Part 4 (2/2)
”Well, you fellows might have had sense enough to suspect that he would return to her grave some time.”
”The very last place that anyone would have expected him to return to.”
”But you had exhausted all the other places. Learning your failure at them, I 'laid for him' there.”
”And you found him?”
”d.a.m.n it! he found me. me. The rascal got the drop on me-regularly held me up and made me travel. It's G.o.d's mercy that he didn't go through me. Oh, he's a good one, and I fancy the half of that reward is enough for me if you're needy.” The rascal got the drop on me-regularly held me up and made me travel. It's G.o.d's mercy that he didn't go through me. Oh, he's a good one, and I fancy the half of that reward is enough for me if you're needy.”
Holker laughed good humoredly, and explained that his creditors were never more importunate.
”I wanted merely to show you the ground, and arrange a plan with you,” the detective explained. ”I thought it as well for us to be heeled, even in daylight.”
”The man must be insane,” said the deputy sheriff. ”The reward is for his capture and conviction. If he's mad he won't be convicted.”
Mr. Holker was so profoundly affected by that possible failure of justice that he involuntarily stopped in the middle of the road, then resumed his walk with abated zeal.
”Well, he looks it,” a.s.sented Jaralson. ”I'm bound to admit that a more unshaven, unshorn, unkempt, and uneverything wretch I never saw outside the ancient and honorable order of tramps. But I've gone in for him, and can't make up my mind to let go. There's glory in it for us, anyhow. Not another soul knows that he is this side of the Mountains of the Moon.”
”All right,” Holker said; ”we will go and view the ground,” and he added, in the words of a once favorite inscription for tombstones: ”'where you must shortly lie'-I mean, if old Branscom ever gets tired of you and your impertinent intrusion. By the way, I heard the other day that 'Branscom' was not his real name.”
”What is?”
”I can't recall it. I had lost all interest in the wretch, and it did not fix itself in my memory-something like Pardee. The woman whose throat he had the bad taste to cut was a widow when he met her. She had come to California to look up some relatives-there are persons who will do that sometimes. But you know all that.”
”Naturally.”
”But not knowing the right name, by what happy inspiration did you find the right grave? The man who told me what the name was said it had been cut on the headboard.”
”I don't know the right grave.” Jaralson was apparently a trifle reluctant to admit his ignorance of so important a point of his plan. ”I have been watching about the place generally. A part of our work this morning will be to identify that grave. Here is the White Church.”
For a long distance the road had been bordered by fields on both sides, but now on the left there was a forest of oaks, madronos, and gigantic spruces whose lower parts only could be seen, dim and ghostly in the fog. The undergrowth was, in places, thick, but nowhere impenetrable. For some moments Holker saw nothing of the building, but as they turned into the woods it revealed itself in faint gray outline through the fog, looking huge and far away. A few steps more, and it was within an arm's length, distinct, dark with moisture, and insignificant in size. It had the usual country-schoolhouse form-belonged to the packing-box order of architecture; had an underpinning of stones, a moss-grown roof, and blank window s.p.a.ces, whence both gla.s.s and sash had long departed. It was ruined, but not a ruin-a typical Californian subst.i.tute for what are known to guide-bookers abroad as ”monuments of the past.” With scarcely a glance at this uninteresting structure Jaralson moved on into the dripping undergrowth beyond.
”I will show you where he held me up,” he said. ”This is the graveyard.”
Here and there among the bushes were small inclosures containing graves, sometimes no more than one. They were recognized as graves by the discolored stones or rotting boards at head and foot, leaning at all angles, some prostrate; by the ruined picket fences surrounding them; or, infrequently, by the mound itself showing its gravel through the fallen leaves. In many instances nothing marked the spot where lay the vestiges of some poor mortal-who, leaving ”a large circle of sorrowing friends,” had been left by them in turn-except a depression in the earth, more lasting than that in the spirits of the mourners. The paths, if any paths had been, were long obliterated; trees of a considerable size had been permitted to grow up from the graves and thrust aside with root or branch the inclosing fences. Over all was that air of abandonment and decay which seems nowhere so fit and significant as in a village of the forgotten dead.
