Читать книгу The Shooting of Dan McGrew, A Novel. Based on the Famous Poem of Robert Service - Marvin Dana - Страница 6

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On the porch, Dan caught up his hat, which had been lying on the chair, and hastened to the stables. He did not scruple now to make use, for the journey to the village, of the horse which he had been accustomed to ride. As he trotted down the driveway, he encountered Nell, mounted on her pony. The girl's gypsy-like face was flushed from a brisk canter under the hot sun, and her black eyes shadowed by the long, curling lashes, were sparkling with the joy of life. She called out cheerily in inquiry whether her father was at the house. Dan called a curt, "Yes," in answer, without checking his pace. But, as the two came abreast, the girl's glance took in the haggard fury on the man's face, and the fearfulness of it fell like a blight on her gladness. She was terror-stricken, without in the least understanding why. For his part, Dan McGrew rode on his way with an added curse for this innocent child.

Dan McGrew registered at the hotel in the village, with a careless announcement to the clerk that the loneliness of the ranch had outworn his patience, and that his luggage would be along presently. Then, after he had been fortified with a solitary drink at the bar, he betook himself to his cell-like room, which was the best the hotel afforded, and there gave himself over to evil plotting. As a result, when night had fallen he sent a message by the hotel porter to Fingie Whalen, who at this hour would doubtless be found somewhere about Murphy's. Under the circumstances, naturally enough, he deemed it a measure of prudence not to visit Murphy's, where he would be at the mercy of the men from whom Jim had saved him. He was sure, however, that Fingie would not permit any false delicacy to stand in the way of possible gain. He had decided that he could make use of the gambler, and of the gambler's painted woman, Jess, and he meant to bribe the pair to his purpose.

Fingie came promptly. Within fifteen minutes from the dispatching of the porter, there came a heavy knock at Dan's door, and in response to a summons to enter, the squat form and lowering face of the gambler appeared. He grinned evilly at Dan, and swaggered forward truculently.

"What in hell are you up to?" he demanded, as he came to a standstill, facing his host, who remained sprawling in a chair, seemingly quite at ease. Dan had determined precisely on how to conduct himself in the interview. So, now, he waved his hand hospitably toward a bottle of whiskey which, with a jug of water and glasses, stood on the table.

"Help yourself," he exclaimed genially, "and sit down. I want to have a talk with you."

"You'll have to do some mighty tall talkin' to get rid of them extra four kyards I seen with my own eyes," Fingie retorted. He approached the table, however, without any reluctance, where he helped himself liberally before seating himself.

Dan made his explanations glibly.

"I got on to the fact that I was getting the bad end of a crooked deal in that card game. … Now, hold your horses!" he commanded, as Fingie scowled and would have spoken. "I don't mean anything for you to get mad about. Only, the four of you were doing me up. I had too much of Murphy's dope, and tried a silly trick. It failed, as it ought to have failed, and I was in bad. I'm sorry, and I want you to let bygones be bygones. You bruised me up good and plenty, if that's any satisfaction to you, and, besides, you got my money. Not quite all of it, however!" he added suggestively. He noted with satisfaction the increasing amiability of Fingie's expression, and the avaricious glint in the ferret eyes of the man at the concluding words.

"What's the game?" Fingie demanded bluntly.

Dan forthwith revealed in detail the work he required to be done. He felt himself safe in being candid with this accomplice, who was wholly free from any moral restraints, and who, as he now made known with many oaths, was still suffering from a swollen jaw, the result of one of Jim's blows. In fine, the gambler entered into the conspiracy with such evident zest that Dan was able to make a better bargain than he had expected for his services and those of his mistress. For an hour, the two discussed the vicious plot, and then, at Dan's bidding, Fingie went in quest of the woman, Jess. Presently, he returned with her, and she, too, was stirred to pleasurable anticipations of the evils to be wrought through her aid. For, on one occasion, she had cast languishing and provocative glances on Jim Maxwell, which he had returned with a look in which pity could not conceal repugnance.

