The Barrier by Rex Beach (universal ebook reader .txt) 📗

going to the Mission, and you needn't tell her otherwise until you get her aboard a steamer; then take her, no matter what kind of a fight she puts up. You've got a light-rowing skiff, and you'd better keep going till you're overtaken by a down-river boat. I want her as far away from here as possible. There's going to be some hell in this camp. Now, hike, and get yourself ready."

"All right! But I ain't the safest kind of a chaperon for a good-looking girl."

Stark laid a cold hand on Runnion's shoulder, close up to his neck.

"Get that out of your mind. She belongs to me."

"You said just now—"

"Never mind what I said. She's mine, and you've got to promise to be straight with her. I've trusted you before, and if you're not on the level now, say so. It will save you a lot of trouble."

"Oh! All right!" exclaimed Runnion, testily. "Only it looks mighty queer."

He melted into the darkness and Stark returned to his cabin, where he paced back and forth impatiently, smiling evilly now and then, consulting his watch at frequent intervals. A black look had begun to settle on his face, but it vanished when Necia came, and he met her with a smile.

"I was afraid you had weakened," he said. "Everything is ready and waiting. I've got the only canoe in the place, a Peterborough, and hired a good oarsman to put you through, instructing him to make as fast time as he can, and to board the first steamer that overtakes you. Too bad this freighter that just got in isn't going the other way. However, there's liable to be another any hour, and if one doesn't come along you'll find enough blankets and food in the skiff, so you needn't go ashore. You'll be there before you know it."

"You are very kind," said the girl. "I can't thank you enough." She was clothed in her simple everyday dress, and looked again the sun-colored half-breed girl with the wide, dark eyes and the twin braids of crow-black hair.

"You didn't run into anybody, eh?"

She shook her head. Then he led her out into the darkness, and they stumbled down to the river's-bank, descending to the gravelly water's edge, where rows of clumsy hand-sawed boats and poling-skiffs were chafing at their painters. The up-river steamer was just clearing.

Stark's low whistle was answered a hundred yards below, and they searched out a darker blot that proved to be a man's figure.

"Is everything ready?" he inquired, at which the shadow grunted unintelligibly. So, holding Necia by the arm, Stark helped her back to a seat in the stern.

"This man will take you through," he said. "You can trust him, all right."

The oarsman clambered in and adjusted his sweeps, then Stark laid a hand on the prow and shoved the light boat out into the current, calling softly:

"Good-bye, and good-luck."

"Good-bye, Mr. Stark. Thank you ever so much," the girl replied, too numb and worn out to say much, or to notice or care whither she was bound or who was her boatman. She had been swept along too swiftly to reason or fear for herself any more.

Half an hour later the scattered lights of the little camp winked and twinkled for the last time. Turning, she set her face forward, and, adjusting the cushions to her comfort, strained her tired eyes towards the rising and falling shadow of her boatman. She seemed borne along on a mystic river of gloom that hissed and gurgled about her, invisible but all-pervading, irresistible, monstrous, only the ceaseless, monotonous creak of the rowlocks breaking the silence.

Stark did not return to his cabin, but went back instead to his saloon, where he saw Poleon Doret still sprawling with elbows on the table, his hat pulled low above his sullen face. The owner of the place passed behind the bar and poured himself a full glass of whiskey, which he tossed off, then, without a look to right or left, went out and down towards the barracks. A light behind the drawn curtains of the officer's house told that his man was not abed, but he waited a long moment after his summons before the door was opened, during which he heard the occupant moving about and another door close in the rear. When he was allowed entrance at last he found the young man alone in a smoke-filled room with a bottle and two empty glasses on the table.

For at the sound of his voice Gale had whispered to Burrell, "Keep him out!" and the Lieutenant had decided to refuse his late visitor admittance when he lighted on the expedient of concealing the trader in the bedroom at the rear. It was only natural, he reasoned, that Gale should dislike to face a man like Stark before he had regained his composure.

"Go in there and wait till I see what he wants," he had said, and, shutting the old man in, he had gone forth to admit Stark, resenting his ill-timed intrusion and inquiring brusquely the cause of it.

Before answering, Stark entered and closed the door behind him.

"I've got some work for you, Lieutenant."

"I guess it can wait till morning," said Meade.

"No, it can't; it's got to be done to-night, right now! You represent the law, or at least you've taken every occasion to so declare yourself, and to mix in with little things that don't cut much figure; so now I've come to you with something big. It's a serious affair, and being as I'm a peaceful man I want to go by the law." His eyes mocked the words he uttered. "You're mighty prompt and determined when it comes to regulating such affairs. You seem to carry the weight of this whole community on your shoulders, so I'm here to give you some information."

Burrell ignored the taunt, and said, quietly: "It's a little late for polite conversation. Come to the point."

"I've got a criminal for you."

"What kind?"

"Murderer."

"You've had a killing in your place, eh?"

"No, I've just made a discovery. I found it all out by accident, too—pure accident. By Heaven! You can't tell me there isn't a beneficent Providence overlooking our affairs. Why, this felon has lived here among us all this time, and only for the merest chance I never would have recognized him."

"Well, well! Go on!" snapped Burrell, impatiently.

"He's a friend of yours, and a highly respected party. He's a glorious example to this whole river."