As the two men, Jaralson leading, pushed their way through the growth of young trees, that enterprising man suddenly stopped and brought up his shotgun to the height of his breast, uttered a low note of warning, and stood motionless, his eyes fixed upon something ahead. As well as he could, obstructed by brush, his companion, though seeing nothing, imitated the posture and so stood, prepared for what might ensue. A moment later Jaralson moved cautiously forward, the other following.
Under the branches of an enormous spruce lay the dead body of a man. Standing silent above it they noted such particulars as first strike the attention-the face, the att.i.tude, the clothing; whatever most promptly and plainly answers the unspoken question of a sympathetic curiosity.
The body lay upon its back, the legs wide apart. One arm was thrust upward, the other outward; but the latter was bent acutely, and the hand was near the throat. Both hands were tightly clenched. The whole att.i.tude was that of desperate but ineffectual resistance to-what?
Near by lay a shotgun and a game bag through the meshes of which was seen the plumage of shot birds. All about were evidences of a furious struggle; small sprouts of poison-oak were bent and denuded of leaf and bark; dead and rotting leaves had been pushed into heaps and ridges on both sides of the legs by the action of other feet than theirs; alongside the hips were unmistakable impressions of human knees.
The nature of the struggle was made clear by a glance at the dead man's throat and face. While breast and hands were white, those were purple-almost black. The shoulders lay upon a low mound, and the head was turned back at an angle otherwise impossible, the expanded eyes staring blankly backward in a direction opposite to that of the feet. From the froth filling the open mouth the tongue protruded, black and swollen. The throat showed horrible contusions; not mere finger-marks, but bruises and lacerations wrought by two strong hands that must have buried themselves in the yielding flesh, maintaining their terrible grasp until long after death. Breast, throat, face, were wet; the clothing was saturated; drops of water, condensed from the fog, studded the hair and mustache.
All this the two men observed without speaking-almost at a glance. Then Holker said: ”Poor devil! he had a rough deal.”
Jaralson was making a vigilant circ.u.mspection of the forest, his shotgun held in both hands and at full c.o.c.k, his finger upon the trigger.
”The work of a maniac,” he said, without withdrawing his eyes from the inclosing wood. ”It was done by Branscom-Pardee.”
Something half hidden by the disturbed leaves on the earth caught Holker's attention. It was a red-leather pocketbook. He picked it up and opened it. It contained leaves of white paper for memoranda, and upon the first leaf was the name ”Halpin Frayser.” Written in red on several succeeding leaves-scrawled as if in haste and barely legible-were the following lines, which Holker read aloud, while his companion continued scanning the dim gray confines of their narrow world and hearing matter of apprehension in the drip of water from every burdened branch:
”Enthralled by some mysterious spell, I stood In the lit gloom of an enchanted wood.
The cypress there and myrtle twined their boughs, Significant, in baleful brotherhood.”The brooding willow whispered to the yew; Beneath, the deadly nightshade and the rue, With immortelles self-woven into strange Funereal shapes, and horrid nettles grew.”No song of bird nor any drone of bees, Nor light leaf lifted by the wholesome breeze: The air was stagnant all, and Silence was A living thing that breathed among the trees.”Conspiring spirits whispered in the gloom, Half-heard, the stilly secrets of the tomb.
With blood the trees were all adrip; the leaves Shone in the witch-light with a ruddy bloom.”I cried aloud!-the spell, unbroken still, Rested upon my spirit and my will.
Unsouled, unhearted, hopeless and forlorn, I strove with monstrous presages of ill!”At last the viewless--”
Holker ceased reading; there was no more to read. The ma.n.u.script broke off in the middle of a line.
”That sounds like Bayne,” said Jaralson, who was something of a scholar in his way. He had abated his vigilance and stood looking down at the body.
”Who's Bayne?” Holker asked rather incuriously.
”Myron Bayne, a chap who flourished in the early years of the nation-more than a century ago. Wrote mighty dismal stuff; I have his collected works. That poem is not among them, but it must have been omitted by mistake.”
”It is cold,” said Holker; ”let us leave here; we must have up the coroner from Napa.”
Jaralson said nothing, but made a movement in compliance. Pa.s.sing the end of the slight elevation of earth upon which the dead man's head and shoulders lay, his foot struck some hard substance under the rotting forest leaves, and he took the trouble to kick it into view. It was a fallen headboard, and painted on it were the hardly decipherable words, ”Catharine Larue.”
