Читать книгу: «The Web of the Golden Spider», страница 16

“Your father?”

“Quick! We are sinking!”

He let go. The Priest sprang to his feet. The canoe had gone and the loosely constructed raft was settling as timber after timber freed itself. Sorez, himself again, saw this. Without a word he shoved once more,–this time himself alone. He went down and the raft floated. He had kept his word after all; he had given the girl her father.

CHAPTER XXVI
A Lucky Bad Shot

As soon as they recovered sufficient strength to desire anything more of life than rest for their bruised and weary bodies, Wilson assumed command of the situation. He saw nothing but a straight path to the girl.

“We must get down to the lake,” he said firmly. “Get down there and find Sorez. If the natives are up in arms, I want to be near the girl. I’m going to take her out of here. If the others refuse to join us, we’ll take her alone and make a dash for it.”

“We oughter get our provisions first,” suggested Stubbs.

“No–what strength we have left is for her.”

“We’ll have twice as much with grub.”

“And we’ll have less time.”

Wilson’s jaw was set. To go down the mountain and back would take at least four hours and leave them even nearer dead than they were at present. Aside from that, the desire to see the girl had become an obsession. He was no longer amenable to reason. He felt the power to dominate. In the last two days he had learned that there are at least two essential things in life–two things a man has a right to take where he finds them–love and water. The two lay at his feet now and he would wait no longer. His heart burned with as hot a thirst as his throat. Neither Sorez nor gold nor all the brown men in the universe should balk him of them longer.

Leaning forward he gripped the arm of his comrade with a strength the latter had not thought within him.

“Old man,” he said with a new ring in his voice, “you must follow me the rest of this journey. I’ve got down to one thing now–just one thing. I’m going to find this girl–I’m going to take her into these two arms–and I’m going to carry her out of here and never let her go. Do you understand? And there isn’t gold enough, nor men enough, nor heathen images enough in the world to stop me now. We’re going back, Stubbs–the girl and I–we’re going back, and God help those who get in our way.”

At first Stubbs thought this was the fever, but as he looked at the tense face, the locked jaw, the burning eyes, he saw it was only a man in earnest. Some spark within his own breast warmed to life before this passion. He put out his hand.

“An’ I signs with you right here.”

“I’ve turned aside for things all I’m going to,” ran on Wilson, excitedly. “Now I’m going over them. I’m going straight–I’m going hard–and I’m not going to turn my back on her again for a second. Do you understand, Stubbs? She’s mine and I’m going to take her.”

“You won’t have to take her, if you feel that way,” answered Stubbs.

“What d’ you mean?”

“She’ll go, boy–she’ll go through Hell with you with thet look in your eyes.”

“Then come on,” shouted Wilson, with quite unnecessary fierceness. “I’m going to pull out of this heathen web.”

The two men rose to their tired feet, every muscle protesting, and before dark Stubbs learned how little the body counts, how little anything counts, before the will of a man who has focused the might of his soul upon a single thing. They moved down ever towards the blue lake which blinked back at the sun like a blue-eyed babe. Their rifles pressed upon their shoulders like bars of lead; their heavy feet were numb; their eyes bulged from their heads with the strain of keeping them open. Of the long, bitter struggle, it is enough to say that it was a sheer victory over the impossible. Each mile was a blank, yet they pressed forward, Wilson ever in the lead, Stubbs ever plodding behind. It was almost as though they were automatons galvanized by some higher intelligence, for their own had become numbed save to the necessity of still dragging their feet ahead. In this way they reached the shores of the lake; in this way they circled it; in this way they neared the hut of Flores. Stumbling along the trail, guided by some instinct, Wilson raised his head at the sight of two figures sitting in the sun by the door of the hut; one was the girl, he saw that clearly enough, for to his own vision it was as the sun breaking through low-hanging clouds; but the other–he motioned Stubbs to halt. The two had made no noise, coming up through the undergrowth from the lake, and were now able to conceal themselves partly behind a sort of high bush. Had those in the hut been alert, the two could not have escaped detection, but so intent they seemed upon their conversation that a dozen men might have approached. Wilson tried to control himself; he wished to make sure. Steadying himself by a grip upon the shoulder of Stubbs, he looked again. Then bending close to his comrade’s ear, he asked him–waiting without drawing breath for reply,–

“Who is it?”

