CHAPTER XXIX
PUPPETS OF FATE
The house in the Gap that had sheltered Nan for many years seemednever so empty as the night she left it with de Spain. In spite of hisvacillation, her uncle was deeply attached to her. She made his homefor him. He had never quite understood it before, but the realizationcame only too soon after he had lost her. And his resentment againstGale as the cause of her leaving deepened with every hour that he satnext day with his stubborn pipe before the fire. Duke had acceded withmuch reluctance to the undertaking that was to force her into amarriage. Gale had only partly convinced him that once taken, the stepwould save her from de Spain and end their domestic troubles. Thefailure of the scheme left Duke sullen, and his nephew sore, withhumiliation.
In spite of the alarms and excitement of the night, of Gale'sdetermination that de Spain should never leave the Gap with Nan, andof the rousing of every man within it to cut off their escape, Dukestubbornly refused to pursue the man he so hated or even to leave thehouse in any effort to balk his escape. But Gale, and Sassoon who hadeven keener reason for hating de Spain, left Duke to sulk as he would,and set about getting the enemy without any help from the head of thehouse. In spite of the caution with which de Spain had covered hismovements, and the flood and darkness of the night, Sassoon by a merechance had got wind through one of his men of de Spain's appearance atDuke Morgan's, and had begun to plan, before Nan and de Spain had gotout of the house, how to trap him.
Duke heard from Pardaloe, during the night and the early morning,every report with indifference. He only sat and smoked, hour afterhour, in silence. But after it became known that de Spain had, beyonddoubt, made good his escape, and had Nan with him, the old man'ssullenness turned into rage, and when Gale, rankling with defeat,stormed in to see him in the morning, he caught the full force ofDuke's wrath. The younger man taken aback by the outbreak and in drinkhimself, returned his abuse without hesitation or restraint. Pardaloecame between them before harm was done, but the two men parted withthe anger of their quarrel deepened.
When Nan rode with de Spain into Sleepy Cat that morning, Lefever hadalready told their story to Jeffries over the telephone fromCalabasas, and Mrs. Jeffries had thrown open her house to receive Nan.Weary from exposure, confusion, and hunger, Nan was only too gratefulfor a refuge.
On the evening of the second day de Spain was invited to join thefamily at supper. In the evening the Jeffrieses went down-town.
De Spain was talking with Nan in the living-room when the telephone-bellrang in the library.
De Spain took the call, and a man's voice answered his salutation. Thespeaker asked for Mr. de Spain and seemed particular to make sure ofhis identity.
"This," repeated de Spain more than once, and somewhat testily, "isHenry de Spain speaking."
"I'd like to have a little talk with you, Mr. de Spain."
"Go ahead."
"I don't mean over the telephone. Could you make it convenient to comedown-town somewhere, say to Tenison's, any time this evening?"
The thought of a possible ambuscade deterred the listener less thanthe thought of leaving Nan, from whom he was unwilling to separatehimself for a moment. Likewise, the possibility of an attempt tokidnap her in his absence was not overlooked. On the other hand, ifthe message came from Duke and bore some suggestion of a compromise inthe situation, de Spain was unwilling to lose it. With theseconsiderations turning in his mind, he answered the man brusquely:"Who are you?"
The vein of sharpness in the question met with no deviation from theslow, even tone of the voice at the other end of the wire. "I am notin position to give you my name," came the answer, "at least, not overthe wire."
A vague impression suddenly crossed de Spain's mind that somewhere hehad heard the voice before. "I can't come down-town to-night,"returned de Spain abruptly. "If you'll come to my office to-morrowmorning at nine, I'll talk with you."
A pause preceded the answer. "It wouldn't hardly do for me to come toyour office in daylight. But if it would, I couldn't do it to-morrow,because I shan't be in town in the morning."
"Where are you talking from now?"
"I'm at Tenison's place."
"Hang you," said de Spain instantly, "I know you now." But he said thewords to himself, not aloud.
"Do you suppose I could come up to where you are to-night for a fewminutes' talk?" continued the man coolly.
"Not unless you have something very important."
"What I have is more important to you than to me."
De Spain took an instant to decide. "All right," he said impatiently;"come along. Only--" he paused to let the word sink in, "--if this isa game you're springing----"
"I'm springing no game," returned the man evenly.
"You're liable to be one of the men hurt."
"That's fair enough."
"Come along, then."
"Mr. Jeffries's place is west of the court-house?"
"Directly west. Now, I'll tell you just how to get here. Do youhear?"
"I'm listening."
"Leave Main Street at Rancherio Street. Follow Rancherio north fourblocks, turn west into Grant Avenue. Mr. Jeffries's house is on thecorner."
"I'll find it."
"Don't come any other way. If you do, you won't see me."
"I'm not afraid of you, Mr. de Spain, and I'll come as you say.There's only one thing I should like to ask. It would be as much as mylife is worth to be seen talking to you. And there are other goodreasons why I shouldn't like to have it known I _had_ talked to you.Would you mind putting out the lights before I come up--I mean, in thefront of the house and in the room where we talk?"