There was a round of drinks for the three, and then Dan made his payment to the gambler. This done, Jess was seated at the table with writing materials, and took from Dan's dictation a note, which she wrote in her natural hand, without any effort toward disguise, and signed with her own name. When, at last, the worthy pair took their leave, that note remained in the possession of their host.

Dangerous Dan's activities for the day were not yet completed. Within an hour, he was astride a horse from the hotel livery, riding rapidly toward the Maxwell ranch. When he was within a quarter of a mile from the house, he dismounted, and hid his horse behind some bushes by the roadside. He went forward on foot cautiously, for it was moonlight, and objects were clearly discernible. Yet, he had little apprehension of being observed, for he knew the customs of the place: that, though it still lacked an hour to midnight, the household would doubtless be fast asleep. There were dogs, it was true, which ran at large; but with these Dan had made friends, and they would raise no outcry against him, though he came with malignant purpose.

Dan, after he reached the lawns that spread before the house, picked his way so as to keep within the shadows of the trees and shrubberies. He avoided the gravel of the drive and the walks, going noiselessly over the turf. The dogs charged upon him, welcoming, but gave no alarm. Burglary was a thing almost unknown in this region, and the ranch-house, as Dan knew, was left quite unprotected from thievery—or worse. The prowler, when he had come to the porch, took off his shoes, and then crept silently up the steps, and on to a window of the living-room. As he had anticipated, it was open, though there was a wire screen. Under Dan's hand, the screen was raised. It slid easily along its grooves, and in another moment Dan stepped into the room. Enough moonlight fell through the side windows for him to see his way distinctly. He crossed to a corner in which was a writing-desk, commonly used by the master of the house for the keeping of papers not sufficiently important for the safe. Conspicuous upon it was lying a letter-case of Russia leather. Dan could distinguish the darker shadow of its outline upon the surface of oak. With a deft certainty of movement, he took from his pocket the note he had that night dictated to the gambler's woman, and, opening the case, thrust it within one of the compartments. Immediately, he retraced his steps across the room, and climbed out through the window, where he paused to lower the screen. When he had descended the porch steps, he sat down on the grass, and put on his shoes again. In due time, he reached his horse, and rode back to the town, filled with unholy joy over the success of his expedition.

Dan, like many another conscienceless scoundrel, slept soundly after his evil work. Yet, he was early astir, for time pressed, and there was still much to be done toward the accomplishment of his design. He found the morning clear, to his vast relief, since, had rain come, Jim would in all likelihood have remained at the ranch-house, thus shutting off the possibility of Dan's seeing Lou alone, which was his immediate purpose. At once, then, after he had breakfasted, he mounted and rode to the ranch-house boldly. He had no lack of courage, and freely ran the risk of meeting the man whose hospitality he had so abused. That risk, he knew, must be encountered for the sake of his plan. But he knew, also, that the chances of an encounter were small with the harvest requiring the rancher's presence in the fields.

As a matter of fact, when he rode up to the house, he neither saw nor heard anything of its master. But, even before he dropped from the saddle, he saw Lou, sitting on the porch with idly folded hands, and with an expression of deep melancholy casting its shadows over the delicate loveliness of her face. Dan's heart leaped exultantly. He wondered if, by any chance, the reflex of her mood from yesterday might contain some measure of sadness on his account. The slightest feeling of womanly compassion for the culprit might prove invaluable to him in his campaign of treachery. He was annoyed for a moment over the presence of Nell on the porch, playing with a doll. But a second thought caused him to decide that the child's company at the outset of the interview might be of benefit to him, as likely to place restraint on the mother's expression of anger against him. … That he was right in his conjecture, the issue proved.