The answer came charged with bitterness,

“The Priest!”

Wilson lowered his rifle. The Priest was sitting some two feet from the girl, against the hut, his head thrown back as though he were trying hard to think. Wilson was a good shot; he had as a boy amused himself by the hour with his small, twenty-two caliber rifle. At this moment, however, his sight was none of the best and his hand anything but steady. Stubbs signaled him to let him try the shot, but Wilson would not trust him. He had no doubt but that the Priest had killed Sorez and was now holding the girl a prisoner, perhaps even anticipating her death. It was his duty, his privilege, to set her free. He fitted the stock of the weapon into his armpit, and raised the barrel. His hand was weak; the gun trembled so that he dared not shoot. Stubbs saw this and, stepping in front of him, motioned him to rest the barrel on his shoulder. With this support he found his aim steadier. He purposely gave a bit of a margin to the right, so that in case of any deflection the error would be away from the girl. He pulled the trigger.

When the wisp of smoke cleared away, Wilson saw that both figures were upon their feet–the girl in the arms of the priest who held her close to him as though to protect her. Their eyes were upon him. The girl stared in terror, then in surprise, and now, struggling free, stood as though looking at an apparition.

Wilson understood nothing of this. His brain was now too slow working to master fresh details. He still grasped nothing but the fact that the girl was there and by her side the man who had proved himself a mortal enemy. He raised his weapon once more.

With a scream the girl ran straight ahead towards him, in line with the astonished man by the hut. As she ran she called,

“David! David! David!”

He heard the call and, dropping the rifle, staggered towards her. He held out his arms to her and she checked her steps, studying his eyes as though to make sure he was sane. He stood motionless but there was a prayer in his silent lips, in his eyes, in his outstretched arms. She took another little step towards him, then, without further hesitation, came to his side and placed her head upon his shoulder. He folded his arms over her heaving shoulders–he rested his cheek upon her black hair–he whispered her name again and again.

So they stood, Stubbs and the Priest both staring at them as at the central figures upon the stage, until she raised her head to look once more into his eyes. He saw her lips within a few inches of his own, but he dared not kiss them yet. It was odd–he had never in his life spoken an audible word of love to her–had never written of love to her–and yet he knew that she knew all that had been unsaid, even as he did. There had never been need of words with them. Love had been developed in the consciousness of each in silence and in loneliness, but had moved to this climax as surely and as inevitably as though foreordained. He had but to look down into her eyes now and all was said; she had but to look into his, even deadened as they were by fatigue, to read all her heart craved. Her breath came in little gasps.

“David–David, you have come for me again!”

“For the last time,” he answered.

“You are never going to let me go again, are you, David?”

“Never,” he answered fiercely.

“Ah! hold me tight, David.”

He drew her more firmly to him.

“Tighter! Tighter!” she whispered.

He crushed her against his pounding heart. He ached with the joy of it. But with the relief from the heavy burden of fear which had for so long weighed him down, nature asserted herself and forced down his leaden eyelids. She felt him sinking in her arms and freed herself. With her hands upon his shoulders she drew back and looked hungrily at him. His sandy hair was tangled and frowsy, his eyes shot with tiny threads of red, his cheeks bronzed and covered with a shaggy light beard. His clothes were tattered, and about his waist there dangled a circle of leather bags. He was an odd enough looking figure. By some strange chance she had never seen him in other than some uncouth garb; drenched with rain, draped in an Oriental lounging robe, with a cartridge belt about his waist, and covered with sweat and powder grime, and now in this.

Both were brought back to the world about them by a shot from Stubbs. He had fired at the Priest and missed. It was as though the man led a charmed life. The girl raised her hand as Stubbs was about to fire again.

