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Flaming Jewel, The

<h2> Episode Three</h2> <h2>ON STAR PEAK</h2> <h3>I</h3> MIKE CLINCH regarded the jewels taken from José Quintana as legitimate loot acquired in war. He was prepared to kill anybody who attempted to take the gems from him. At the very possibility his ruling passion blazed—his mania to make of Eve Strayer a grand lady. But now, what he had feared for years had happened. Quintana had found him,—Quintana, after all these years, had discovered the identity and dwelling place of the obscure American soldier who had robbed him in the wash-room of a Paris café. And Quintana was now in America, here in this very wilderness, tracking the man who had despoiled him. <hr class="hr2" /> Clinch, in his shirt-sleeves, carrying a rifle, came out on the log veranda and sat down to think it over. He began to realise that he was likely to have trouble with a man as cold-blooded and as dogged as himself. Nor did he doubt that those with Quintana were desperate men. On whom could he count? On nobody unless he paid their hire. None among the lawless men who haunted his backwoods "hotel" at Star Pond would lift a finger to help him. Almost any among them would have robbed him,—murdered him, probably,—if it were known that jewels were hidden in the house. He could not trust Jake Kloon; Leverett was as treacherous as only a born coward can be; Sid Hone, Harvey Chase, Blommers, Byron Hastings,—he knew them all too well to trust them,—a sullen, unscrupulous pack, partly cowardly, always fierce,—as are any creatures that live furtively, feed only by their wits, and slink through life just outside the frontiers of law. And yet, one of this gang had stood by him—Hal Smith—the man he himself had been about to slay. Clinch got up from the bench where he had been sitting and walked down to the pond where Hal Smith sat cleaning trout. "Hal," he said, "I been figuring some. Quintana don't dare call in the constables. I can't afford to. Quintana and I've got to settle this on our own." Smith slit open a ten-inch trout, stripped it, flung the entrails out into the pond, soused the fish in water, and threw it into a milk pan. "Whose jewels were they in the beginning?" he enquired carelessly. "How do I know?" "If you ever found out——" "I don't want to. I got them in the war, anyway. And it don't make no difference how I got 'em; Eve's going to be a lady if I go to the chair for it. So that's that." Smith slit another trout, gutted it, flung away the viscera but laid back the roe. "Shame to take them in October," he remarked, "but people must eat." "Same's me," nodded Clinch; "I don't want to kill no one, but Eve she's gotta be a lady and ride in her own automobile with the proudest." "Does Eve know about the jewels?" Clinch's pale eyes, which had been roving over the wooded shores of Star Pond, reverted to Smith. "I'd cut my throat before I'd tell her," he said softly. "She wouldn't stand for it?" "Hal, when you said to me, 'Eve's a lady, by God!' you swallered the hull pie. That's the answer. A lady don't stand for what you and I don't bother about." "Suppose she learns that you robbed the man who robbed somebody else of these jewels." Clinch's pale eyes were fixed on him: "Only you and me know," he said in his pleasant voice. "Quintana knows. His gang knows." Clinch's smile was terrifying. "I guess she ain't never likely to know nothing, Hal." "What do you purpose to do, Mike?" "Still hunt." "For Quintana?" "I might mistake him for a deer. Them accidents is likely, too." "If Quintana catches you it will go hard with you, Mike." "Sure. I know." "He'll torture you to make you talk." "You think I'd talk, Hal?" Smith looked up into the light-coloured eyes. The pupils were pin points. Then he went on cleaning fish. "Hal?" "What?" "If they get me,—but no matter; they ain't a-going to get me." "Were you going to tell me where those jewels are hidden, Mike?" enquired the young man, still busy with his fish. He did not look around when he spoke. Clinch's murderous gaze was fastened on the back of his head. "Don't go to gettin' too damn nosey, Hal," he said in his always agreeable voice. Smith soused all the fish in water again: "You'd better tell somebody if you go gunning for Quintana." "Did I ask your advice?" "You did not," said the young man, smiling. "All right. Mind your business." Smith got up from the water's edge with his pan of trout: "That's what I shall do, Mike," he said, laughing. "So go on with your private war; it's no button off my pants if Quintana gets you." He went away toward the ice-house with the trout. Eve Strayer, doing chamber work, watched the young man from an upper room. The girl's instinct was to like Smith,—but that very instinct aroused her distrust. What was a man of his breeding and education doing at Clinch's dump? Why was he content to hang around and do chores? A man of his type who has gone crooked enough to stick up a tourist in an automobile nourishes higher—though probably perverted—ambitions than a dollar a day and board. She heard Clinch's light step on the uncarpeted stair; went on making up Smith's bed; and smiled as her step-father came into the room, still carrying