The officer started. Could it be? he wondered. Could knowledge of this affair have reached this man? He was uncomfortably aware of that presence in the back room, but he had to know the truth.

"Who is the man?"

"He's your friend. He's—" Stark paused, gloating over his enemy's suspense.

"Go on." "He's everybody's friend. He's the shining mark of this whole country. He's the benevolent renegade, Squaw-man Gale."

"John Gale?"

"Gaylord is his name, and I was a fool not to know it sooner."

"How did you discover this?" inquired Burrell, lamely. "What proof have you?"

The disclosure had not affected the soldier as Stark expected, and his anger began to lift itself.

"That's neither here nor there; the man's a murderer; he's wanted in California, where I came from; he's been indicted, and there's a price on his head. He's hidden for fifteen years, but he'll hang as sure as I stand here."

Disclosures of a complex nature had so crowded on Burrell in the last few hours that he saw himself the centre of a most unfortunate and amazing tangle. Things were difficult enough as it was, but to have this man appear and cry for justice—this man above all others!—it was a complication quite unlocked for—a hideous mockery. He must gain time for thought. One false step might ruin all. He could not face this on the spur of the moment, so, shrugging his shoulders with an air of polite scepticism, he assumed a tone of good-natured raillery.

"Fifteen years? Murder? John Gale a murderer? Why, that's almost—pardon me if I smile—I'm getting sleepy. What proof have you?"

"Proof!" blazed the gambler. "Proof! Ask Gaylord! Proof! Why, the woman he murdered was my wife!"

It was Burrell's turn now to fall incoherent, and not only did his speech forsake him, but his thoughts went madly veering off into a wilderness where there was no trail, no light, no hope. What kind of a coil was this? What frightful bones were these he bared? This man was Bennett! This was Necia's father! This man he hated, this man who was bad, whose name was a curse throughout the length and breadth of the West, was the father of the girl he loved! His head began to whirl, then the story of the trader came back to him, and he remembered who and what the bearer of these later tidings was. He raised a pair of eyes that had become furious and bloodshot, and suddenly realized that the man before him, who persisted in saddling upon Gale this heinous crime, was the slayer of Necia's mother; for he did not doubt Gale's story for an instant. He found his fingers writhing to feel the creature's throat.

"Proof!" Stark was growling. "How much proof do you need? I've followed him for fifteen years. I've tracked him with men and dogs through woods and deserts and mining-camps. I've slept on his trail for five thousand miles, and now do you think I'm mistaken? He killed my wife, I say, and robbed me of my little girl! That's her in his house. That's her he calls Necia. She's my girl—MY GIRL, do you understand?—and I'll have his life."

It was hate that animated him, and nothing more. He had no joy in the finding of his offspring, no uplifted thought of justice. The thirst for revenge, personal, violent, utter, was all that prompted this man; but Burrell had no inkling yet of the father's well-shaped plans, nor how far-reaching they were, and could barely stammer:

"So! You—you know?"

"Yes! She wears the evidence around her neck, and if that isn't enough I can furnish more—evidence enough to smother you. My name isn't Stark at all; I changed it years ago for certain reasons. I've changed it more than once, but that's my privilege and my own affair. Her name is Merridy Bennett."

"I don't suppose you know I'm going to marry her," said the Kentuckian, irrelevantly.

"No," replied the other, "I wasn't aware of the fact."

"Well, I am. I'll be your son-in-law." He said this as if it were the statement of an astonishing truth, whereat Stark grinned, a mirthless, disquieting sort of grimace, and said:

"There's a lot of things for you and me to settle up first. For one thing, I want those mines of hers."

"Why?"

"Well, I'm her father, and she's not of age."

"I'll think it over."

"I'll take them, anyway, as her next of kin."

Burrell did not follow up this statement, for its truth was incontrovertible, and showed that the father's ill-will was too tangible a thing to be concealed; so he continued:

"We'll adjust that after Gale is attended to; but, meanwhile, what do you want me to do?"

"I want you to arrest the man who killed my wife. If you don't take him the miners will. I've got a following in this camp, and I'll raise a crowd in fifteen minutes—enough to hang this squaw-man, or batter down your barracks to get him. But I don't want to do that; I want to go by the law you've talked so much about; I want you to do the trick."

At last Burrell saw the gambler's deviltry. He knew Stark's reputation too well to think that he feared a meeting with Gale, for the man had lived in hope of that these fifteen years, and had shaped his life around such a meeting; but this indirect method—the Kentuckian felt a flash of reluctant admiration for a man who could mould a vengeance with such cruel hands, and, even though he came from a land of feuds, where hate is a precious thing, the cunning strength of this man's enmity dwarfed any he had ever known. Stark had planned his settlement coldly and with deliberate malice; moreover he was strong enough to stand aside and let another take his place, and thus deny to Gale the final recourse of a hunted beast, the desperate satisfaction that the trader craved. He tied his enemy's hands and delivered him up with his thirst unsatisfied—to whom? He thrust a weapon into the hand of his other enemy, and bade this other enemy use it; worse than that, forced him to strike the man he honored—the man he loved. Burrell never doubted that Stark had carefully weighed the effect of this upon Necia, and had reasoned that a girl like her could not understand a soldier's duty if it meant the blood of a parent. If he refused to act, the gambler could break