“Don’t! Don’t! You are making a terrible mistake. This isn’t the Priest–he is my father.”

The phrase awoke even the sleeping sense of these men.

“Your father!” exclaimed Wilson.

But the man was coming towards them–steadily, and yet as if in a sort of daze.

“What is the meaning of this?” he demanded.

The eyes, the high cheek-bones, the thin lips, were those of the Priest, but the voice was different. It had lost something of its harshness–something, too, of its decisiveness. The girl interrupted,

“This is no time for explanations. Come into the hut. We must rest first.”

She led the way, keeping a tight grip upon Wilson’s arm, steadying him. Stubbs and he whom they had known as the Priest followed.

Within the hut Flores and his wife, still bewildered by the sudden conversion of the Priest from an enemy to a friend (understanding nothing of what had happened), crouched far into the rear overcome with genuine awe and reverence for the guardian of their god in his new character. Threats had driven them to rebellion while kindliness now made of them abject slaves. They stood ready to obey his slightest wish–not with cravenness, but with quick reversion to the faith of their ancestors. But he acted as though he did not see them–as though, in fact, he saw nothing of anything about him save the girl. He followed her with his eyes with almost childlike eagerness and greeted a glance from her with almost pathetic joy. He spoke little, apparently finding difficulty in expressing himself–in forming his scattered thoughts into correct sentences. His whole appearance was that of a man freed after a long imprisonment. The only thing of his present surroundings which he now grasped perfectly was his relationship with the girl. He was reviving old-time joys in his daughter.

But Jo herself, even in the freshness of her happiness over the unexpected success of her long journey, had found an even greater interest in this newer passion. She spread a blanket for Wilson in a corner of the hut and forced him to lie down here and give himself up to sleep. Stubbs sank to the ground in the sun where he stood outside and fell into a stupor.

Hour after hour the girl sat at Wilson’s side as though guarding his rest, and in this gentle task she found a new conception of happiness. Near her, during the long vigil, sat her father, while in and out, softly as two shadows, moved Flores and his wife.

Wilson awoke long before Stubbs and insisted upon getting up. There were many things to be learned and many things to be done. He realized that they were still in the heart of a hostile country and that if they were to get out safely, time could not be wasted in sleep. What part this man whom he still thought of as the Priest would play, he had no idea.

The girl told him as much of the odd story as she had gathered, beginning with her own arrival in the hut. Manning’s memory dated from the blow on the raft. Back of this he skipped an interval of fifteen years. Even there his memory was cloudy. He recalled vaguely having joined an expedition which had for its object prospecting in these mountains, but who the others of the party were he did not know. He remembered hazily the trip over the mountains and a battle with a party of natives. He was injured and after this was sick a long while. As far as he was concerned he had been unconscious ever since that time. Of his recovery, of the strange sequence of events which caused him to take up a life among the Chibcas, who elevated him finally into the position of high priest, of the fanatical devotion to his trust which had driven him across the continent and then across an ocean to recover the image, he recalled nothing. He did not know of the existence of an idol or of any superstition in connection with it.

Wilson, listening, marveled, but he quickly associated this with similar cases of dual identity brought about by brain trouble following an accident to the skull. The psychology of the case, however, did not at present so much interest him as the possible consequences to them all which might follow this dénouement. It instantly occurred to him that it was doubtful if Manning in his present condition was anything but an added menace to the party. A half hour’s questioning convinced Wilson that it was literally true that the last fifteen years were a blank to the man and that his mental condition at present was scarcely superior to that of a child. Consequently, in the event of an attack by the aroused natives either Manning would be thought to have been captured by the party, which would bring down swift vengeance, or he would be thought to have deserted them, which was equally sure to bring about the annihilation of them all. The only thing to do seemed to be to keep the man out of sight as much as possible on the journey and in the event of trouble to hide him altogether. It seemed to him wisest not to allow them to rest even that night but to push on. Flores, eager to do anything for the Priest, agreed to guide them. He aroused Stubbs, and after a good meal the party started and without incident made eight miles before they stopped.