his rifle. He had something else in his hand, too,—a flat, thin packet wrapped in heavy paper and sealed all over with black wax. "Girlie," he said, "I want you should do a little errand for me this morning. If you're spry it won't take long—time to go there and get back to help with noon dinner." "Very well, dad." "Go git your pants on, girlie." "You want me to go into the woods?" "I want you to go to the hole in the rocks under Star Peak and lay this packet in the hootch cache." She nodded, tucked in the sheets, smoothed blanket and pillow with deft hands, went out to her own room. Clinch seated himself and turned a blank face to the window. It was a sudden decision. He realised now that he couldn't keep the jewels in his house. War was on with Quintana. The "hotel" would be the goal for Quintana and his gang. And for Smith, too, if ever temptation overpowered him. The house was liable to an attempt at robbery any night, now;—any day, perhaps. It was no place for the packet he had taken from José Quintana. Eve came in wearing grey shirt, breeches, and puttees. Clinch gave her the packet. "What's in it, dad?" she asked smilingly. "Don't you get nosey, girlie. Come here." She went to him. He put his left arm around her. "You like me some, don't you, girlie?" "You know it, dad." "All right. You're all that matters to me ... since your mother went and died ... after a year.... That was crool, girlie. Only a year. Well, I ain't cared none for nobody since—only you, girlie." He touched the packet with his forefinger: "If I step out, that's yours. But I ain't a-going to step out. Put it with the hootch. You know how to move that keystone?" "Yes, dad." "And watch out that no game protector and none of that damn millionaire's wardens see you in the woods. No, nor none o' these here fancy State Troopers. You gotta watch out this time, Eve. It means everything to us—to you, girlie—and to me. Go tip-toe. Lay low, coming and going. Take a rifle." Eve ran to her bed-room and returned with her Winchester and belt. "You shoot to kill," said Clinch grimly, "if anyone wants to stop you. But lay low and you won't need to shoot nobody, girlie. G'wan out the back way; Hal's in the ice house." <h3>II</h3> Slim and straight as a young boy in her grey shirt and breeches, Eve continued on lightly through the woods, her rifle over her shoulder, her eyes of gentian-blue always alert. The morning turned warm; she pulled off her soft felt hat, shook out her clipped curls, stripped open the shirt at her snowy throat where sweat glimmered like melted frost. The forest was lovely in the morning sunlight—lovely and still—save for the blue-jays—for the summer birds had gone and only birds destined to a long Northern winter remained. Now and then, ahead of her, she saw a ruffed grouse wandering in the trail. These, and a single tiny grey bird with a dreary note interminably repeated, were the only living things she saw except here and there a summer-battered butterfly of the Vanessa tribe flitting in some stray sunbeam. The haunting odour of late autumn was in the air—delicately acrid—the scent of frost-killed brake and ripening wild grasses, of brilliant dead leaves and black forest loam pungent with mast from beech and oak. Eve's tread was light on the moist trail; her quick eyes missed nothing—not the dainty imprint of deer, fresh made, nor the sprawling insignia of rambling raccoons—nor the big barred owl huddled on a pine limb overhead, nor, where the swift gravelly reaches of the brook caught sunlight, did she miss the swirl and furrowing and milling of painted trout on the spawning beds. Once she took cover, hearing something stirring; but it was only a yearling buck that came out of the witch-hazel to stare, stamp, then wheel and trot away, displaying the danger signal. In her cartridge-pouch she carried the flat, sealed packet which Clinch had trusted to her. The sack swayed gently as she strode on, slapping her left hip at every step; and always her subconscious mind remained on guard and aware of it; and now and then she dropped her hand to feel of the pouch and strap. The character of the forest was now changing as she advanced. The first tamaracks appeared, slim, silvery trunks, crowned with the gold of autumn foliage, outer sentinels of that vast maze of swamp and stream called Owl Marsh, the stronghold and refuge of forest wild things—sometimes the sanctuary of hunted men. From Star Peak's left flank an icy stream clatters down to the level floor of the woods, here; and it was here that Eve had meant to quench her thirst with a mouthful of sweet water. But as she approached the tiny ford, warily, she saw a saddled horse tied to a sapling and a man seated on a mossy log. The trappings of horse, the grey-green uniform of the man, left no room for speculation; a trooper of the State Constabulary was seated there. His cap was off; his head rested on his palm. Elbow on knee, he sat there gazing at the water—watching the slim fish, perhaps, darting up stream toward their bridal-beds hidden far away at the headwaters. A detour was imperative. The girl, from the shelter of a pine, looked out cautiously at the trooper. The sudden sight of him had merely checked