At the Crossroads Part 34

"Well, by G.o.d, you _are_ a rotter, Rivers." The lines at which criminals balk are confusing. "And she never guessed?"

"No, she'd never seen Father's writing in letters."

Then Maclin's outraged virtue took a curious turn.

"And you never cared for her after you got her?"

"I might have if she'd been the right sort--but she's as hard as flint, Maclin. A man can't stand her sort and keep his own self-respect."

Maclin indulged in a weak laugh at this and Larry's face burned.

"I might have gone straight if she'd been square, but she wasn't. A man can't put up with her type. And now--well! She ought to pay now."

Maclin was gripping the loose sheets in his fat, greasy hands.

"Hold on there." Larry pointed. "You're getting them creased and dirty!"

Again Maclin laughed.

"I'll leave enough copy," he muttered. Then he fixed his little eyes on his prey while his fat neck wrinkled in the back. His emotion of virtue flickered and died, he was the alert man of business once more.

"I told you after you got out of prison, Rivers, that I'd never stand for any more of that counterfeiting stuff. It's too risky, and the talent can be put to better purpose. I've stood by you, I like you, and I need you. When we all pony up you'll get your share--I mean when we build up the Forest, you'll have a fat berth, but you've got to play a card now for me and play it d.a.m.n quick. Here, take this gem of yours"--he tossed Larry's latest production to him--"and go to your wife to-morrow, and tell her why your old man stood by you; shut her mouth with that choice bit and then tell her--you want the Point!

You've got her cornered, Rivers. She can't escape. If she tries to, hurl Northrup at her."

Larry wiped his lips with his hot hand.

"I haven't quite finished this," he muttered; "it will take a day or two."

"Rivers, if you try any funny work on me----" Maclin looked dangerous.

He felt the fear that comes from not trusting those he must use.

"I'm not going to double-cross you, Maclin."

"Here, take a nifter." Maclin pushed the bottle toward Rivers. "You look all in," he ventured.

"I am, just about."

"Well, after this piece of business, I'll send you off for as long as you want to stay. You need a change."

Larry revived after a moment or two and some colour crept into his cheeks.

"I'm going now," Maclin said, getting up and releasing the tools of Larry's trade. "Better get a good night's rest and be fresh for to-morrow. A day or so won't count, so long as we understand the game.

Good-night!"

Outside in the darkness Maclin stood still and listened. His iron nerves were shaken and he had his moment of far vision. If he succeeded--well! at that thought Maclin felt his blood run riotously in his veins. Glory! Glory! His name ringing out into fame.

But!--the cold sweat broke over the fat man standing in the dark.

Still, he would not have been the man he was if he permitted doubt to linger. He _must_ succeed. Right was back of him; with him. Unyielding Right. It must succeed.

Maclin strode on, picking his way over the ash heaps and broken bottles. A pale moon was trying to make itself evident, but piles of black clouds defeated it at every attempt. The wind was changing.

From afar the chapel bell struck its warning. It rang wildly, gleefully, then sank into silence only to begin once more. Seeking, seeking a quarter in which it might rest.

Maclin, head down, plunged into the night and reached the road to the mines. He saw to it that the road was so bad that no one would use it except from necessity, but he cursed it now. He all but fell several times, he thanked G.o.d--G.o.d indeed!--when the lights of the Cosey Bar came in sight.

He did not often drink of his public whiskey, or drink with his foreigners, but he chose to do so to-night. His men welcomed him thickly--they had been wallowing in beer for hours; the man at the bar drew forth a bottle of whiskey--he knew Maclin rarely drank beer.

An hour later, Maclin, master of the place and the men, was talking slowly, encouragingly, in a tongue that they all understood. Their dull eyes brightened; their heavy faces twitched under excitement that amounted to inspiration. Now and again they raised their mugs aloft and muttered something that sounded strangely like prayer.

Dominated by a man and an emotion they were, not the drudging machines of the mines, but a vital force ready for action.

CHAPTER XIII

Northrup decided to turn back at once to his own place in life after that revealing afternoon with Mary-Clare. He was not in any sense deceived by conditions. He had, after twenty-four hours, been able to cla.s.sify the situation and reduce it to its proper proportions. As it stood, it had, he acknowledged, been saved by the rare and unusual qualities of Mary-Clare. But it could not bear the stress and strain of repeated tests. Unless he meant to be a fool and fill his future with remorse, for he was decent and sane, he could do nothing but go away and let the incidents of King's Forest bear sanctifying fruits, not draughts of wormwood.

Something rather big had happened to him--he must not permit it to become small. He recalled Mary-Clare's words and face and a great tenderness swept over him.

"Poor little girl," he thought, "part of a commonplace, dingy tragedy.

What is there for her? But what could I have done for her, in G.o.d's name, to better her lot? She saw it clear enough."

No, there was nothing to do but turn his back on the whole thing and go home! Shorn of the spiritual and uplifting qualities, the situation was bald and dangerous. He must be practical and wise, but deciding to leave and actually leaving were different matters.

The weather jeered at him by its glorious warmth and colour. It _held_ day after day with occasional sharp storms that ended in greater beauty. The thought of the city made Northrup shudder. He tried to work: it was still warm enough in the deserted chapel to write, but he knew that he was accomplishing nothing. There was a gap in the story--the woman part. Every time Northrup came to that he felt as if he were laying a wet cloth over the soft clay until he had time finally to mould it. And he kept from any chance of meeting Mary-Clare.

"I'll wait until this marvellous spell of weather breaks," he compromised with his lesser--or better--self. "Then I'll beat it!"

Looking to this he asked Uncle Peter what the chances were of a cold spell.

"There was a time"--Peter sniffed the air. He was husking golden corn by the kitchen fire--"when I could calculate about the weather, but since the weather man has got to meddling he's messed things considerable. He's put in the Middle States, and what-not, until it's like doing subtraction and division--and by that time the change of weather is on you."

Northrup laughed.

"Well," he said, getting up and stretching, "I think I'll take a turn before I go to bed. Bank the fire, Uncle Peter; I may prowl late."

Heathcote asked no questions, but those prowls of Northrup's were putting his simple faith to severe tests. Peter was above gossip, but when it swirled too near him he was bound to watch out.

"All right, son," he muttered, and ran his hand through his bristling hair.

The night was a dark one. A soft darkness it was, that held no wind and only a hint of frost. Stepping quickly along the edge of the lake, Northrup felt that he was being absorbed by the still shadows and the sensation pleased and comforted him. He was not aware of thought, but thought was taking him into control, as the night was. There would be moments of seeming blank and then a conclusion! A vivid, final conclusion. Of course Mary-Clare occupied these moments of seeming mental inaction. Northrup now wanted to set her free from--what?

"That young beast of a husband!" So much for that conclusion. If the end had come between him and Mary-Clare, Northrup wondered if he could free her from Rivers.

"What for?"

This brought a hurtling ma.s.s of conclusions.