They found a good camping place–a sort of crude cave near a brook and just off the trail. They built a fire and cooked a portion of the leg of mutton which Flores had brought for them before returning. So far they had not caught a glimpse of a native. This fact and the excitement of actually being upon the home path banished them completely from their minds. But that night both men agreed that each had better take his turn at watching.

“I’ll take the first watch,” insisted Wilson to Stubbs. “I wouldn’t trust you to wake me up.”

With a good-natured grin Stubbs submitted and threw his tired body on the turf, making a pillow of the bags of jewels. He slept as heartily as though snug in the bunk of a safe ship. But both the girl and her father refused to take Wilson’s advice and do likewise. Both insisted upon sharing his watch with him. The father sat on the other side of his daughter staring, as though still wondering, into the shadows of the silent wood kingdom about him. He spoke but little and seemed to be still trying to clear his thoughts.

At their backs rose the towering summits which still stood between them and the ocean; above those the stars which from the first had seemed to watch their lives; before them the heavy, silent shadows which bade them be ever alert.

Wilson sat upright with his rifle over his knees. The girl nestled against his shoulder. All was well with the world.

CHAPTER XXVII
Dangerous Shadows

In the narration of what had befallen her while in the care of Sorez, Wilson came to have a new conception of the man. With the exception of the fact that Sorez had considered his own interest alone in bringing the girl down here, and that he had lured her on by what he knew to be a deliberate lie, Sorez had been as kind and as thoughtful of her as her own father could have been. After their imprisonment in Bogova and while in hiding from Wilson he had supplied the girl with the best of nurses and physicians. Furthermore, in order to make what recompense he could to her in case of an accident to him or in the event of the failure of their mission, he had, before leaving Bogova, made his will, bequeathing to her every cent of his real and personal property. The chief item of this was the house in Boston which he had purchased as a home for himself and niece, a few months before the latter’s death. In addition to this he had in the end made the supreme sacrifice–he had given his life.

Sitting there in the starlight she told Wilson these things, with a sob in her voice.

“And so he kept his word after all–didn’t he? He brought me to him.”

The older man by her side looked up at her.

“My daughter,” he murmured. “My daughter.”

She placed her arm over his shoulder scarcely able to believe the good fortune which had at once placed her here between her father and her lover.

“The golden idol did some good after all,” she whispered.

“The idol?” asked her father. “What idol?”

“You remember nothing of an image?” broke in Wilson.

“An image? An idol? I have seen them. I have seen them, but–but I can’t remember where.”

He spoke with a sort of childlike, apologetic whine. Wilson hesitated a moment. He had brought the idol with him after finding it in the hut where Manning had carried it from the raft–apparently unconsciously–and had taken it, fearing to leave it with Flores. He had intended to throw it away in the mountains in some inaccessible place where it could never again curse human lives. This image ought to be final proof as to whether or not Manning could recall anything of his life as a priest of the Sun God or not. If the sight of this failed to arouse his dead memory, then nothing ever could. Of all the things in this life among these mountains no one thing had ever figured so prominently or so vitally in his life as this. About this had centered all his fanatical worship–all his power.

As Wilson rose to get the image from where he had hidden it near Stubbs, the girl seized his arm and, bending far forward, gasped:

“The shadow–did you see it?”

Wilson turned with his weapon cocked.

“Where?” he demanded.

But underneath the trees where she had thought she saw a movement all was quiet again–all was silent. With a laugh at her fears, Wilson secured the image and brought it back. He thrust it towards Manning. It was clearly visible in the moonlight. The girl shrank a little away from it.

“Ugh!” she shuddered. “I don’t like to look at it to-night.”

In the dull silver light it appeared heavier and more somber than in the firelight. It still sat cross-legged with the same cynical smile about its cruel mouth, the same bestial expression about the brow, the same low-burning fires in the spider-like eyes. As Wilson and her father bent over it she turned away her head. Once again she seized Wilson’s arm and bade him look beyond the thicket in front of them.

