The Mynns' Mystery Part 4

At the end of a few minutes Portway unclosed his eyes and lay staring up at the sky, through the thick, ragged growth which sprang everywhere from the sides of the chasm. Then by degrees he realised that he had escaped, so far, from a terrible death, but it was some time longer before he dared to move.

When he did venture he uttered a cry of agony, and lay perfectly still again, for an acute pain had shot through his side, telling him plainly that he had not escaped free. At last though the cold sweat seemed to dry upon his brow, and he began to look round and upward so as thoroughly to grasp his position.

The side of the gulch projected where he lay, and quite a clump of pines had found sustenance, sufficient to grow into a bushy patch, among whose boughs Portway had fallen, the tops proving sufficiently elastic and dense to break his descent, though he had torn off enough to form quite a bed, upon which he rested.

He listened and looked about him, but he could neither see nor hear anything of his enemy, and at last, with his confidence returning, he drew himself into a sitting posture in spite of the pain, took a flask from his breast, drank a dram of whiskey, and began once more to look around.

His first shuddering gaze was upward, and something like a feeling of satisfaction gave him encouragement to proceed, as he grasped the fact that to climb back was impossible, for if the bear had escaped falling with him, the beast was probably waiting his return.

"No, it must be downward," he muttered; and in spite of his agony, he set about the task of descent, at once finding it less difficult than he had antic.i.p.ated; for the tough roots and bushes, which projected everywhere, gave him foot and hand hold, as he let himself down, lower and lower.

But there was a fresh difficulty awaiting him, for the lower he went the darker it seemed to grow. The sun had sunk behind the mountains, and in half an hour it would be perfectly black where he hung, and any attempt to continue the descent so much madness.

It was, then, with a sense of relief that he reached a sharp slope where, among the bushes and creepers that tangled the side of the gulch, he was able to find a resting-place where there was no danger of falling, and as he lay down here, hot, exhausted, and in pain, he saw the twilight fade into darkness, and thought of the body of his companion lying somewhere above.

A shudder ran through him at the thought--a shudder of dread--but it was only compounded of fear lest he should not have effectually completed his deadly work, and with the full determination of revisiting the spot, so as to secure Harrington's rifle and make perfectly sure of his death, providing he could avoid the bear, he dropped off into a heavy sleep which lasted till the soft grey light was beginning to fill the valley once again.

He was so stiff, and suffered such agony from the injury to his side, that for some time he did not care to stir; but at last, bringing all his energies to bear, he rose carefully, looked round, and began to descend, reaching the bottom with no very great difficulty, and then pausing to consider as to what course he should pursue.

His desire was to make for the camp at once, but he felt that he must see the spot where he had left George Harrington; and to do this he doggedly set forth, making his way to the mouth of the gulch, and then spending half the day in getting round and back to the ledge, along which he and his companion had pa.s.sed the day before.

It was nearly midday when he pa.s.sed the spot where they had lain down and slept, and he would have given anything to have rested, but he contented himself with slaking his thirst at a trickling spring and doggedly went on.

"I must see him, and get his rifle," he muttered, as he trudged on, till at last, peering cautiously about the while, he reached the place where Harrington had stood gazing down, and he had delivered that cowardly blow.

For a moment or two he hesitated and stood panting, with his hand to his side. Then, taking a step forward, he peered down to gaze upon his ghastly work, and stood there, as if fascinated, before he made a terrible effort, and turned and fled.

For there below him, and interposed between him and that he wished to see, was his huge enemy of the previous day, bending down, and evidently licking the rock; till, divining danger, it looked up suddenly, uttered a low fierce growl, and began to climb.

But by the time it reached the rocky path, Dan Portway was out of sight, and he did not pause till he reached the little camp, from which he took the few things he sought, refreshed himself, made ready a pack of necessaries, set fire to the rest, and mounting the horse left hobbled in a gra.s.sy hollow, rode slowly away.

"To seek my fortune," he said with a curious laugh; and then, with bent head and thoughtful brow, he let the reins drop on the horse's neck, took a pin from out of his knife, and began to make experiments by p.r.i.c.king the skin of his wrist till it bled, and rubbing in gunpowder.

"Easy enough," he said, with a laugh. "Now we shall see what change of scene will do. Nothing like a removal when a place grows too hot."

CHAPTER FIVE.

MR HAMPTON IS TOO LATE.

"Old boy asleep, Gertie?"

"Mr Saul, why have you come?" cried the frightened girl.

"Because I wanted to see you again; because I was tired of waiting down in that dreary old dining-room. Why, what a little tease you are."

Gertrude made a step to get on the other side of the bed, so as to place the old man between them; but Saul caught her wrist, and laughingly swung her round.

"Won't do, my coy little beauty," he whispered. "I want to settle that little matter."

"Uncle!"

"Ha!" e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed Saul in a fierce whisper. "Wake him if you dare! If you do I'll swear you asked me to come up and sit with you. Now look here--tell me, Gertie, the old man has left you all his money?"

"No, no, no," she cried eagerly, "nothing at all."

"Don't believe it, darling. Trick to throw me off the scent; but I'm on it safe, and I'm not going to be tricked."

"Then ask uncle when he wakes," cried the girl, flushing up angrily, as she s.n.a.t.c.hed her hand away.

"No, thanks; don't want a bottle or jug thrown at my head. But I don't believe you, you artful little jade. It's all your cunning way to lead me on. He has left you all his money, darling, and you've played your cards splendidly; but it would not make any difference to me if you hadn't a penny. You are going to be my little wife."

"Never!" cried Gertrude, with a hurried glance at the sunken features on the pillow.

They both spoke in a low, quick, subdued whisper, and as if under the influence of the same dread lest the old man should awake.

"Don't talk stuff, my darling. Think of your position."

"I tell you I am penniless," cried Gertrude excitedly, as she felt that Saul's advances were mainly due to his belief in her future wealth.

"All the more need for you to listen to me, darling," whispered Saul, as he threw his arm round the girl's waist, and held her in spite of her struggles. "When the old man dies, if you are as you say, what's to become of you?"

"I shall not tell you," cried Gertrude, striving to escape.

"Then I'll tell you. There's that nice little idea in your head that my beloved cousin--that Yankee vagabond--is coming back to marry you, so that all is to be happy ever after. But suppose he does not come?"

"He will come; your uncle has sent for him."

"Ah, he may have sent, but the fellow may not come. He may be drowned if he did; and even if he does come, that's no reason why he should marry you."

Gertrude, finding her efforts vain, ceased struggling, but stood there, panting heavily, and waiting her opportunity to free herself from the intruder's grasp.

"Better come to an understanding, Gertie, and let's begin to be friends at once. George Harrington must be a Wild West ruffian, not fit to make you a husband, so don't think any more of that. I know, as well as can be, that he will never come back here; and if anything happens to him, as something is sure to happen, seeing what sort of a character he is.

I shall be master here."

"You?" cried Gertrude, with dilating eyes, as she again tried to get free.

"Yes, I; master of the houses, and lands, tenements, messuages, and all the rest of it; above all, my little struggling pet, master of you."

"Ha!"

They both turned sharply, and Saul Harrington started back, for that hoa.r.s.ely-sounding e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.i.o.n came from the bed, and there, with the lamp shining full upon his cavernous eyes, sat the old man, glaring wildly at his nephew, and pointing towards the fireplace with outstretched hand.

"Uncle, dearest," cried Gertrude, running to his side, and clinging to him; but he did not heed her, only remained pointing towards the fireplace.

"Why is he here?" panted the old man.