her; now the recognition of his uniform startled her heart out of its tranquil rhythm and set the blood burning in her cheeks. There was a memory of such a man seared into the girl's very soul;—a man whose head and shoulders resembled this man's,—who had the same bright hair, the same slim and powerful body,—and who moved, too, as this young man moved. The trooper stirred, lifted his head to relight his pipe. The girl knew him. Her heart stood still; then heart and blood ran riot and she felt her knees tremble,—felt weak as she rested against the pine's huge trunk and covered her face with unsteady fingers. Until the moment, Eve had never dreamed what the memory of this man really meant to her,—never dreamed that she had capacity for emotion so utterly overwhelming. Even now confusion, shame, fear were paramount. All she wanted was to get away,—get away and still her heart's wild beating,—control the strange tremor that possessed her, recover mind and sense and breath. She drew her hand from her eyes and looked upon the man she had attempted to kill,—upon the young man who had wrestled her off her feet and handcuffed her,—and who had bathed her bleeding mouth with sphagnum,—and who had kissed her hands—— She was trembling so that she became frightened. The racket of the brook in his ears safeguarded her in a measure. She bent over nearly double, her rifle at a trail, and cautiously began the detour. <hr class="hr2" /> When at length the wide circle through the woods had been safely accomplished and Eve was moving out through the thickening ranks of tamarack, her heart, which seemed to suffocate her, quieted; and she leaned against a shoulder of rock, strangely tired. After a while she drew from her pocket his handkerchief, and looked at it. The square of cambric bore his initials, J. S. Blood from her lip remained on it. She had not washed out the spots. She put it to her lips again, mechanically. A faint odour of tobacco still clung to it. By every law of loyalty, pride, self-respect, she should have held this man her enemy. Instead, she held his handkerchief against her lips,—crushed it there suddenly, closing her eyes while the colour surged and surged through her skin from throat to hair. Then, wearily, she lifted her head and looked out into the grey and empty vista of her life, where the dreary years seemed to stretch like milestones away, away into an endless waste. She put the handkerchief into her pocket, shouldered her rifle, moved on without looking about her,—a mistake which only the emotion of the moment could account for in a girl so habituated to caution,—for she had gone only a few rods before a man's strident voice halted her: "Halte là! Crosse en air! " "Drop that rifle!" came another voice from behind her. "You're covered! Throw your gun on the ground!" She stood as though paralysed. To the right and left she heard people trampling through the thicket toward her. "Down with that gun, damn you!" repeated the voice, breathless from running. All around her men came floundering and crashing toward her through the undergrowth. She could see some of them. As she stooped to place her rifle on the dead leaves, she drew the flat packet from her cartridge sack at the same time and slid it deftly under a rotting log. Then, calm but very pale, she stood upright to face events. The first man wore a red and yellow bandanna handkerchief over the lower half of his face, pulled tightly across a bony nose. He held a long pistol nearly parallel to his own body; and when he came up to where she was standing he poked the muzzle into her stomach. She did not flinch; he said nothing; she looked intently into the two ratty eyes fastened on her over the edge of his bandanna. Five other men were surrounding her, but they all wore white masks of vizard shape, revealing chin and mouth. They were different otherwise, also, wearing various sorts and patterns of sport clothes, brand new, and giving them an odd, foreign appearance. What troubled her most was the silence they maintained. The man wearing the bandanna was the only one who seemed at all a familiar figure,—merely, perhaps, because he was American in build, clothing, and movement. He took her by the shoulder, turned her around and gave her a shove forward. She staggered a step or two; he gave her another shove and she comprehended that she was to keep on going. Presently she found herself in a steep, wet deer-trail rising upward through a gully. She knew that runway. It led up Star Peak. Behind her as she climbed she heard the slopping, panting tread of men; her wind was better than theirs; she climbed lithely upward, setting a pace which finally resulted in a violent jerk backward,—a savage, wordless admonition to go more slowly. As she climbed she wondered whether she should have fired an alarm shot on the chance of the State Trooper, Stormont, hearing it. But she had thought only of the packet at the moment of surprise. And now she wondered whether, when freed, she could ever again find that rotting log. Up, up, always up along the wet gully, deep with silt and frost-splintered rock, she toiled, the heavy gasping of men behind her. Twice she was jerked to a halt while her escort