“I saw something move. I am sure of it.”

“You are a bit nervous, I’m afraid,” he said tenderly. “If only you would lie down for the rest of the night.”

“No, no, David. I am sure this time.”

“Only a shadow. There is a light breeze.”

“I couldn’t see anything but–it didn’t feel like a shadow, David.”

“You felt it? Has the image–” he asked a bit anxiously.

“No–oh, I can’t make you understand, but I’m sure something moved in the bushes.”

“Stay close to me then,” he laughed quietly.

He turned back to Manning who was turning the image over and over in his hands with indifferent interest. To him it was nothing more than a curio–a metal doll. But when he caught the glint of a moonbeam on the jeweled eyes, he bent over it with keener concern. He raised it in his hands and stared steadily back into the cold eyes. This stare soon became fixed and Manning began to grow slightly rigid. Wilson snatched the object from his hands. For a moment the man remained immovable; then he rubbed his hand over his brow, muttering incoherently to himself. This nervous symptom disappeared and Manning apparently instantly forgot the idol again. He called for his daughter. She came closer to his side and he rested his head against her shoulder.

“Dear father,” she murmured affectionately.

“I–I can’t think,” he said.

“Don’t try, Daddy. Wait until we get out of here and you are all well again.”

“If I could reach my ship,” he muttered.

“What ship, Daddy?”

“Why, my own–the ‘Jo Manning.’”

That took her back to the time she was a very little girl. She remembered now that he had named the ship after her,–the last ship which he had sailed out of Newburyport. Poor old daddy! What a different man he was this moment from him who had held her in his arms and kissed her with tears rolling down his bronzed cheeks. It wrenched her heart to watch him sitting there so listlessly–so weakly–so little himself. The fear was growing in her heart that he never would be the same again. Almost–almost it was better to remember him as he was then than to know him as he sat there now. Had it not been for the comfort, for the joy of another order, for the safety she felt in this younger man by her side, her heart would have broken at the sight. If only she could have found him during those few days he was in Boston–when the crystals had first shown him to her–when he must have passed within a few feet of her, it might not then have been so difficult to rouse him. But at that time he would not have known his own.

A bedlam of raucous, clamorous shrieks settling into a crude sort of war cry brought all four of them to their feet. Wilson thrust the girl back of him towards the cave-like formation behind them. This effectually protected them in the rear and partly from two sides. Stubbs swept the bags of jewels into his arms and carried them to one corner of this natural excavation. Then he took his position by the side of Wilson and Manning, who was unarmed. The three waited the approach of the unseen demons. Not a light, not the glint of a weapon could be seen. But before their eyes, in and out among the trees making up the dense growth, shadows flitted back and forth in a sort of ghost dance. In addition to the hoarse shouting, the air was rent from time to time by the sound of a blast as from a large horn.

The effect of this upon Manning, who had been thrust behind them by Wilson, was peculiar. At each blast he threw back his head and sniffed at the air as a war horse does at sound of the bugle. His eyes brightened, his lean frame quivered with emotion, his hands closed into tight knots. The girl, observing this, crept closer to him in alarm. She seized his arm and called to him, but he made no response.

“Father! Father!” she shouted above the din.

He started forward a pace, but she drew him back. Seeing her he came to himself again for a moment. She scarcely knew him; the old look of intensity which strained almost every feature out of the normal had transformed him. He stood now as it were between two personalities. He partially realized this, for he stepped forward behind Wilson and shouted:

“They come! They come! I–I think I can stop them–for a little. If–if I do, don’t delay–don’t wait for me.”

Wilson thought he rambled.

“Do you hear? Quick–tell me?”

“Yes,” shouted Wilson.

The din seemed to be approaching in an ever-narrowing circle. It came from all sides–a noise so deafening, so full of unusual sounds that it was in itself terrifying. Again came the blast, followed by another and another. Manning caught sight of the image upon the ground. It acted like magic. He snatched it up. But the girl, regardless of danger, ran to his side.

