Golden Face: A Tale of the Wild West

And what a howl of rage and consternation rent the air! They had not bargained for this, for they believed the fugitive to be unarmed. Panic-stricken for the moment, they halted, then some of them dashed off to the succour of their leader. But they need not have done so. The bullet had sped true. The young partisan had shouted his last war-whoop.

Profiting by this temporary check, the hunted man had again sprung on the back of his horse. Lame or not, the animal must carry him further yet. On – on. The forest belt was gained. He plunged beneath its shadows, only to find it was mere straggling timber – not thick enough for hiding purposes. The frosty air cut his face and the leaves crackled crisply under his horse’s hoofs. He drew his knife and pricked the poor brute furiously in the hinder quarters. The fierce yells of the savages drawing nearer and nearer told only too plainly that they had no intention of relinquishing the pursuit, and the horse was beginning to go dead lame.

“Cau – aak!”

He glanced involuntarily upward. A huge raven disturbed on its roost flapped away in alarm. But another sight met his eye. Extending horizontally from two sturdy limbs of a Cottonwood tree, cleaving the wintry sky, was a long dark object. Vipan recognised one of those platforms on which the Indians deposit their dead – like Mohammed’s coffin, midway between earth and heaven.

His mind was made up in a flash. Checking his horse he dismounted, and tearing a bunch of thorns from a bush, proceeded deliberately to insert them beneath the poor animal’s tail. Then, as the horse galloped off in a perfect frenzy of pain and terror, he slipped up the tree and gained the burial platform, literally flattening himself against its ghastly burden. It was a hideous alternative.

Scarcely had he gained this gruesome refuge than the pursuers passed beneath. They were barely fifteen feet below him as he lay flattened there, not even daring to breathe as the savages swept by, guided by the frenzied gallop which, seeming to have gained redoubled speed, they could hear still ahead of them. It was a desperate expedient, but it had answered so far.

“Cau – aak! Cau – aak!”

Like an evil spirit let loose beneath the frosty heavens came the black swoop of the raven he had disturbed, and the hunted man saw it with a cold shiver. He dared not even turn his head. The warriors might return at any moment from their fool’s errand, and then even a breath might seal his fate. A strong shudder of disgust ran through his frame. The hideous croak of the ill-omened bird brought back vividly that other scene – the two grinning blood-stained skulls lying there in the dark forest by Burntwood Creek, and the startling challenge of their would-be avenger. Involuntarily he turned his head, and a revulsion of horror caused him to shrink back in spite of himself, and nearly to fall from his precarious resting-place. For within six inches of his face his glance lighted upon a fearful sight. A human countenance scowled upon him – but such a face. From the blackened and mummified skin drawn tightly over the protruding bones, the glazed eyes seemed to glare anew with menace and hate towards the violator of their resting-place. Shadowy yet distinct in the light of the new moon this horrible countenance, peering as it were from the fantastic cerements of barbarous sepulture, was enough to unhinge the stoutest nerves. A grisly skeleton-claw raised in mid-air, as though about to grapple with the impious intruder, completed the horror, while overhead, like the fierce spirit of the departed warrior yet hovering around its decaying tenement, the grim raven flapped in circles, emitting its gruesome croak.

“Pooh!” said the fugitive to himself, making a strong effort to overcome his not unnatural horror. “Pooh! While the country’s swarming with live redskins hunting for my scalp, am I going to be scared by one dead one? Not much – not much!”

An hour wore on – then two. Wolves howled dismally over the midnight waste, and still that grisly countenance glared menacingly in the moonlight – and still they lay side by side, the dust of the half-forgotten dead, and the living, breathing, vigorous frame – welded together in that weird partnership – its object the saving of a life.

Thus they lay, side by side – the dead warrior preserving the life of the hereditary enemy of his race.

Chapter Thirty Eight

Another Bomb for the Rev. Dudley

Once more we must peep into the library at Lant Hall.

Mr Vallance sat in his accustomed chair, thinking. His gaze would wander from the window to the blazing fire and back again, and the frown of anxiety deepened on his features. Without, the wind howled shrilly through the bare boughs, and a few scattered flakes of snow whirled in the air.

“Why did we ever let him go?” he exclaimed aloud. “Why did we ever let him go?”

Even as when last we saw him, Mr Vallance was terribly anxious on behalf of his son. His former misgivings had been allayed by the subsequent receipt of a letter from Geoffry; which missive, however, had given him to understand that it was the last the writer would have an opportunity of sending for some time – in fact, until he should be on his way home again. Characteristically, too, this letter contained only vague and general information that the writer had fallen in with and joined Winthrop’s outfit; and of his meeting with Yseulte Santorex, not a word. It was of no use worrying about the matter, decided the Rev. Dudley. Any post might now bring intelligence that the boy was on his way home. It was poor comfort, and again he found himself repeating:

“Why did we ever allow him to go?”

