The Collected Works of James Oliver Curwood (Illustrated Edition). James Oliver Curwood
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in front of them, on the lower floor, stood the Mormon king, and at his side, partly held in the embrace of one of his arms was Winnsome!
Strang's voice came to him in a low, solemn monotone, its rumbling depth drowning the words he was speaking, and as Nathaniel saw him lift his arm from about the girl's shoulders and place his great hand upon her head he dug his own fingers fiercely into the rotting logs and an imprecation burned in his breath. He did not need to hear what the king was saying. It was a pantomime in which every gesture was understandable. But even Neil, huddled against the wall, heard the last words of the prophet as they thundered forth in sudden passion.
"Winnsome Croche demands the death of her father's murderer!"
Nathaniel felt his companion's shoulders sinking under his weight and he leaped quickly to the floor.
"Winnsome is there!" he panted desperately. "Do you want to see her?"
Neil hesitated.
"No. Your boots gouge my shoulder. Take them off."
The scene had changed when Nathaniel took his position again. The jury had left its platform and was filing through a small door. Winnsome and the king were along.
The girl had turned from him. She was deathly pale and yet she was wondrously beautiful, so beautiful that Nathaniel's breath came in quick dread as the king approached her. He could see the triumph in his eyes, a terrible eagerness in his face. He seized Winnsome's hand and spoke to her in a soft, low voice, so low that it came to Nathaniel only in a murmur. Then, in a moment, he began stroking the shimmering glory of her hair, caressing the silken curls between his fingers until the blood seemed as if it must burst, like hot sweat from Nathaniel's face. Suddenly Winnsome drew back from him, the pallor gone from her face, her eyes blazing like angry stars. She had retreated but a step when the prophet sprang to her and caught her in his arms, straining her to him until the scream on her lips was choked to a gasping cry. In answer to that cry a yell of rage hurled itself from Nathaniel's throat.
"Stop, you hell-hound!" he cried threateningly. "Stop!"
He shrieked the words again and again, maddened beyond control, and the Mormon king, whose self-possession was more that of devil than man, still held the struggling girl in his arms as he turned his head toward the voice and saw Nathaniel's long arm and knotted fist threatening him through the hole in the wall. Then Neil's name in a piercing scream resounded through the dungeon corridor and in response to it the man under Nathaniel straightened himself so quickly that his companion fell back to the floor.
"Great God! what is the matter, Nat? Quick! let me up!"
Nathaniel staggered to his feet, the breath half gone out of his body, and in another instant Neil was at the opening. The great room into which he looked was empty.
"What was it?" he cried, leaping down. "What were they doing with Winnsome?"
"It was the king," said Nathaniel, struggling to master himself. "The king put his arms around Winnsome and—she struck him!"
"That was all?"
"He kissed her as she fought—and I yelled."
"She struck him!" Neil cried. "God bless little Winnsome, Nat! and—God bless her!"
Neil's breath came fast as he caught the other's hand.
"I'd give my life if I could help you—and Marion!"
"We'll give them together," said Nathaniel coolly, turning down the corridor. "Here's our chance. They'll come through that door to relock us in our cell. Shall we die fighting?"
He was groping about in the mud of the floor for some object.
"If we had a couple of stones—"
"It would be madness—worse than madness!" interposed Neil, steadying himself. "There will be a dozen rifles at that door when they open it. We must return to the cell. It is worth dying a harder death to hear from Marion and Winnsome. And we will hear from them before night!"
They retreated into the dungeon. A few minutes later the door opened cautiously at the head of the corridor. A light blazed through the blackness and after an interval of silence the jailer made his appearance in front of the cell, a pistol in his hand.
"Don't be afraid, Jeekum," said Neil reassuringly. "You forgot the door and we've been having a little fun with the jury. That's all!"
The nervous whiteness left Jeekum's face at this cheerful report and he was about to close the door when Nathaniel exhibited a handful of gold pieces in the candle-light and frantically beckoned the man to come in. The jailer's eyes glittered understandingly and with a backward glance down the lighted corridor he thrust his head and shoulders inside.
"Five hundred dollars for that note!" he whispered. "Five hundred beside the four you've got!"
"Jeekum's a fool!" said Neil, as the door closed on them. "I feel sorry for him."
"Why?"
"Because he is accepting the money. Don't you suppose that you have been searched? Of course you have—probably before I came, while you were half dead on the floor. Somebody knows that you have the gold."
"Why hasn't it been taken?"
For a full minute Neil made no answer. And his answer, when it did come, first of all was a laugh.
"By George, that's good!" he cried exultingly. "Of course you were searched—and by Jeekum! He knows, but he hasn't made a report of it to Strang because he believes that in some way he will get hold of the money. He is taking a big risk—but he's winning! I wonder what his first scheme was?"
"Thought I'd bury it, perhaps," vouchsafed Nathaniel, throwing himself upon the straw. "There's room for two here, Neil."
A long silence fell between them. The action during the last few minutes had been too great an effort for Nathaniel and his wound troubled him again. As the pain and his terrible thoughts of Marion's fate returned to him he regretted that they had not ended it all in one last fight at the door. There, at least, they might have died like men instead of waiting to be shot down like dogs, their hands bound behind them, their breasts naked to the Mormon rifles. He did not fear death. In more than one game he had played against its hand, more often for love of the sport than not, but there was a horror in being penned up and tortured by it. He had come to look upon it as a fair enemy, filled of course with subterfuge and treachery, which were the laws of the game; but he had never dreamed of it as anything but merciful in its quickness. It was as if his adversary had broken an inviolable pact with him and he sweated and tossed on his bed of straw while Neil sat cool and silent on the bench against the dungeon wall. Sheer exhaustion brought him relief, and after a time he fell asleep.
He was awakened by Neil. The white face of Marion's brother was over him when he opened his eyes and he was shaking him roughly by the shoulder.
"Wake up, Nat!" he cried. "For Heaven's sake—wake up!"
He drew back as Nathaniel sleepily roused himself.
"I couldn't help it, Nat," he apologized, laughing nervously. "You've lain there like a dead man for hours. My head is splitting with this damned silence. Come—smoke up! I got some tobacco from our jailer and he loaned me his pipe."
Nathaniel jumped to his feet. A fresh candle was burning on the table and in its light he saw that a startling change had come into Neil's face during the hours he had slept. It looked to him thinner and whiter, its lines had deepened, and the young man's eyes were filled with gloomy dejection.
"Why didn't you awaken me sooner?" he exclaimed. "I deserve a good drubbing for leaving you alone here!" He saw fresh food on the table. "It's late—" he began.
"That is our dinner and supper," interrupted Neil. He held his watch close to the candle. "Half past eight!"
"And no word—from—"
"No."
The two men looked deeply into each other's eyes.
"Jeekum delivered my note to her