"Not in the least. I mean--I am always willing to take a chanceagainst any other man's. But I warn you, come prepared to take care ofyourself."
"If you will do as I ask, no harm will come to any one."
De Spain heard the receiver hung up at the other end of the wire. Hesignalled the operator hastily, called for his office, asked forLefever, and, failing to get him, got hold of Bob Scott. To him heexplained rapidly what had occurred, and what he wanted. "Get up toGrant and Rancherio, Bob, as quick as the Lord will let you. Come bythe back streets. There's a high mulberry hedge at the southwestcorner you can get behind. This chap may have been talking forsomebody else. Anyway, look the man over when he passes under thearc-light. If it is Sassoon or Gale Morgan, come into Jeffries's houseby the rear door. Wait in the kitchen for my call from theliving-room, or a shot. I'll arrange for your getting in."
Leaving the telephone, de Spain rejoined Nan in the living-room. Hetold her briefly of the expected visit and explained, laughingly, thathis caller had asked to have the lights out and to see him alone.
Nan, standing close to him, her own hand on his shoulder and hercurling hair against his scarred cheek, asked questions about theincident because he seemed to be holding something back. She professedto be satisfied when he requested her to go up to her room andexplained it was probably one of the men coming to tell about somepetty thieving on the line or of a strike brewing among the drivers.He made so little of the incident that Nan walked up the stairs on deSpain's arm reassured. When he kissed her at her room door and turneddown the stairs again, she leaned in the half-light over the banister,waving one hand at him and murmuring the last caution: "Be careful,Henry, won't you?"
"Dearie, I'm always careful."
"'Cause you're all I've got now," she whispered.
"You're all I've got, Nan, girl."
"I haven't got any home--or anything--just you. Don't go to the dooryourself. Leave the front door open. Stand behind the end of thepiano till you are awfully sure who it is."
"What a head, Nan!"
De Spain cut off the lights, threw open the front door, and in thedarkness sat down on the piano stool. A heavy step on the porch, alittle while later, was followed by a knock on the open door.
"Come in!" called de Spain roughly. The bulk of a large man filled andobscured for an instant the opening, then the visitor s
teppedcarefully over the threshold. "What do you want?" asked de Spainwithout changing his tone. He awaited with keenness the sound of theanswer.
"Is Henry de Spain here?"
The voice was not familiar to de Spain's ear. He told himself the manwas unknown to him. "I am Henry de Spain," he returned withouthesitation. "What do you want?"
The visitor's deliberation was reflected in his measured speaking. "Iam from Thief River," he began, and his reverberating voice was lowand distinct. "I left there some time ago to do some work in Morgan'sGap. I guess you know, full as well as I do, that the general officeat Medicine Bend has its own investigators, aside from the divisionmen. I was sent in to Morgan's Gap some time ago to find out whoburned the Calabasas barn."
"Railroad man, eh?"
"For about six years."
"And you report to----?"
"Kennedy."
De Spain paused in spite of his resolve to push the questions. Whilehe listened a fresh conviction had flashed across his mind. "Youcalled me up on the telephone one night last week," he said suddenly.
The answer came without evasion. "I did."
"I chased you across the river?"
"You did."
"You gave me a message from Nan Morgan that she never gave you."
"I did. I thought she needed you right off. She didn't know me as Irightly am. I knew what was going on. I rode into town that eveningand rode out again. It was not my business, and I couldn't let itinterfere with the business I'm paid to look after. That's the reasonI dodged you."
"There is a chair at the left of the door; sit down. What's yourname?"
The man feeling around slowly, deposited his angular bulk with careupon the little chair. "My name"--in the tenseness of the dark thewords seemed to carry added mystery--"is Pardaloe."
"Where from?"
"My home is southwest of the Superstition Mountains."
"You've got a brother--Joe Pardaloe?" suggested de Spain to trap him.
"No, I've got no brother. I am just plain Jim Pardaloe."
"Say what you have got to say, Jim."
"The only job I could get in the Gap was with old Duke Morgan--I'vebeen working for him, off and on, and spending the rest of my timewith Gale and Dave Sassoon. There were three men in the barn-burning.Dave Sassoon put up the job."
"Where is Dave Sassoon now?"
"Dead."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean what I say."
Both men were silent for a moment.
"Yesterday morning's fight?" asked de Spain reluctantly.
"Yes, sir."
"How did he happen to catch us on El Capitan?"
"He saw a fire on Music Mountain and watched the lower end of the Gapall night. Sassoon was a wide-awake man."
"Well, I'm sorry, Pardaloe," continued de Spain after a moment."Nobody could call it my fault. It was either he or I--or the life ofa woman who never harmed a hair of his head, and a woman I'm bound toprotect. He was running when he was hit. If he had got to cover againthere was nothing to stop him from picking both of us off. I shotlow--most of the lead must have gone into the ground."
"He was hit in the head."