rested. Once, without turning, she said unsteadily: "Who are you? What have I done to you?" There was no reply. "What are you going to do to me——" she began again, and was shaken by the shoulder until silent. At last the vast arch of the eastern sky sprang out ahead, where stunted spruces stood out against the sunshine and the intense heat of midday fell upon a bare table-land of rock and moss and fern. As she came out upon the level, the man behind her took both her arms and pulled them back and somebody bandaged her eyes. Then a hand closed on her left arm and, so guided, she stumbled and crept forward across the rocks for a few moments until her guide halted her and forced her into a sitting position on a smooth, flat boulder. She heard the crunching of heavy feet all around her, whispering made hoarse by breath exhausted, movement across rock and scrub, retreating steps. For an interminable time she sat there alone in the hot sun, drenched to the skin in sweat, listening, thinking, striving to find a reason for this lawless outrage. After a long while she heard somebody coming across the rocks, stiffened as she listened with some vague presentiment of evil. Somebody had halted beside her. After a pause she was aware of nimble fingers busy with the bandage over her eyes. At first, when freed, the light blinded her. By degrees she was able to distinguish the rocky crest of Star Peak, with the tops of tall trees appearing level with the rocks from depths below. Then she turned, slowly, and looked at the man who had seated himself beside her. He wore a white mask over a delicate, smoothly shaven face. His soft hat and sporting clothes were dark grey, evidently new. And she noticed his hands—long, elegantly made, smooth, restless, playing with a pencil and some sheets of paper on his knees. As she met his brilliant eyes behind the mask, his delicate, thin lips grew tense in what seemed to be a smile—or a soundless sort of laugh. "Veree happee," he said, "to make the acquaintance. Pardon my unceremony, miss, but onlee necissitee compels. Are you, perhaps, a little rested?" "Yes." "Ah! Then, if you permit, we proceed with affairs of moment. You will be sufficiently kind to write down what I say. Yes?" He placed paper and pencil in Eve's hand. Without demurring or hesitation she made ready to write, her mind groping wildly for the reason of it all. "Write," he said, with his silent laugh which was more like the soundless snarl of a lynx unafraid: "To Mike Clinch, my fathaire, from his child, Eve.... I am hostage, held by José Quintana. Pay what you owe him and I go free. "For each day delay he sends to you one finger which will be severed from my right hand——" Eve's slender fingers trembled; she looked up at the masked man, stared steadily into his brilliant eyes. "Proceed miss, if you are so amiable," he said softly. She wrote on: "—One finger for every day's delay. The whole hand at the week's end. The other hand then, finger by finger. Then, alas! the right foot——" Eve trembled. "Proceed," he said softly. She wrote: "If you agree you shall pay what you owe to José Quintana in this manner: you shall place a stick at the edge of the Star Pond where the Star rivulet flows out. Upon this stick you shall tie a white rag. At the foot of the stick you shall lay the parcel which contains your indebt to José Quintana. "Failing this, by to-night one finger at sunset." The man paused: Eve waited, dumb under the surging confusion in her brain. A sort of incredulous horror benumbed her, through which she still heard and perceived. "Be kind enough to sign it with your name," said the man pleasantly. Eve signed. Then the masked man took the letter, got up, removed his hat. "I am Quintana," he said. "I keep my word. A thousand thanks and apologies, miss. I trust that your detention may be brief and not too disagreeable. I place at your feet my humble respects." He bowed, put on his hat, and walked quickly away. And she saw him descend the rocks to the eastward, where the peak slopes. When Quintana had disappeared behind the summit scrub and rocks, Eve slowly stood up and looked about her at the rocky pulpit so familiar. There was only one way out. Quintana had gone that way. His men no doubt guarded it. Otherwise, sheer precipices confronted her. She walked to the western edge where a sheet of slippery reindeer moss clothed the rock. Below the mountain fell away to the valley where she had been made prisoner. She looked out over the vast panorama of wilderness and mountain, range on range stretching blue to the horizon. She looked down into the depths of the valley where deep under the flaming foliage of October, somewhere, a State Trooper was sitting, cheek on hand, beside a waterfall—or, perhaps, riding slowly through a forest which she might never gaze upon again. There was a noise on the rocks behind her. A masked man came out of the spruce scrub, laid a blanket on the rocks, placed a loaf of bread, some cheese, and a tin pail full of water upon it, motioned her, and went away through the dwarf spruces. Eve walked slowly to the blanket. She drank out of the tin pail. Then she set aside the food, lay down, and buried her quivering face in her arms. <hr