Читать книгу The Northing Tramp - Edgar Wallace - Страница 6

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As October crossed the porch she heard the roll of thunder. Hanging over the handrail was the old coat she used as a carpet when the shade of the apple trees enticed her out of doors. She gathered it mechanically.

Robin was walking ahead of her. She saw the nearly white sleeve of his tattered shirt and, quickening her pace, overtook him.

“Where’s that?” He pointed with waggling finger.

“That is the road—it leads to the fork.”

He rubbed his forehead.

“Another way—path over fields?”

She considered.

“You don’t wish to go through the town? It doesn’t worry me at all.”

“Worries me.... I’m rather tight ... intoxicated. The young devils! I wasn’t prepared for them.”

He stood uncertainly. Ahead was the gate and the road. Behind she heard somebody scream her name.

“This way.”

She caught him by the sleeveless coat and dragged him between the elderberry bushes along a track scarcely visible in daylight. He stumbled once and apologised. She saw that he really was “tight”—intoxicated. The path brought them to grass and trees and an occasional view between the apple trees of a far-away yellow light. Presently they were clear of the orchard and traversing a rough stretch of field where Mr. Elmer grazed his cows. There was a big barn here, its bulk showing blackly against the sky: beyond was rough going, a pool where the cows drank and sheer waste land where nothing grazed or grew.

“Storm somewhere,” said Robin. October had seen the lightning. “Following the valley of the St. Lawrence.”

She stopped suddenly.

“What are you—what nationality? You’re not American?”

“Bri’sh.” Only now and again was his voice slurred.

She drew a long breath.

“Then I’m—British!”

She could not see his face; she had to suppose his dullness from his tone and attitude.

“Are you? Fine.”

Her lips were tight pressed.

“I’m American—nothing will ever make me anything but American.”

“Oh ...” He was trying to think. “You said you were Bri’sh just now—I hate people who can’t make up their minds. Where are we going?”

“Where are we going? Where do you want to go?”

“Prescott.”

She gasped.

“In Canada?”

He nodded: she had to guess this.

“Where does this bring us—right here, I mean?”

She told him there was a road ahead of them. It joined the main road west of Littleburg.

“Is there a little wood—road goes through it?” he asked eagerly. And, surprised, she said that there was. They had reached the snake fence which marked the boundary of Four Beech Farm when he hissed:

“Don’t speak—kneel!”

She obeyed and heard somebody talking, and after a while saw the flare of a match.

“Flat down ... in this dip!” He set her an example and sprawled face downward on the moist grass. She fell beside him, her heart racing.

There was no cause for that wild excitement, she told herself, and yet she knew that there was an enormous, a vital reason. There was danger: a vague sense of peril lifted the hairs of her neck. She found herself glaring towards the road and hating the men who were walking in so leisurely a fashion towards them. Nearer and nearer. One stopped to strike another match. They were less than six yards from where the two were lying. She glimpsed a fat, broad face and had a flash of a red beard.

“You certainly put your name in lights, Lenny!” said Red Beard disparagingly. “We ought to have come out with a band.”

“Huh!” grunted the other. “What’s that matter? He’s not here ... not’n miles.”

“I saw him, I tell you. With a bunch of kids, all loaded. If you’d been around I’d have got him....”

“Had to go up to the depot ... that fly cop ...”

The voices grew indistinct; they became a murmur. Came a growl and rumble of thunder, and when it died away there was silence.

“Are they looking for you?” she whispered.

“Yes.”

His voice was steady: he seemed suddenly sobered. As he rose, the western skies throbbed palely with lightning, and she saw the glint of something in his hand. Sober his head might be to meet what trouble was present, but he staggered as he walked.

“Don’t stub your toe against the fence,” he whispered. “Wood sounds carry. Is there a gate?”

“Farther along ...”

“Down!”

He had seen the faint speck of a cigar end; the men were coming back. This time the hiding pair had an advantage. A small ridge of earth ran parallel with the fence; behind this they were safely screened.

The two strollers stopped opposite to them. Apparently one seated himself on the fence: they listened, heard the scrape of his shoes on the rail.

“... back in the wood on the other side of the town, I bet. Ought to have combed that wood, Lenny. If I hadn’t been a bonehead I’d a-got him at Schenectady.”

A silence.

“He got that gun,” said another voice.

“Like hell he did! That’s newspaper lyin’. Fellers don’t smash a bank to get a gun ... well, maybe it wasn’t a bank, but I reckon the book-keeper’s office at a plant is as good as a bank.”

“Newspaper said——”

“Newspaper!” He added an appeal to his Deity.