At sight of Dan McGrew, riding to the door from which he had been so ignominiously spurned less than twenty-four hours before, Lou Maxwell sat in dazed amazement, which swiftly merged in anger, untinged by any thought of fear. That the man was dangerous, she knew. But she was no longer to be entrapped by a belief in the self-restraint of this lover. Moreover, she was on her guard now, not unsuspecting, as yesterday. And, too, there were servants within call. These things flashed upon her in the instant of perceiving him. So, she knew that she need not fear anything from him beyond the insult of his presence. But that he should dare thus to approach startled and confounded her by the sheer audacity of the act. She was stupefied by the effrontery of the man as he dismounted and ascended the steps toward her. She rose, under a sudden impulse of resentment, and stood regarding him with a level gaze, wherein was contempt that might have caused a weaker man to quail. But Dangerous Dan had the courage of his wickedness, and he was not to be intimidated, or swerved from his design, by her contumely, even though to win her favor was the dearest purpose of his heart. For the present, he must withstand stolidly the shafts of her disdain, to the end that he might entice her to his will against her own.

Dan swept the cap from his head, and stood undaunted, yet with an air of humility that was disarming. There was something pitiful in the appealing glance of his eyes, something almost pathetic in the soft tone of humiliation with which he spoke.

"I want you to forgive me, Lou—if you can forgive me—for a madness I couldn't help. … I'm sorry."

Somehow, the woman was appeased, despite herself. Her wrath against the man who had affronted her so mortally was no whit lessened; yet, his manner of humble contrition touched her, against her will, to a feeling of compassion. She still loathed him; notwithstanding, her mood was unmistakably tinctured by commiseration. She hesitated for a moment, then turned toward Nell, who, with round eyes of wonder, was regarding her mother and their late visitor.

"Run out in the rose-garden, dear," she said quietly, "and play there for a little while."

The child went obediently enough, though with obvious reluctance, for her curiosity was aroused. She had passed from sight around the corner of the house before Lou spoke again. Then, she did not mince her words:

"You have no right either to ask or to expect forgiveness," she said sternly. Her voice was very cold, charged with bitter contempt. "You have shown the kind of a man you really are. Nothing can change that. I despise you utterly. I hope I shall never set eyes on you again. I do not wish to hear another word from you. Your presence is hateful to me. Go! My husband may come at any moment, and, if he finds you here, he'll kill you on sight, as you deserve."

With the last words, she turned from him, unheeding his exclamation of remonstrance, and went into the living-room.

Dan did not hesitate to follow her.

"Let me say this much, at least," he pleaded, still with utmost humility. "I sinned so because I loved you so. I could not hold myself back. Forgive me, Lou." His voice was tenderly entreating.

The woman faced him resolutely. Her eyes were sparkling with wrath, her voice shook a little under the throb of emotion.

"You, and your love!" she cried, in disgust. "Faugh! Must I summon the servants to put you out of the house?"

Dan made an appealing gesture. He answered with a tone of deprecation.

"No, Lou, you need not do that. I'll go in a moment, and never trouble you again. But, before I go, I must tell you one thing—why I lost my self-control yesterday. It was because I saw you so tender and fond and devoted and unsuspecting in your love for a man who is—unworthy!"

Lou started involuntarily, then stood rigid, too astounded for speech. But, in another moment, she cried out in vehement rebuke:

"How dare you speak like that of Jim!" Her tone was virulent; the dark-brown eyes, usually so limpidly soft in their light, flashed with the fires of her anger. "Jim is as clean as you are foul. How dare you insinuate anything against him! Almost, I wish I hadn't interfered to save your life yesterday. Oh, you beast! How dare you!"

"Because it's true," Dan retorted. He felt now that the situation was well within his grasp, and there was an authoritative ring in his voice that somehow, against her will, caused a chill of apprehension in his listener. He went on speaking swiftly, with incisive earnestness, as one not to be denied. "You see, Lou, I know the truth, and you do not. For example, where is Jim this morning?"

He shot the question at her with such unexpectedness that she answered involuntarily:

"Why, Jim's out in the fields, of course." She realized suddenly the insolence of the question, and would have added a scathing rebuke.

