The Crimson Gardenia and Other Tales of Adventure Part 37

McGill moistened his lips and, thanking his informant, said, "Now you'd better hustle back to camp; we're due for a storm."

It was still early afternoon when he walked swiftly out of the gulch and into the straggling little town. On his way down from the claim the blizzard had broken, or so it seemed, for the narrow valley had suddenly become filled with a whirling smother through which he burst like a s.h.i.+p through a fog. When he emerged upon the flats he saw that it was no more than a squall and the wind was abating again.

His moccasins made no sound as he came up to his own house, and the first inkling of his presence that the two inside received was when the door opened and he stood before them. Something in his bearing caused his wife to clutch at the table for support, and Barclay to retreat with his back to the opposite wall, his hand inside his coat.

McGill never carried a weapon, having yet to feel the need of one. He spoke now in a harsh, cracked voice. "Take your hand off that gun, Barclay."

[Ill.u.s.tration: "Take your hand off that gun, Barclay."]

"What's the matter with you?" the younger man questioned.

Mrs. McGill's eyes were wide with terror, her frame racked by apprehension, when her husband turned upon her and asked:

"Is it true? Do you love--him?" He jerked his head in Barclay's direction. "Answer me!" he rumbled, savagely, as she hesitated.

Her lips moved, and she nodded without removing her gaze from him.

"How long have you loved him?"

When she still could not master herself, he softened his voice: "You needn't be scared, Alice. I couldn't hurt _you_."

"A long--time," she said, finally.

McGill leveled a look at the other man.

"That's right," Barclay agreed. "You might as well know."

"They tell me that you and her had--" McGill ground his teeth, and his little eyes blazed--"that she didn't have no right to marry without--telling me something about you."

The former answered through white lips: "Well? Everybody knew it except you, and you could have found out. I'd have married her sometime, myself, if you hadn't come along."

McGill's fingers opened slowly, at which the woman burst forth:

"No, no! Don't--do that. You can't blame him, Dan. I did it. Don't you understand? _I'm_ the one. I loved him in 'Frisco, long before I saw you, and I've loved him ever since. Take it out on me, if you want to, but don't hurt him."

"I don't reckon I'd have minded it much if I'd known the truth at the start," said McGill. "Most women have made mistakes at one time or another, at least most of those I've known have. No, it ain't that, but you married me knowing that you loved him all the time."

"I tried to quit," cried the wife. "I tried to, but I couldn't."

"And what's the rottenest of all"--McGill's voice was ugly again--"you made him best man at the wedding, or just the same. He stood up with us.

Didn't you, Barclay?"

The wife flung herself into the breach once more with a self-sacrifice that wrenched her husband's heart. "He didn't want to, but I made him. I thought you had money, and I was mad at him for letting me go, so I tried to hurt him. I wanted him to marry me, but he wouldn't, and I took you. When it was over and I saw the kind of man you are I tried to love you--honestly I did, but I couldn't. You're so--I--I couldn't do it, that's all." She broke into a torrent of tears, holding herself on her feet by an effort. Her wretched sobbing was the only sound in the cabin for a time, then Barclay inquired:

"Well, what are you going to do?"

McGill turned to his wife, ignoring Barclay. "I guess I understand things pretty well now, and I'm beginning to see your side. Of course I never aimed to hurt _you_, Alice--I couldn't; but I aimed to kill this man, and I will if he stays here." Over his shoulder he flung out, quickly: "Oh, the gun won't help you none. You've got to go, Barclay."

"I'll go with him," cried Mrs. McGill, desperately. "If he goes, I'll go, too."

"That's exactly what you've got to do. You can't stay here now, neither of you. If he ain't able to take care of you, why, I will as long as I live, but you've both got to go."

"It's the best course under the circ.u.mstances," Barclay agreed, with relief. "We'll take the first boat--"

"You'll go to-day, now," said the husband, grimly, "before I have time to think it over."