Another long silence. The scent of a good cigar was wafted towards and over the hillock.

“Say ... what’s Gussie got on him?”

Red Beard (she could identify the two voices now) laughed shortly.

“Listen, Lenny: suppose we get this bird—what’ll we have on Gussie? Oh, nothin’! Come on....”

The sound of their footsteps receded. Raising his head, Robin took an observation.

“Gussie!” he murmured. “That’s jolly good!”

Ten minutes passed before he got up and helped her to rise.

“Where is the gate?”

She walked a little ahead of him. He must have seen the coat she carried was trailing; he took it from her without a word.

The gate was found and was half open. They went through the road, which was uneven but infinitely easier to walk upon than the field. The grass had been heavy with dew—she felt the front of her dress was soaked.

“There’s a house up in these woods—haunted. Not afraid?”

“The Swede’s house,” she said, remembering.

“That’s it. Hanged himself, didn’t he? Hobos never go there ... rather sleep in the rain. They think it is unlucky. Terribly superstitious people, tramps. Am I walking too fast?”

“No.” A hundred yards farther on: “You’re not drunk now.”

He turned his head sideways to her.

“Yes, I am, horribly! I keep thinking you’re ... someone else. And my legs are all crazy. I didn’t sleep last night. I jumped a ride on a freight train night before that, but one of the train hands found me and booted me off. I could sleep standing to-night. But I’m drunk all right.”

The road began to ascend. She had so often walked this way that she could have gone forward blindfolded. Larches appeared on either hand, and the road became a track. Now they were in a great darkness; the far-off lightning was helpful, the sky reflection came down to them through the tree-tops.

“It is to the left somewhere ... there are two steps up the bank.”

They walked more slowly now, searching for the path to the Swede’s house. A flicker of light in the sky, and they saw the steps—two rough-hewn slabs of sandstone, worn by the feet of the suicide.

At the head of the steps he stopped, swaying from side to side. She thought the climb had made him dizzy, but when she put out her hand to steady him he disengaged himself gently. Then she too saw the red gleam of a fire. It was somewhere beyond the spot where they had turned from the track.

“Shtay here,” he said huskily, and went down the steps.

Moving stealthily forward, the man stalked the fire foot by foot. No sound came back to the waiting girl. Nearer and nearer he came, slipping from tree to tree until he reached a place where he could see the campers.

There were two: one immensely tall, one who seemed by comparison a dwarf, and though later he proved to be scarcely shorter than the average man, Robin thought of him and spoke of him as “the little man.”

Tramps both, grimy of face, their raiment was such that the sack about the big fellow’s shoulders seemed surprisingly smart. He had a low receding forehead, a gross button of a nose and a huge, hairy chin; eyes as small, as dark and as close-set as a monkey’s. His companion was a very old man. His rags were indescribably foul, his face had not known soap and water in weeks. White-bearded, bald, he sat, staring into the fire.

“Come right along, bo’,” growled the big man.

He had seen the stalker, though apparently he had not lifted his eyes from the bread he was carving.

Tramp Robin lurched forward. His head was surprisingly clear, though nausea almost overcame him.

“Howdy,” growled the big man. “Set you down. Did that yard dick chase ye? The ——! He ditched me, but this old plug flew the coop.”

Robin gathered they had been thrown off a train by a railroad detective.

“An’ a slow freight!” He invoked his God.

“Goin’ up to Ogdens?” the little old man asked eagerly. “We’re glommin’ the Limited to-night——”

“Ain’t no Limited, you old fool” (he did not say “fool”), “I’m tellin’ yer. How’s this town for hand-outs, Joe? Listen, this dam’ road’s worse than hell.”

“I haven’t tried it yet.”

The big man opened his eyes. The accent, if not new, was strange.

“British! That’s funny.” And then, looking closely at the stranger: “Ye’re stewed! Hi, Baldy, this bird’s stewed!”

A new interest came to the little eyes.

“Set down, Joe—guess you’re the gay cat!”

“Pardon me”—the little old man’s voice took on a sudden refinement—“you are acquainted with Ogdensburg? You will be interested to learn that——”

“Shut up!”

The big tramp’s lips curled up in a snarl, his hand swung back, and the little man shrunk to the earth, a grimace of terror on his grotesque face.

“Always seein’ spooks ... got himself nearly pinched by a station bull at Troy—Troy, can you beat it! Him yowlin’ round the railway yards about app’ritions! Ju-liah!”

Baldy was shivering like a wet dog, but at that word some courage returned to him.

“Not that word, O ... ! Listen. She treated me badly—she was mean, O, but I’d rather you didn’t!”