Of the other affair which had so sorely troubled him – his cousin’s unexpected and preposterous claim – he had heard no more. His apprehensions first were lulled, then subsided altogether. The whole business was palpably a “try on.”

A sound of subdued voices outside, then a knock.

“A gentleman wishes to see you, sir.”

In his then frame of mind, Mr Vallance could not but feel startled by the interruption.

“Who is he, James?” he asked, quickly.

“He wouldn’t give his name, sir. He said as how you’d be sure to see him, sir.”

“Quite right, quite right,” said a deep voice, whose owner entered behind the astonished flunkey. “Er – How do, Dudley!”

If Mr Vallance had been startled before, the expression of his features now betokened a state of mind little short of scare. His face had turned as white as a sheet, and his jaw fell as he stood helplessly staring at his visitor.

“Why – bless my soul – Ralph,” he stammered. Then advancing with outstretched hand, “Why – Ralph – I’m – I’m glad to see you. I hope you have come to stay with us for a time.”

The visitor’s reception of this friendly – this hospitable overture, was singular. Standing bolt upright, he deliberately put his hand behind his back.

“Glad to see me!” he echoed, with a sneer. “No, you are not. Why tell a – tarra-diddle. Such a tarra-diddle, too – and you a preacher – er – I beg your pardon – a priest, it used to be, if I remember right. You would sooner see the devil himself at this moment than me.”

Under the sting of this reply, the parson recovered a certain amount of dignity.

“Really,” he said, stiffly, “your behaviour is strange, to put it mildly. May I ask, then, the object of your intru – your visit.”

“Certainly, if it affords you any satisfaction.” Then glancing around the room, and finishing up with a look out of the window, he went on. “Say, cousin Dudley, this is a pretty shebang enough. The object of my visit is this: You’ve bossed up this show about long enough. Suppose you abdicate now and let me have a turn?”

“Have you taken leave of your senses?”

“Not much. Have you?”

There was a sternness about the speaker’s laconic reply which caused Mr Vallance to quail involuntarily. He made a step towards the bell-pull. The other laughed.

“No, no. Don’t exert yourself. I’m not going yet – and if you bring in all the pap-fed flunkeys and swipe-guzzling stable-hands on your establishment, the poor devils’ll only get badly hurt without furthering your object. I mean what I say – you’ve got to quit sooner or later. If you’re wise it’ll be sooner.”

“Indeed! And why?” was the answer, given with cutting politeness.

“Well, it’s this way. If you agree to clear at once, I’ll give you five hundred a year – no, I’ll make it six – out of the property for your life. That and the parsonic pickings will keep you in clover. If you mean fighting, I’m your man. But I warn you I’m prepared to plank down ever so many thousands of pounds to get you out – and when I’ve got you out I’ll come down on you for every shilling of arrears, by George, I will!”

“Oh, you will?”

“You may bet your life on it.”

For some moments the two men looked full in each other’s faces without speaking. The sneer of conscious power on that of the one was matched by the expression of defiance, hatred, mingled with fear, on that of the other.

“Well, well,” said Mr Vallance at length. “Take your own course. Only, let me remind you that you are in England now, and that in this country we don’t settle important matters in any such rough and ready fashion.”

“Oh don’t make any mistake; I’m not going to hurt you, if that’s what you’re thinking about. You see, I’ve been knocking around a goodish few years, and now I’ve a fancy for settling down – settling down in my own place, you understand.”

There was a smug smile of triumph on the parson’s face now. His cousin was merely “bouncing” to extort terms. It would come to that in a few minutes. But the look aroused a very demon in the other. His eyes burned like live coals, though when he spoke his voice was under perfect control.

“Again, I say, you needn’t be afraid,” he said. “Everything shall be done in due course of law.”

“But – but, my good fellow, surely you are aware you haven’t a leg to stand on?”

“I reckon I’m the best judge of that. See here, most reverend Dudley. Do you remember our last interview, here, in this very room? Safe in the triumph of your successful fraud – fraud, I say, if you prefer it, forgery – you jeered at me, jeered at the man you had robbed. Remember?”

“‘Fraud!’ ‘Robbed!’” sputtered the parson, trying to lash himself into anger to drown the sinking sense that had come over him. “Do you know, sir, that you are using actionable words?”

“Ah, ah! History repeats itself. That is precisely as you spoke on the former occasion, friend Dudley. I will say it again, call in witnesses if you like. Having defrauded and robbed me of my patrimony by lies and intriguing, and worse – you, a preacher of the Gospel, a teacher of Christian morality – you threatened me with the law. You made your lawyers write to threaten me with an action for libel if I dared so much as venture an opinion on your behaviour. Do you remember my words to you as I left this room?”

Well, indeed, did he remember. And now at the sight of the deadly wrath on this man’s features, all the more terrible because so completely held in hand – of the towering form with its back just half a yard from the door, precluding alike entrance or exit – again Mr Vallance could not restrain a shiver of physical fear.