"But where?"

"To h.e.l.l! That's where you're headed."

"We can't go afoot," the woman cried in a panic.

"I've got dogs! And don't argue or I'll weaken. I'm letting him go because you seem to need him, Alice. Only remember one thing, both of you--there ain't no town big enough to hold all three of us. Now go, quick, before I change my mind, for if the sun ever goes down on Barclay and me together, so help me G.o.d! it won't rise on both of us. There ain't no place in the world that's big enough for him and me, no place in the world."

McGill stood on the river-bank and watched them vanish into the ghostly curtain that sifted slowly down from the heavens, and when they were finally lost to view he turned back to his empty cabin. Before entering he paused as usual to note the weather--it was a habit. He saw that the sky was strangely leaden and low, and in spite of the fact that the "quick" was falling rapidly, the air was lifeless and close. If McGill was any judge, that squall had been but a warning, and foretold more to follow. He sighed miserably at the thought of the night his wife would have to face.

He cooked his supper mechanically, then sat for hours staring at it. The wind rattling at his door finally roused him to the knowledge that his fire was out and the room chilly. Being unable longer to bear the silence and the mute evidences of her occupation that looked at him from every side, he slipped into his parka and went down to Hopper's place, where there were life and human voices at least.

The night was yelling with a million voices when he stepped out. The bitter wind snapped his fur garment as if to rend it to ribbons, the whirling particles of snow rasped his face like the dry grains from a sand-blast. Boreas had loosed his demons, and they were las.h.i.+ng the night into chaos. McGill felt a sudden tender concern for the woman, a concern so great as almost to destroy his bitterness, but he reflected that he had seen to loading the sled himself, and among the other paraphernalia had included a tent and a stove. Unless Barclay was a fool, therefore, Alice was perfectly safe. There was wood aplenty, and the spruce forests offered shelter from the gale. The thought awakened a memory of those night camps he had made on that dreamlike wedding-journey and brought forth a groan. How old and spiritless he had become; he could scarcely stand against the wind!

Of course the story had gone broadcast, hours before, for other eyes than his had watched the man and woman take the outbound trail that afternoon, so when he came stumbling into Hopper's place a sudden silence fell. He went directly to the bar and called for straight "hootch," to drive the cold from his bones, but, although it warmed his flesh, his soul remained numb and frozen. Inside him was a great aching emptiness that even Hopper's kindly words could not reach.

"Looks like the worst night we've had this year," said the proprietor.

"Better have a drink with me."

McGill's teeth rattled on the gla.s.s when he put it to his lips. "She's gone!" he whispered, staring across the bar, "and I didn't kill him. I couldn't--on her account."

Hopper nodded. "I'm awful sorry it came out this way, Dan."

McGill s.h.i.+vered and drew his head down between his gaunt shoulders.

"Talk to me, will you?" he begged. "I'm hit hard."

His friend did as he was directed, but a few minutes later in the midst of his words the big man interrupted:

"There wasn't room for all of us here," he declared, fiercely. "I told her that, but she wanted him worse than her own life, so I had to give in."

They were still talking at midnight, after all but a few loiterers had gone home, when they heard a man's voice calling from outside. An instant later the front door burst open and a figure appeared; it was Cochrane, the trader from down-river.

"Here! Give me a hand!" he bellowed through his ice-burdened beard, then plunged back into the hurricane to reappear with a woman in his arms.

"I thought I'd never make it," he declared. "There's a man in the sled, too. Get some 'hootch' and send for a doctor, quick."

McGill uttered a cry, while the hand with which he gripped the bar went white at his pressure. "Where did you get them?" he questioned.

"Ten miles below," said Cochrane. "I was camped for the night when their dogs picked up my scent. They were half dead when they got to me, and he was in mighty bad shape, so I came through. I've been five hours on the road."

Two men brought in Barclay, at which McGill flung out a long arm and cried in a loud voice, "Is that man dead?"