Part 12 (1/2)

Ezram had been shot, murdered by the men who had jumped his claim.

Beatrice's father, who had talked to him, had probably committed the crime: if not he, one of his understrappers at his order. He found himself recalling what Jeffery Neilson had said. Oh, the man had been sharp! Believing that in the depth of the forest the body would never be discovered, he had tried to send Ben farther into the interior in search of him.

He arose, wholly self-mastered, and with hard, strong hands made a detailed examination of Ezram's wound. He had evidently been shot by a rifle of large caliber, probably at close range. Ezram's own gun lay at his feet, loaded but not c.o.c.ked.

”They shot you down in cold blood, old boy, didn't they?” he found himself asking. ”You didn't have a chance!”

But the gray lips were setting with death, and could not answer. Ben had forgotten for the instant; he must keep better hold of himself. The time was not ripe to turn himself loose. But he did wish for one more word with Ezram, just a few little minutes of planning. They could doubtless work out something good together. They could decide what to do.

From this point his mind naturally fell to Ezram's parting advice to him. ”I've only got one decent place to keep things safe, and that ain't so all-fired decent,” the old man had told him. ”I always put 'em down my bootleg, between the sock and the leather. If I ever get shuffled off, all of a sudden, I want you to look there careful.”

Still with the same deathly pallor he crept over the dead leaves to Ezram's feet. His hands were perfectly steady as he unlooped the laces, one after another, and quietly pulled off the right boot. In the boot leg, just as Ezram had promised, Ben found a sc.r.a.p of white paper.

He spread it on his knee, and unfolded it with care. The moonlight was not sufficiently vivid, however, for him to read the penciled scrawl. He felt in his pocket for a match.

Because his mind was operating clear and sure, his thoughts flashed at once to his enemies in their cabins along the creek. He did not want them to know he had found the body. His first instinct was to work in the dark, to achieve his ends by stealth and cunning! It was strange what capacity for cunning had come upon him. Oh, he would be crafty--sharp--sure in every motion.

It was unlikely, however, that the faint glare of a match could carry so far. To make sure he walked behind the covert, then turned his back to the canyon through which the creek flowed. The match cracked, inordinately loud in the silence, and his eyes followed the script.

Ezram had been faithful to the last:

To WHOM IT MAY CONCERN:

In case of my death I leave all I die possessed of including my brother Hiram's claim near Yuga River to my pard and buddy, Ben Darby.

(Signed) EZRA MELVILLE.

The doc.u.ment was as formal as Ezram could make it, with a carefully drawn seal, and for all its quaint wording, it was a will to stand in any court. But Ezram had not been able to hold his dignity for long. He had added a postscript:

Son, old Hiram made a will, and I guess I can make one too. I just found out about them devils that jumped our claim. I left you back there at the river because I didn't want you taking any dam fool risks till I found out how things lay.

I just got one thing to ask. If them devils get me--get them. My life ain't worth much but I want you to make them pay for the little it is worth. Never stop till you've done it.

Ben lighted match after match until he had absorbed every word. Then he folded the paper and placed it in his pocket; but the action did not in the least take his eyes from the words. He could still see them, written in fire. They were branded on his spirit.

He stood wholly motionless for a s.p.a.ce of almost a minute, as if listening. The heat back of his eyes was more intense now. The red coals were about to burst into flame. All the blood of his huge body seemed to be collecting there, searing his brain.

The moon was no longer white in the sky. It had turned a fiery red. The stars were red too,--all of them more red than the Star of War. ”I want you to make them pay,” a voice said clearly in his ears. ”Never stop till you've done it.”

And now Ben was no longer pale. His face was no longer hard and set.

Rather it was dark--dark as dark earth. His eyes glowed like coals beneath his black brows. He was not standing still and lifeless now. He was s.h.i.+vering all over with the blackest hate, the most deadly fury.

”Make them pay,” he said aloud again, ”and never stop till you've done it.”

A sudden snarl from the lips of the wolf drew his eyes downward. Heaven help him; for the moment he had forgotten Fenris! But he must not forget him again. They had work to do, the two of them.

Fenris was no longer whining disconsolately. His master's fury had pa.s.sed to him, and Ben looked and saw before him not the docile pet, but the savage beast of the wild. The hair was erect on his shoulders, his lips were drawn, too; he was crouched as if for battle. The eyes, sunken in their sockets, were red and terrible to see. Yet he was still Ben's servant. That quality could never pa.s.s from him. The eyes of two met,--the wolf and the man.

At that instant the little tongue of flame that had been mounting in Ben's brain burst into a dreadful conflagration. It was the explosion at last, no less terrible because of its silence--because the sound of the least, little wind was still discernible in the distant thickets. He dropped to his knees before the wolf, seizing its head in a terrific grasp. He half jerked it off its feet, till he held it so that its eyes burned straight into his.