The World's Great Snare Read online

  “You fellows can stay and rot here,” he muttered hoarsely. “Just you wait till the rains come, and see how you like it.”

  There was no further attempt at conversation. Every now and then Mr. Hamilton swore a deep oath as the cards went against him, which was not often. The Englishman and his partner won or lost without a murmur—the former with real carelessness, the latter with a studied and characteristic nonchalance. Mr. Hamilton was the only one who showed any real interest in the game, and his method of playing, which was a little peculiar, required all his attention.

  Outside, the calm of evening deepened into the solemn stillness of night. The moon rose over the pine tops, and the mists floated away down the valley. The breeze dropped, and the trees in the forest were dumb. The three men played steadily on till midnight. Then the Englishman rose up and threw down his cards.

  “Out you go, you chaps!” he said shortly. “I’ve had enough of this, and I’m going to turn in.”

  The two men rose: Mr. Hamilton grumbling, Morrison as silent as ever. Together they all walked out into the darkness.

  “Good night, and be d—d to you!” muttered Mr.

  Hamilton surlily as he scrambled down the hillside, holding on to the young fir-trees, and every now and then balancing himself with difficulty. “What the devil were you thinking of when you built your shanty up in the clouds?” he shouted back as at last he reached the bottom. “I’m bruised all over. I’ll be shot if I come again.”

  The Englishman laughed out lustily, and thrust his hands into his pockets.

  “Good night, Jim!” he shouted, his deep bass voice awakening strange echoes as it travelled across the rocky gorge. “Don’t know what you want to swear at me for! You’ve drunk my whisky, and smoked my tobacco, and won my money, you surly beggar, you! Good night, Pete!” he added to his partner in a milder tone. “Be careful how you go, there! You’ve had as much liquor as you can carry, you have, you idiot!”

  He walked a step or two further out, and watched both men gain their shanties. Then he turned round and stood for a moment or two gazing thoughtfully out into the darkness. A sudden impatience had prompted him to get rid of his rough companions, but he had no desire to sleep. The still, starlit night, the faint snowy outline of the distant mountains, the perfume of flowering shrubs, and the night odour of the pines, had quickened his senses and stirred vaguely his inherent love of beauty; so that he was forced to rid himself abruptly of his coarse surroundings and hasten out into the darkness. He leaned against the frail supports of his little dwelling, with folded arms, and dreamed—dreamed of that Eastern world which he had left, and which seemed a thing so far away from this deep majestic solitude. He turned his face towards the plains, and half closed his eyes. His had been a curious and a solitary life; a life oftenest gloomy, yet just once or twice bathed in a very bright light. It was something to think about—these brighter places so few and far between. Did he wish that he was back again where they would be once more possible? He scarcely knew! The fierce trouble and the disquiet of the days behind was no pleasant memory. He looked across, to the mist-topped hills and dark forests, and he felt that they had grown in a measure dear to him. In his heart, this great lonely man with the limbs and sinews of a giant was a poet. He was ignorant of books, and uneducated, but he loved beauty, and he loved nature, and in his way he loved solitude. He was happier here by far than he had been amongst the gilded saloons and cheap haunts of the Western cities. It was only the monotony and the apparent uselessness of his life here that oppressed him. He was a man with a purpose, a purpose which he had followed over land and sea, through cities and lonely places, with a dogged persistence characteristic of the man and of his race. In his expedition here, for the first time he had turned away from it, and the knowledge was beginning to trouble him. The hard physical labour, the glory of his surroundings, the mighty forests and hills broken up into valley, and precipice, and gorge, and all the time overshadowed by that everlasting background of the snow-capped Sierras, these things were all dear to him, and rough and uncultured though he was, they sank deeper into his being day by day, and night by night. He could not have talked about them. Nature had given him the sensibility of the poet and the artist, but education had denied him the use of words with which to express himself. As yet he scarcely appreciated all that he lost. That would conic some day.

