsome. And we will hear from them before night!"
They retreated into the dungeon. A few minutes later the door opened cautiously at the head of the corridor. A light blazed through the blackness and after an interval of silence the jailer made his appearance in front of the cell, a pistol in his hand.
"Don't be afraid, Jeekum," said Neil reassuringly. "You forgot the door and we've been having a little fun with the jury. That's all!"
The nervous whiteness left Jeekum's face at this cheerful report and he was about to close the door when Nathaniel exhibited a handful of gold pieces in the candle-light and frantically beckoned the man to come in. The jailer's eyes glittered understandingly and with a backward glance down the lighted corridor he thrust his head and shoulders inside.
"Five hundred dollars