class="hr2" /> The sun was half way between zenith and horizon when she heard somebody coming, and rose to a sitting posture. Her visitor was Quintana. He came up to her quite close, stood with glittering eyes intent upon her. After a moment he handed her a letter. She could scarcely unfold it, she trembled so: "Girlie, for God's sake give that packet to Quintana and come on home. I'm near crazy with it all. What the hell's anything worth beside you girlie. I don't give a damn for nothing only you, so come on quick. Dad." <hr class="hr2" /> After a little while she lifted her eyes to Quintana. "So," he said quietly, "you are the little she-fox that has learned tricks already." "What do you mean?" "Where is that packet?" "I haven't it." "Where is it?" She shook her head slightly. "You had a packet," he insisted fiercely. "Look here! Regard!" and he spread out a penciled sheet in Clinch's hand: <div class="blockquot"> "José Quintana: "You win. She's got that stuff with her. Take your damn junk and let my girl go. "Mike Clinch." </div> "Well," said Quintana, a thin, strident edge to his tone. "My father is mistaken. I haven't any packet." The man's visage behind his mask flushed darkly. Without warning or ceremony he caught Eve by the throat and tore open her shirt. Then, hissing and cursing and panting with his own violence, he searched her brutally and without mercy—flung her down and tore off her spiral puttees and even her shoes and stockings, now apparently beside himself with fury, puffing, gasping, always with a fierce, nasal sort of whining undertone like an animal worrying its kill. "Cowardly beast!" she panted, fighting him with all her strength—"filthy, cowardly beast!——" striking at him, wrenching his grasp away, snatching at the disordered clothing half stripped from her. His hunting knife fell clattering and she fought to get it, but he struck her with his open hand, knocking her down at his feet, and stood glaring at her with every tooth bared. "So," he cried, "I give you ten minutes, make up your mind, tell me what you do with that packet." He wiped the blood from his face where she had struck him. "You don't know José Quintana. No! You shall make his acquaintance. Yes!" Eve got up on naked feet, quivering from head to foot, striving to button the grey shirt at her throat. "Where?" he demanded, beside himself. Her mute lips only tightened. "Ver' well, by God!" he cried. "I go make me some fire. You like it, eh? We shall put one toe in the fire until it burn off. Yes? Eh? How you like it? Eh?" The girl's trembling hands continued busy with her clothing. "So!" he said, hoarsely, "you remain dumb! Well, then, in ten minutes you shall talk!" He walked toward her, pushed her savagely aside, and strode on into the spruce thicket. The instant he disappeared Eve caught up the knife he had dropped, knelt down on the blanket and fell to cutting it into strips. The hunting knife was like a razor; the feverish business was accomplished in a few moments, the pieces knotted, the cord strained in a desperate test over her knee. And now she ran to the precipice where, ten feet below, the top of a great pine protruded from the gulf. On the edge of the abyss was a spruce root. It looked dead, wedged deep between two rocks; but with all her strength she could not pull it out. Sobbing, breathless, she tied her blanket rope to this, threw the other end over the cliff's edge, and, not giving herself time to think, lay flat, grasped the knotted line, swung off. Knot by knot she went down. Half-way her naked feet brushed the needles. She looked over her shoulder, behind and down. Then, teeth clenched, she lowered herself steadily as she had learned to do in the school gymnasium, down, down, until her legs came astride of a pine limb. It bent, swayed, gave with her, letting her sag to a larger limb below. This she clasped, letting go her rope. Already, from the mountain's rocky crest above, she heard excited cries. Once, on her breakneck descent, she looked up through the foliage of the pine; and she saw, far up against the sky, a white-masked face looking over the edge of the precipice. But if it were Quintana or another of his people she could not tell. And, again looking down, she began again the terrible descent. <hr class="hr2" /> An hour later, Trooper Stormont of the State Constabulary, sat his horse in amazement to see a ragged, breathless, boyish figure speeding toward him among the tamaracks, her naked feet splashing through pool and mire and sphagnum. "Good heavens!" he exclaimed as she flung herself against his stirrup, sobbing, hysterical, and clinging to his knee. "Take me back," she stammered, "—take me back to daddy! I can't—go on—another step——" He leaned down, swung her up to his saddle in front, holding her cradled in his arms. "Lie still," he said coolly; "you're all right now." For another second he sat looking down at her, at the dishevelled hair, the gasping mouth,—at the rags clothing her, and at the flat packet clasped convulsively to her breast. Then he spoke in a low voice to his horse, guiding left with one knee. <hr /> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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