  Suddenly his dreaming was brought to an abrupt termination. His body stiffened, and his hand felt for the revolver in his belt. With the ready instinct of a man used to all sorts of emergencies, he recognized that he was no longer alone. Yonder, almost at his feet, behind that low prickly shrub, a man was lying.

  “Who are you?” he asked quickly. “What do you want here? Put up your hands!”

  The reply came only in a faint whisper.

  “Bryan! Bryan, come and help me! Give me some brandy! I’m almost done! Thank God, I’ve found you!”

  The Englishman stuck his revolver into his belt, and took a giant stride over to the spot.

  “Who are you?” he asked, dropping on one knee, “and where, in God’s name, have you come from? How do you know my name?”

  The figure raised itself a little. The tattered remnants of a cap fell off, and the moonlight fell upon the wan but strangely handsome face, gleaming in the dark eyes lit up with a sudden eager light.

  “Don’t you know me, Bryan?” asked a soft, caressing voice. “Am I so altered?”

  The Englishman gave a great start, and his bronzed face grew pale.

  “My God!” he exclaimed. “It’s Myra!”

  II. ON THE BANKS OF THE BLUE RIVER

  Table of Contents

  The moon, which had risen now high above the wood-crowned hills, was shining with a faint ghostly light upon the new-corner’s wan face. The Englishman, who had started back like a man who sees a vision, as suddenly recovered himself. Surprising though this advent was, there was no doubt as to the identity of his visitor. Neither was there any doubt but that she was on the point of exhaustion. His first duty was plain. She must be taken care of.

  “Can you walk into the cabin, or shall I carry you?” he asked, in a tone as matter-of-fact as though he was accustomed every day to receive such visits. “Better carry you, I think! You look all used up!”

  “I—I’m afraid I can’t walk, Bryan,” she admitted, looking up at him with the ghost of a smile on her lips. “I guess I fainted a bit ago! It was the sound of your voice brought me to!”

  Without another word he lifted the prostrate figure into his arms, and carried her into the shanty. Arrived safely inside—he had to bend almost double to enter the doorway—be laid her on his bed, and threw a blanket over her.

  Then he took up his own tin mug of brandy, found that it was half full, and forced a little between the white lips.

  The effect was swift and almost magical. A little faint colour stole into her cheeks, and she opened her eyes.

  “Guess I’m starved!” she remarked, with a slight uplifting of the eyelids. “Got anything to eat?”

  Her eyes wandered round the place hungrily. The Englishman stood still and considered for a moment. Then he struck a match and lit an oil stove, opened a tin of beef extract, and in a few minutes had a steaming cup full of the liquid. He brought it to her side, and she clutched it eagerly.

  “Drink it slowly!” he advised. “That’s the style! Good God!”

  He went out into the darkness, and returned in a few minutes with a pail of water. Then he turned up his shirtsleeves, and taking her shapely little feet into his great hands, bathed them carefully while she lay quite still with half closed eyes. When he had finished, he lit his pipe, and sat down by her side.

  “Don’t hurry, Myra!” he said, leaning back against the wall, and thrusting his hands into his pockets. “Don’t talk at all unless you feel like it! More beef tea, eh? There, just a drop! That’s right!”

  He held the cup to her lips, and then set it down.

  “If you feel like going
right off to sleep, why, off you go!” he said. “You can tell me all about it in the morning!”

  He spoke cheerfully, but there was an undercurrent of anxiety in his tone which the girl’s quick ears detected. Henceforth she watched him furtively out of her big dark eyes, filled now with a fresh alarm.

  “I’d as lief tell you now!” she said. “I’m rested!”

  “That’s capital! Well, how did you get here all by yourself? That’s what I want to know.”

  A little note of triumph crept into the girl’s tone. She watched her companion carefully to see what effect her words had upon him.

  “I came on a mule half the way, Bryan. He died four days ago, and since then I have been walking!”

  “You came on a mule!” the Englishman repeated bewildered. “Where from?”

  “From San Francisco, of course!”

  “My God!”

  He looked at her in admiration tempered with wonder. She had expected this, and was gratified.

