“No, no, uncle, you shall not harm him, you shall not—!”
“Found us, eh,” I heard the rumbling bellow of the bull-like voice, “think he’s going to steal you for that damned young upstart, eh? A-h-h, we’ll see!”
Then he laughed, laughed like the bloodthirsty wind devils outside.
Suddenly the girl was flung aside and I saw a towering hulk of a man looming over me, huge, foreboding, like a great pine tree towers over one in the dusk.
His face was close to mine, and, after these many years, I can see that face even now... and shudder as I did then! It was a round, evil face, with a black beard that fell almost to the great chest, and with long, shaggy eyebrows. But it was the eyes that were so terrible, gleaming with the light of the devil. They were the eyes of a madman.
He laughed again, then, and I felt his rank, tobacco-laden breath on my face.
“So!” he cried, “you came at last, eh? But you shall not go, see!” And as he raised his hand I caught the gleam of the knife.
Then I forgot I was weak with rheumatism, forgot the frost demons that held me down, and with a mighty effort tried to rise. The devils that still lurked in my bones growled, and sank their claws afresh in my vitals. I gave a cry, and fainted even as I saw the reflection of the firelight running up and down the knife blade in glittering streaks. But before I went I heard a strange thing, heard it dimly as in a dream.
It was the girl’s Voice, high-strung and poignant, and there was no fear in it, but a gripping something that came from the heart. She was crying out a name, madly, hysterically.
“Jean, Jean!”
That, m’sieu, was all I heard.
III
When I again came to, I was lying on the bunk, as before, and for a moment I thought I must have been dreaming.
Then I saw the pine fire blazing, and noticed the hearth was piled high with sticks, in the manner of a fire stocked to last a long while, and at the side of my bed a small table held food enough for several meals. I also, felt that my face had been freshly treated with grease and bandaged.
I moved cautiously and found that the frost devils had loosened their hold on me and I could use my muscles freely. Soon, I knew, I should be well as ever.
Then, I missed something. It was the howling of the wind wolves outside, and I knew the storm had finished its mad dance and blown its life away.
Then, with a start, I thought of the girl, and the madman, and the glittering knife. I called, but no one answered. Yet I felt there was some presence besides myself in that room.
I raised myself on my elbow and, ah, I shall-never forget what I saw, or the cold fear that ran down my back like an icy finger as I looked.
He lay there on the floor in the center of the cabin, the madman, and his lips were parted, showing his teeth in a hideous snarl. And his eyes, ah, m’sieu, the devil had left them, now they were cold and colorless, like the ice on the frozen, rivers. But what fascinated me was the knife that gleamed—what of it was not buried in his heart, and the blood that was thickened in a little pool at his side.
I got one leg out of the bunk, then the other, and staggered to my feet. For a long while I stared at the horrible thing lying there on the floor, with the hideous snarl frozen on the lips, then again I thought of the girl. I stumbled to the door and threw it open. For a moment I saw only the great snow field that stretched off to the horizon, dazzling white in the sunlight. Then I saw something else.
M’sieu, what I am going to tell you may sound strange, but I swear by the saints it is true.
You may say that providence does not bring about such coincidences as to lead a heart-broken lover, wandering over the northland, to a hidden cabin on a stormy night just in time to—ah, say what you will, m’sieu, I swear it is true, that there, streaking off across the white plain, like twin threads, I saw two trails, a man’s and a woman’s, that spun away toward the south, where they merged with the horizon haze in the distance.
There is little else to tell. My strength came back quickly, as it does to us who live outdoors, and so soon as I was strong enough I dug a grave back of the cabin, and there I buried the madman, with the hideous snarl frozen on his lips.
The second day I packed provisions and followed the two trails that spun away toward the south. And so treacherous was the country that I had gone but a few miles until, looking back, I was sure I should not be able to again find the hidden creek, were the trails obliterated. Lost Creek, the girl called it, and it was well named. Nevertheless, I carried with me the knife I had drawn from the madman’s heart, and which I had seen was not his Own. Three days later I threw it through an airhole into the racing Asthasbasca, where the two trails I had followed ended on the clear ice of the wind-swept river. Then, with my Sense of direction restored, I turned toward my own country.
That, m’sieu, is all I know of the matter.
y
I
His name was Joe Cragen. His family were poor but respectable. Old man Cragen was a law-abiding citizen and Mother Cragen a benevolent, white-haired woman whose fondest recollections were of the County Mayo.
Environment played a large role in the drama of Joe Cragen. His family lived on Tenth Avenue and before he was in long trousers he was running with a gang of pickpockets. Before he was nineteen Cragen was Shorty McCabe’s first lieutenant. When a cop cut short the career of the McCabe with a half inch of lead, leadership of the dreaded Power House gang was Cragen’s by right of inheritance. It was then that he became a Guerilla.
Under his aggressive guidance the Power House band flourished and grew opulent. The strip of territory they commanded adjoined the waterfront of the Hudson River and existed in a state of terror. Timid citizens shunned it with a shudder; the policeman that patroled it walked in the center of the streets, directing cautious glances at the housetops. When gang fights were, in progress the quarter huddled in cellars, but battles were few. The Power House gang was seldom attacked.
So long as Joe Cragen kept to his own district all went well. For a year he sat on the throne of the Power House band and ruled with a mailed fist. But there fell an evil day when in a bandit taxi he ventured into lower Manhattan. He had made plans to stick-up the paying teller of an east side bank. The plot worked easily, but the nerve of the bank employee had not been considered. In the pistol duel that resulted, Cragen feinted the teller out into the open, braved the man’s fusillade, shot him four times from the doorway, leaped back into the pirate taxi and vanished.
The same night Cragen crept through the meshes of far-flung police nets arid “rode the cushions” to Chicago, leaving the Power House gang to be broken up by the police.
II
On an August night four years after the bank stick-up, and the flight of Cragen, a lean, gray-haired individual in a rusty blue serge suit, cracked shoes and greasy.cap entered Wolger’s West Street hotel, crossed the uncarpeted lobby floor and moved to the desk that Abraham Wolger presided over, where he spoke briefly.
“How much for a flop?”
Wolger pulled the glasses up on his curved nose, rubbed a hairy ear and after plumbing his inquisitor with a long stare frowned thoughtfully.
“A quarter for the night,” he replied slowly.