But Dan went on imperturbably:

"Of course, you say that, because you do not know. But he was wise enough to tell you that he must go to town to-day, to attend the meeting of the directors of the bank."

Lou smiled in derision.

"To-day is the regular weekly meeting," she said, with an inflection of dawning curiosity, which Dan noted complacently. "He always goes to the bank-meeting. Why shouldn't he?"

"No reason at all," was the suave response. "But there is every reason in decency why he should not go to another place, of which you know nothing." He spoke in a voice that was significant, grave, portentous. "That's where he is now."

"You mean something—something nasty, I suppose," the wife exclaimed. Her tone was full of abhorrence for this traducer of the man she loved and trusted. "I'll listen to none of your lies against Jim, Dan McGrew."

"I chanced on some information in the town last night," Dan persisted, undismayed by her outbreak. "I have heard gossip before. There's a woman—one of the sort you good women shrink from. She had been drinking too much. She let drop something about the rich man who was coming to visit her to-day, and she said his name was Jim."

Lou felt a tremor of fear. The jealousy that sleeps or wakes in the heart of all lovers stirred within her for the first time. She sought to stifle it, ashamed of even a thought of doubt as to her husband's loyalty. It was monstrous that she should be thus moved by slanderous accusations of one for whom she had only contempt. Again, she would have spoken, but the man forestalled her.

"The woman, whose name is Jess, was bragging in her cups that her lover, Jim, always came when she sent for him. And she said she had written him—Jim—to visit her to-day."

The speaker's sneering assurance, his malignant emphasis on her husband's name, filled the measure of the wife's wrath full to overflowing. She advanced a step, raised her right arm, and with all her strength struck the palm of her hand across Dan's cheek.

"Liar!" she cried, savagely.

The man did not flinch under the blow. The eyes of the two clashed, and held steadily. Dan's cheek whitened where the stroke had fallen, then burned redly. It was the woman's gaze that dropped at last, and Dan smiled, cynically exultant.

"I don't ask you to believe me," he said impressively. "I only ask you to open your eyes to the truth. I suppose Jim would take pains to destroy any note from the woman, Jess. But there's always a chance. Men get careless when they have wives that are so very trusting." His sharp eyes perceived a lessening tension in the woman's form, a growing listlessness in the expression of her face. He knew that there had come a reaction from the strain of her emotions, that her will was growing impotent, that now, at last, she would be pliant to his purpose.

He strode to the desk, and drew out the letter-case, while Lou watched his every movement narrowly, as though she expected some trickery, while powerless further to combat him. Her loyalty to Jim was no less, but her powers of resistance had snapped. So, she looked on as Dan fumbled for a moment among the papers in the letter-case, and then held out to her the note that the woman had written in his room at the hotel, the night before.

Lou took it rather gropingly, in mechanical obedience, because of the utter weariness that was fallen upon her. She read it with eyes that were dimmed—and again. Then, she stood staring still at the page of coarse paper with its rudely scrawled lines, with its words of vile insinuation; but her gaze was unseeing. The man's voice came to her very faintly, as from a great distance.

"Well?"

"It's all a lie, of course," Lou said, feebly. "But I—don't understand."

The cynical exultation in Dan's smile grew. At last, he was bold enough to bring the affair to a crisis.

"Do you dare to ride with me to the town, to test the thing for yourself?"

"Do I dare?" Lou repeated, arousing in some degree from her apathy. "What do you mean?"

"I mean just that," he said. His voice was intentionally brutal. "You've begun already to be afraid of the truth. Do you dare to ride to town with me, and so test the truth with your own eyes?"

The taunt provoked her to a new anger, to a new strength. Once again, the slender form grew tense, the head was raised proudly. Her voice came harshly. There was no note of fear in it now, only a great disdain and something of cruelty.

"I will ride with you, Dan McGrew," was her answer, "to find my husband, and I shall tell him what you've said, and he'll kill you. Now, do you dare?"

"I dare," the man said, quietly. "Let's go."