  “Yes! You didn’t think I was plucky enough for that, I guess! It’s been pretty bad—worse than I thought it would be, when I started. I didn’t mind so much until Johnny—that was my mule—died. He seemed sorter company, and he was a real good one. Afterwards it got lonesome, and the nights were so dark and long, I was scared sometimes. I used to lie quite still, with my face turned to the east, and as soon as the first streak of light came I could go to sleep. Then, the day before yesterday, I finished up all the food I had! I don’t believe I want to talk about the time since then,” she concluded, with a little shiver. “I guess I won’t, anyway!”

  He sat and looked at her for a moment without speaking. He was not a man of quick comprehension, and the thing amazed him.

  “Five hundred miles all alone, and a beastly rough track too,” he said at last. “Why, child, it seems impossible. And why on earth have you come?”

  The colour rushed into her dusky cheeks, and her eyes, soft and dark now that the gleam of famine had fled, filled with tears.

  “You—you are not glad to see me!” she exclaimed piteously.

  He was not. That was a fact. But he began to see that it would not do to let her know it. He swore a great inward oath, but he leaned over and took her hand as tenderly as he could.

  “Of course I’m glad, Myra! If you knew how beastly dull it was here, month after month with never a soul to speak to, you wouldn’t wonder at that. But what beats me is, why you’ve come! You haven’t risked your life to come to such a picnic as we’re having out here! You’ve got a reason for coming!”

  She nodded, with her eyes anxiously fixed upon him. “Yes! I’ve brought you something. Guess what!” His expression changed. A sudden light leaped into his eyes.

  “Is it a letter?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  He held out his hand.

  “Where is it?

  “Give me a knife and I will get it,” she answered.

  He handed her one. She felt up one side of her tattered coat, and cut a little slit near the shoulder. Through the opening she drew a long envelope, and held it out to him; her lips slightly parted, and her eyes eagerly watching for his approval.

  He took it into his hand and looked at it almost as though he feared to break the seal. It was yellow with age, and the postmark was ancient. He looked from it into the girl’s face. Her eyes were full of tears.

  “You are not glad that I brought it,” she faltered. “It isn’t of any importance after all. You haven’t thanked me, you haven’t said a single kind word to me, and—and you haven’t even kissed me! I—I wish I had died and not got here at all!” she wound up with a little sob.

  He passed his arm around her waist and drew her lips to his.

  “There, don’t cry, Myra,” he said kindly. “I’m not an eloquent chap, you know, and I was kind of dazed. You’re a regular brick, little woman, to bring me that letter. I don’t believe there’s another girl in the States would have had so much pluck. Cheer up now, do. Of course I’m glad to see you. You know that.”

  She listened to him eagerly, and gave a little sigh of relief. Then she swept the tears away, and smiled up at him faintly.

  “I think I was pretty glad to have an excuse to come,” she whispered in his ear. “I was weary of waiting for you to come back, and—oh, it was all such a bother. I would sooner have died than gone back to the old life, the life from which you saved me, Bryan. It was all horrid. Oh, aren’t I glad I’m here! You won’t send me back, will you?” she exclaimed, in sudden alarm.

  “We’ll talk about that in the morning,” he answered. “I haven’t read my letter yet. I may not be stopping here myself much longer.”

  “Say that I may stay as long as you do,” she persisted. “Tell me that when you go, you will take me with you. Just let me hear you say that, and I won’t worry you any more. I’ll do everything you tell me. You say that.”

  He frowned and looked away from her great eager eyes on to the floor. Here was a pretty mess for him. What could he say to her?

  “You’ll have to be reasonable, Myra,” he said slowly. “I don’t see how you can stop. What on earth could I do with you? Do you know that there are four or five hundred men down in the valley there, and not a woman amongst them? How could I keep you here?

  “No one would know that I was a woman,” she pleaded piteously. “I would never go outside the door, if you like.”