“Don’t,” she cried in a panic. “What is the matter, father?”

He looked down at her with eyes which scarcely reflected any recognition.

“Don’t go, father. Don’t you know me? Don’t you know your daughter? See, I am Jo–Jo! Do you understand?”

Even in the midst of this other danger–the noise and imminent peril, the two men heard and turned away their heads at the sight with throats straining with emotion. Manning looked back with hardly a gleam of his true self showing in his eyes. And yet there was something left which made him pause–which in one flash brought him back for a second. He stooped and kissed her. Then he raised himself and facing the two men pointed towards the woods behind them.

“Go,” he commanded.

Another blast and he clutched the idol to his breast. He raised his eyes to the East and the three stood dumbfounded–from his throat there issued a cry so wild, so weird, that it checked their breathing. Instantly following there was silence from the shadows. One, two, three, four seconds passed–still that silence which was nerve-racking in its intensity. Then a cry rang out from among the trees so piercing that the girl put her arm up over her eyes as though to ward off a blow. A hundred forms appeared from the trees. Stubbs and Wilson raised their rifles. But with a sweeping motion back with his hand, the Priest bade the two men pause. He disappeared into the shadows where he was greeted with a sort of pæan of joy. Then silence. Then a few sharp-spoken words. Then silence again.

Wilson, scarcely believing this was not some evil dream, gripped Stubbs’ arm.

“Come,” he gasped. “Let’s get out. This–this is hell.”

He took the half-swooning girl in his arms.

“Get a grip on yourself, Jo–just for a little. We must go–at once.”

“But Daddy–Daddy–”

Wilson closed his eyes as though to shut out the sight he had last seen when looking into the face of that man.

“It is better–as it is.”

Stubbs, still with a care for the jewels, helped Wilson on with his belt and fastened his own into place. He had had a good rest and felt comparatively fresh, but the others tottered as they walked.

Into the dark among the trees they went, following the faint trail which led towards the big mountains which were still a barrier,–on–on–on until the girl dropped in her tracks from exhaustion and Wilson beside her.

For six hours Stubbs maintained a grim watch over the two, his rifle across his knees, hoping against hope for one bit of good luck more–that if so be there was another attack, he might have at least one fair shot at the Priest. Whether the man was the girl’s father or not (and he privately doubted the story) he felt that this was the only thing which would ever take from his mouth the taste of rope.

But he was disappointed. The morning broke fair and peaceful with, so far as they could see, the birds and squirrels the only occupants of this forest besides themselves. In fact, the next three days save for the strain of being constantly alert were a sort of idyl for Wilson and Jo. They had little difficulty in shooting sufficient food for their needs, and water was plentiful. The trail led through a fair land gay, at this time of year, with many flowers.

The girl, to be sure, sobbed at first a good deal in the dark but the two men knew nothing of this. Soon, after the first acute pain of the personal loss, she was able to reason a little with herself. It seemed to her then, remembering how much a child he was when with her and how strong and powerful he looked as he stepped into the woods, that perhaps, after all, he would be happier with his many children than with her. Then always there was the opportunity of coming back to him,–coming under better auspices and with better opportunities for really bringing him to his own. It was this last thought that finally brought her real consolation.

“Perhaps,” she said to Wilson, hesitating a trifle in fear that he might not approve of the suggestion, “perhaps some day we can come back here to him, David.”

“I had thought of it, dear. He saved our lives; if he had remained, not one of us would have got out of here. That in itself is enough to make us everlastingly beholden to him. But–” he paused, “I think, dear heart, that it is kinder to let him remain even among heathen people a strong man with power, than to bring him back, a child, to die.”

“He chose for himself, David.”

“Yes–and was able to realize and be glad that he had been given another chance to do for his daughter.”

The girl thought a moment. Then her face brightened.

“That–that alone makes the trip worth while.”

“That–and this,” he answered, drawing her to his side.

“Yes,” she whispered, “and in a way he gave me you–he gave me you.”