The Trail Of The Axe Part 40

"The cowards!" she cried.

The man only laughed.

CHAPTER XXIII

THE RED TIDE OF ANARCHY

Betty and her uncle spent the next few hours in preparing for eventualities. They explored the storeroom and armory, and in the latter they found ample provision for a stout defense. There were firearms in plenty, and such a supply of ammunition as should be sufficient to withstand a siege. The store of dynamite gave them some anxiety. It was dangerous where it was, in case of open warfare, but it would be still more dangerous in the hands of the strikers. Eventually they concealed it well under a pile of other stores in the hopes, in case of accident, it might remain undiscovered.

During their preparations several more stones crashed against the walls and the door of the building. They were hurled at longish intervals, and seemed to be the work of one person. Then, finally no more were thrown, and futile as the attack had been, its cessation brought a certain relief and ease of mind. To the man it suggested the work of some drunken lumber-jack--perhaps the man who had been so forcibly rebuffed by Betty earlier in the evening.

It was one o'clock when Chepstow took a final look round his barricades. Betty was sitting at the table with a fine array of firearms spread out before her. She had just finished loading the last one when her uncle came to her side. She looked up at him with quiet amus.e.m.e.nt in her eyes.

"I was wondering," she said, with just a suspicion of satire in her manner, "whether we are in a state of siege, or--panic?"

But her uncle's sense of humor was lacking at the moment. He saw only the gravity of his responsibility.

"You'd best get to bed," he said a little severely. "I shall sit up.

You must get all the rest you can. We do not know what may be in store for us."

Betty promptly fell in with his mood.

"But the sick?" she said. "We must visit them to-morrow. We cannot let them suffer."

"No. We must wait and see what to-morrow brings forth. In the meantime----"

He broke off, listening. Betty too had suddenly turned her eyes upon the barred door. There was a long pause, during which the murmur of many voices reached them, and the faint but distinct sound of tramping feet. The man's eyes grew anxious, his lean face was set and hard. It was easy enough to read his thoughts. He was weighing the possibilities of collision with these strikers, and calculating the chances in his favor. Betty seemed less disturbed. Her eyes were steady and interested rather than alarmed.

"There's a crowd of them," said her uncle in a hushed voice.

The girl listened for something which perhaps her uncle had forgotten.

Sober, she did not expect much trouble from these people. If they had been drinking it would be different.

The voices grew louder. The shuffling, clumping footsteps grew louder.

They drew near. They were within a few yards of the building. Finally they stopped just outside the door. Instantly there was a loud hammering upon it, and a harsh demand for admittance.

Neither stirred.

"Open the door!" roared the voice, and the cry was taken up by others until it grew into a perfect babel of shouting and cursing.

Betty moved to her uncle's side and laid a hand upon his arm. She looked up into his face and saw the storm-clouds of his anger gathering there.

"We shall have to open it, uncle," she said. "That's--that's Tim Canfield's voice."

He looked down into her eager young face. He saw no fear there. He feared, but not for himself: it was of her he was thinking. He wanted to open the door. He wanted to vent his anger in scathing defiance, but he was thinking of the girl in his charge. He was her sole protection.

He knew, only too well, what "strike" meant to these men. It meant the turning of their savage pa.s.sions loose upon brains all too untutored to afford them a semblance of control. Then there was the drink, and drink meant--

The clamor at the door was becoming terrific. He stirred, and, walking swiftly across the room, put his mouth to the jamb.

"What do you want?" he shouted angrily. "What right have you to come here disturbing us at such an hour?"

Instantly the noise dropped. Then he heard Tim's voice repeating his words to the crowd, and they were greeted with a laugh that had in it a note of rebellion.

The laugh died out as the spokesman turned again to the door.

"Open this gorl-durned door, or we'll bust it in!" he shouted. And a chorus of "Break it in!" was taken up by the crowd.

The parson's anger leapt. His keen nerves were on edge in a moment.

Even Betty's gentle eyes kindled. He turned to her, his eyes blazing.

"Hand me a couple of guns!" he cried, in a voice that reached the men outside. "Get hold of a couple yourself! If there's to be trouble we'll take a hand!" Then he turned to the door, and his voice was thrilling with "fight." "I'll open the door to no one till I know what you want!"

he shouted furiously. "Beat the door in! I warn you those who step inside will get it good and plenty! Beat away!"

His words had instant effect. For several seconds there was not a sound on the other side of the door. Then some one muttered something, and instantly the crowd took up a fierce cry, urging their leaders on.

But the men in front were not to be rushed into a reckless a.s.sault, and a fierce altercation ensued. Finally silence was restored, and Tim Canfield spoke again, but there was a conciliatory note in his voice this time.

"You ken open it, pa.s.son," he said. "We're talkin' fair. We ain't nuthin' up agin you. We're astin' you to help us out some. Ef you open that door, me an' Mike Duggan'll step in, an' no one else. We'll tell you what's doin'. Ther' don't need be no shootin' to this racket."

The churchman considered. The position was awkward. His anger was melting, but he knew that, for the moment, he had the whip hand.

However, he also knew if he didn't open the door, ultimately force would certainly be used. These were not the men to be scared easily.

But Betty was in his thoughts, and finally it was Betty who decided for him.

"Open it," she whispered. "It's our best course. I don't think they mean any harm--yet."

The man reluctantly obeyed, but only after some moments' hesitation. He withdrew the bars, and as the girl moved away beyond the stove, and sat down to her sewing, he stepped aside, covering the doorway with his two revolvers.

"Only two of you!" he cried, as the door swung open.

The two men came in and, turning quickly, shut the rest of the crowd out and rebarred the door.

Then they confronted the churchman's two guns. There was something tremendously compelling in Chepstow's att.i.tude and the light of battle that shone in his eyes. He meant business, and they knew it. Their respect for him rose, and they watched him warily until presently he lowered the guns to his side.

He eyed them severely. They were men he knew, men who were real lumber-jacks, matured in the long service of Dave's mills, men who should have known better. They were powerfully built and grizzled, with faces and eyes as hard as their tremendous muscles. He knew the type well. It was the type he had always admired, and a type, once they were on the wrong path, he knew could be very, very dangerous.

"Well, boys," he demanded, in a more moderate tone, yet holding them with the severity of his expression. "What's all this bother about?

What do you mean by this intolerable--bulldozing?"

The men suddenly discovered Betty at the far side of the stove. Her att.i.tude was one of preoccupation in her sewing. It was pretense, but it looked natural. They abruptly pulled off their caps, and for the moment, seemed half abashed. But it was only for the moment. The next, Canfield turned on the churchman coldly.

"You're actin' kind o' foolish, pa.s.son," he said. "It ain't no use talkin' gun-play when ther' ain't no need whatever. It's like to make things ridic'lous awkward, an' set the boys sore. We come along here peaceful to talk you fair----"

"So you bring an army," broke in Chepstow, impatiently, "after holding a meeting at the store, and considering the advisability of making prisoners of my niece and me."

"Who said?" demanded Tim fiercely.