  “They’d soon find out. They’d want to know why you didn’t work, and what was the meaning of those pretty hands and feet,” he said indulgently. “No, we couldn’t keep the secret if you stayed, Myra. They’re a rough lot down there, too, I can tell you. Besides, what on earth would you wear?” he added, with masculine irrelevance.

  She glanced down at the rents in her rough attire, and blushed.

  “You have a needle and thread here,” she said. “I could patch these things up somehow. I—I brought a gown with me in my bundle there, but I suppose I mustn’t wear that?”

  He shook his head and glanced towards the bundle, which was lying upon the floor half-open. Something he saw seemed to him familiar. He touched it with his foot and leaned forward.

  “What dress did you bring?” he asked.

  Her eyes sought his appealingly, and the deep colour stained her cheeks. A little tremulous smile parted the corners of her lips.

  “It is—the blue serge one, the one you liked. I had put it away until you came back. Kind of silly to bring it, wasn’t it?”

  He looked at her for a moment, and his own eyes grew misty. The pathos of the whole thing, as he alone could understand it, was irresistibly borne in upon him. Like a swift vision he seemed to see her struggling across that great rocky plain, day after day, night after night, fighting against the horrible loneliness, braving dangers and enduring privations which might have daunted many a man, and all the while clinging to her poor little bundle, never parting with it even in those last dreadful hours of exhaustion and despair. Poor child! He remembered the gown well. It was one which he had bought for her himself, the straight tailor-made folds pleasing his English eye. He remembered, too, how proud she had been when he had admired it, and how she had worn it on every possible occasion. There it lay before him, carefully folded and rolled up, and carried for more than five hundred miles in the hope that to see her in it might awaken some of that old tenderness which with him, alas! was almost a thing of the past. He looked into her strained, plaintive face, and did what, as yet, of his own accord he had not done or desired to do. He kissed her.

  * * * * *

  She laughed softly, and glanced up at him from his shoulder, pointing to her clothes.

  “Do these things look very awful?”

  He affected not to notice the look which pleaded for some consoling speech, and gently detaching himself from her embrace, he stooped down and drew from underneath the plank bed a long white linen coat which he had bought in San Francisco, but had found far too small for him. He shook it, and held it out to her.

>   “They want stitching, then they’d be all right,” he declared. “You’d better put this on for a bit, and try to go to sleep. You’ve talked more than enough now, and you look deadly tired. Good night.”

  She sat up and looked at him for a moment, but he kept his head turned resolutely away.

  “Where are you—going to sleep?” she asked quietly.

  “Outside. I generally do. We are too high up here for the dews to hurt, you know. Call out if you are frightened, or if you want anything. I shall hear you.”

  “Thank you. Good night, Bryan.”

  A little break in her voice smote his heart. He thought of the long lonely nights of terror through which she had passed, and he was troubled. He felt a brute. For a moment he hesitated. Then he took one swift step across to her side, and kissed her tenderly.

  “Good night, Myra,” he said. “God bless you!”

  She laughed a little. Blessings sounded oddly in her ears, but the kiss was more like old times. So she did her best to console herself with it, slipping off her soiled clothes and curling herself up on the bed. In a few moments she was asleep.

  It was the end of her pilgrimage. She had risked her life, had faced a loneliness as awful as the loneliness of death, and had cheerfully borne the most terrible hardships to bring him the letter—and herself; and now that her task was at an end she lay stretched upon his hard plank bed, dreaming as peacefully of the happiness of being once more with the man she loved, as though the bed were of down, and the hut a palace. And outside, within a few yards of her, the Englishman lay face downwards upon the short dry turf, cursing alike his past folly and his present weakness. His letter lay unopened by his side; for the moment he had even forgotten it. Whilst he had been with her he had striven hard to hide his feelings; but now that he was alone in the darkness he looked this thing in the face, and the longer he looked the less he liked it. It seemed only the other day that he had made his escape; that he had willingly, nay, eagerly, turned over that short chapter of his life, and with intense relief had told himself that it was a past dream of folly, over and done with for ever. It was one of fate’s grim jests, an everyday affair. But it seemed a little hard upon her.