De Spain was silent.
"It was a soft-nose bullet," continued Pardaloe.
Again there was a pause. "I'll tell you about that, too, Pardaloe," deSpain went on collectedly. "I lost my rifle before that man openedfire on us. Nan happened to have her rifle with her--if she hadn't,he'd 've dropped one or both of us off El Capitan. We were pinnedagainst the wall like a couple of targets. If there were soft-nosebullets in her rifle it's because she uses them on game--bobcats andmountain-lions. I never thought of it till this minute. That is it."
"What I came up to tell you has to do with Dave Sassoon. From whathappened to-day in the Gap I thought you ought to know it now. Galeand Duke quarrelled yesterday over the way things turned out; theywere pretty bitter. This afternoon Gale took it up again with hisuncle, and it ended in Duke's driving him clean out of the Gap."
"Where has he gone?"
"Nobody knows yet. Ed Wickwire told me once that your father was shotfrom ambush a good many years ago. It was north of Medicine Bend, on aranch near the Peace River; that you never found out who killed him,and that one reason why you came up into this country was to keep aneye out for a clew."
"What about it?" asked de Spain, his tone hardening.
"I was riding home one night about a month ago from Calabasas withSassoon. He'd been drinking. I let him do the talking. He begancussing you out, and talked pretty hard about what you'd done, andwhat he'd done, and what he was going to do--" Nothing, it seemed,would hurry the story. "Finally, Sassoon says: 'That hound don't knowyet who got his dad. It was Duke Morgan; that's who got him. I waswith Duke when he turned the trick. We rode down to de Spain's ranchone night to look up a rustler.' That," concluded Pardaloe, "was allSassoon would say."
He stopped. He seemed to wait. There was no word of answer, none ofcomment from the man sitting near him. But, for one, at least, whoheard the passionless, monotonous recital of a murder of the long ago,there followed a silence as relentless as fate, a silence shrouded inthe mystery of the darkness and striking despair into two hearts--asilence more fearful than any word.
Pardaloe shuffled his feet. He coughed, but he evoked no response. "Ithought you was entitled to know," he said finally, "now that Sassoonwill never talk any more."
De Spain moistened his lips. When he spoke his voice was cracked andharsh, as if with what he had heard he had suddenly grown old.
"You are right, Pardaloe. I thank you. I--when I--in the morning.Pardaloe, for the present, go back to the Gap. I will talk withWickwire--to-morrow."
"Good night, Mr. de Spain."
"Good night, Pardaloe."
Bending forward, limp, in his chair, supporting his head vacantly onhis hands, trying to think and fearing to think, de Spain heardPardaloe's measured tread on the descending steps, and listenedmechanically to the retreating echoes of his footsteps down the shadedstreet. Minute after minute passed. De Spain made no move. A step solight that it could only have been the step of a delicate girlhood, astep free as the footfall of youth, poised as the tread of womanhoodand beauty, came down the stairs. Slight as she was, and silent as hewas, she walked straight to him in the darkness, and, sinking betweenhis feet, wound her hands through his two arms. "I heard everything,Henry," she murmured, looking up. An involuntary start of protest washis only response. "I was afraid of a plot against you. I stayed atthe head of the stairs. Henry, I told you long ago some dreadful thingwould come between us--something not our fault. And now it comes todash our cup of happiness when it is filling. Something told me,Henry, it would come to-night--some bad news, some horror laid upagainst us out of a past that neither you nor I are to blame for. Inall my sorrow I am sorriest, Henry, for you. Why did I ever cross yourpath to make you unhappy when blood lay between your people and mine?My wretched uncle! I never dreamed he had murder on his soul--and ofall others, that murder! I knew he did wrong--I knew some of hisassociates were criminals. But he has been a father and mother to mesince I could creep--I never knew any father or mother."
She stopped, hoping perhaps he would say some little word, that hewould even pat her head, or press her hand, but he sat like onestunned. "If it could have been anything but this!" she pleaded, lowand sorrowfully. "Oh, why did you not listen to me before we wereengulfed! My dear Henry! You who've given me all the happiness I haveever had--that the blood of my own should come against you and yours!"The emotion she struggled with, and fought back with all the strengthof her nature, rose in a resistless tide that swept her on, in theface of his ominous silence, to despair. She clasped her hands insilent misery, losing hope with every moment of his stoniness that shecould move him to restraint or pity toward her wretched foster-father.She recalled the merciless words he had spoken on the mountain when hetold her of his father's death. Her tortured imagination pictured thehorror of the sequel, in which the son of th
e murdered man should meethim who had taken his father's life. The fate of it, the hopelessnessof escape from its awful consequence, overcame her. Her breath, nolonger controlled, came brokenly, and her voice trembled.
"You have been very kind to me, Henry--you've been the only man I'veever known that always, everywhere, thought of me first. I told you Ididn't deserve it, I wasn't worthy of it----"
His hands slipped silently over her hands. He gathered her close intohis arms, and his tears fell on her upturned face.