“Ju-liah!” roared the big man mockingly.

His great hand shot out, gripped the little face of his companion and shook it savagely. Robin looked ... said nothing till the brute threw the old man from him and grinned up at the eye-witness.

“Set you down. What’s hurtin’ you, Joe? Gwan, set down. You comin’ along? There’s good batterin’ in Ogdens. Say, I knew ’n Englishman—set down!” The last two words were shouted.

“Standing up,” said Robin calmly. “And walking!”

“’Fraid I’d roll you? Gawd amighty, you ain’t got three cents!”

“Maybe not: still, I’m walking.”

He turned and walked away. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the man reach for a stone, and spun round.

“I’m packing a gat,” he said significantly.

He saw that the man believed him, for he forced a laugh.

“You’d get Life for that,” he said sarcastically. “An’ a sappin’! It’s a fool thing to carry—a gun.”

He got up and trod on the fire, collected the remains of the feast and rolled them up into an old newspaper.

“Come on, Baldy—this gay cat reckons I’m goin’ to roll him! You catchin’ that freight?”

Robin shook his head.

“Huh! Never thought you was. Bet you’ve never decked a car in your life. Come on—you!”

Baldy got up slowly, collected his own belongings and slouched in the trail of his master. Soon they were out of sight, and Robin, stamping the last red ember to death, went back to the girl.

“Who were they?” she asked. She had seen them pass.

“Some fellers—tramps. Where’s this house?”

She pointed—at least he thought she was pointing. The storm was coming nearer; the heaven lit up in a quivering succession of flashes. He saw a low-roofed shack, a blind that hung by one hinge, a pitiful little portico drooping on one pillar.

“Home!” said Robin magnificently.

The door was fast, but a window gave him entrance. After a while she heard his footfall in the passage and the squeaking of a latch. It took a perceptible time to open the door, and then it only yielded far enough to admit her.

“Hinges gone,” he said briefly.

He pushed the door tight and then, striking a match, lit a piece of candle which he took from a pocket on the inside of his coat. The passage was inches deep in debris. Dead leaves had found their way here, and scraps of discoloured rags showed under the accumulations of dust. Across the passage ran a beam of unpainted pine, and screwed into the wood was a large hook. She saw this ... the forgotten Swede, whose sole memorial this tumbledown house was, had hanged himself.

“Ugh!”

He looked at her gravely.

“Not scared?” His eyes went up to the hook. “That wasn’t it. Used to hang hams there. He did it in a wood—on a tree somewhere. So they say. Lost his wife and went mad—before you were born. So they say.”

“So who say?” a little impatiently.

He jerked his head vaguely towards Littleburg; in reality he was indicating a scattered community.

“Tramps swop these yarns. I didn’t understand them all—they have a language of their own. Hold the light, will you, please?”

October took the candle from his hand, and he lurched into a room that opened from the passage. He returned very soon, carrying a dusty and ragged blanket.

“There’s an iron bed—the spring mattress feels good to me. Rusty, I think—but springy. We’d better chance a light.”

The bed was a very dismal looking affair, but, as he said, the spring bottom was intact. He shook out the blanket and folded it pillow fashion.

“Warmish,” he said sleepily, “but you’d better pull your coat over you.”

She sat on the bed. Looked at him. He might have been good-looking once. The bristly face, the bruised eye, the puffy redness on one cheek ... October shook her head.

“What is the matter with your face?” she asked.

He was surprised by the question.

“Generally or particularly?” he asked, and touched his cheek. “This? Poison ivy. Those old Inquisitors missed something. Go to sleep.”

She kicked off her shoes and lay down, pulling her coat over her. The mattress was largely soft, but it was made up of little steel links and her dress was thin—she would be like a tattooed lady in the morning. He had seated himself in a corner of the room and blown out the candle. Presently she heard his deep breathing; once he snored.

Through the unshaded window she could see the sky lit red and blue at irregular intervals. The house shook and shivered with every crash of thunder. And then the rain came down. It rattled and drummed on the iron roof, beat against the broken window pane....

Seep ... peep ... peep!

The roof was leaking somewhere; the drip and drop of water sounded close at hand. Between thunder rolls she heard the breathing of Robin ... she was dozing when he spoke in his sleep.

“Silly fool,” he muttered, “silly fool!”

Whether he was talking of himself, or to somebody who belonged to the life that was veiled, or of her, she could only speculate upon.

She fell asleep dreamless—she woke slowly with the consciousness that somebody was holding her hand—a bristly cheek was near to hers. She opened her lips to scream and a firm hand closed her mouth.