”Larue, Larue!” exclaimed Holker, with sudden animation. ”Why, that is the real name of Branscom-not Pardee. And-bless my soul! how it all comes to me-the murdered woman's name had been Frayser!”
”There is some rascally mystery here,” said Detective Jaralson. ”I hate anything of that kind.”
There came to them out of the fog-seemingly from a great distance-the sound of a laugh, a low, deliberate, soulless laugh, which had no more of joy than that of a hyena night-prowling in the desert; a laugh that rose by slow gradation, louder and louder, clearer, more distinct and terrible, until it seemed barely outside the narrow circle of their vision; a laugh so unnatural, so unhuman, so devilish, that it filled those hardy man-hunters with a sense of dread unspeakable! They did not move their weapons nor think of them; the menace of that horrible sound was not of the kind to be met with arms. As it had grown out of silence, so now it died away; from a culminating shout which had seemed almost in their ears, it drew itself away into the distance, until its failing notes, joyless and mechanical to the last, sank to silence at a measureless remove.
ROBERT W. CHAMBERS.
Robert William Chambers was born in 1865 in Brooklyn, New York. An early interest in painting led him to study art in Paris; he skillfully made use of the atmosphere of Bohemian decadence he found there in his first novel, In the Quarter In the Quarter (1894). His next volume, (1894). His next volume, The King in Yellow The King in Yellow (1895), largely consisting of tales of the supernatural, has become a cla.s.sic in the field. Chambers went on to write other volumes of horror and fantasy, including (1895), largely consisting of tales of the supernatural, has become a cla.s.sic in the field. Chambers went on to write other volumes of horror and fantasy, including The Maker of Moons The Maker of Moons (1896), (1896), The Mystery of Choice The Mystery of Choice (1897), and (1897), and In Search of the Unknown In Search of the Unknown (1904). But he gradually turned his attention to sentimental romances and popular historical tales, achieving bestseller status with an array of books including (1904). But he gradually turned his attention to sentimental romances and popular historical tales, achieving bestseller status with an array of books including Cardigan Cardigan (1901), (1901), The Younger Set The Younger Set (1907), (1907), Some Ladies in Haste Some Ladies in Haste (1908), (1908), The Common Law The Common Law (1911), and (1911), and The Restless s.e.x The Restless s.e.x (1918). These books, while making him one of the wealthiest authors of his period, also spelled his aesthetic d.a.m.nation. He returned to the supernatural only occasionally in his later years, with such works as (1918). These books, while making him one of the wealthiest authors of his period, also spelled his aesthetic d.a.m.nation. He returned to the supernatural only occasionally in his later years, with such works as The Tree of Heaven The Tree of Heaven (1906), (1906), The Tracer of Lost Persons The Tracer of Lost Persons (1907), (1907), Police!!! Police!!! (1915), and the mediocre ”Yellow Peril” novel, (1915), and the mediocre ”Yellow Peril” novel, The Slayer of Souls The Slayer of Souls (1920). From the proceeds of his writing he purchased a lavish estate in Mamaroneck, New York, where he died in 1933. Chambers's complete supernatural tales are now collected in (1920). From the proceeds of his writing he purchased a lavish estate in Mamaroneck, New York, where he died in 1933. Chambers's complete supernatural tales are now collected in The Yellow Sign and Other Stories The Yellow Sign and Other Stories (2000). (2000).
”The Yellow Sign” is perhaps the most horrific story in The King in Yellow. The King in Yellow. This nightmarish tale of the reanimated dead plaguing art students in New York makes tangential use of a leitmotif that runs through many of the stories: a play ent.i.tled This nightmarish tale of the reanimated dead plaguing art students in New York makes tangential use of a leitmotif that runs through many of the stories: a play ent.i.tled The King in Yellow, The King in Yellow, the reading of which induces despair or madness. Other stories in the volume include ”The Repairer of Reputations,” a bizarre story of New York City in the future; ”The Demoiselle d'Ys,” a delicate tale of the medieval past impinging upon the present; and ”The Mask,” a story exquisitely fusing beauty and horror in its account of a chemical that freezes living ent.i.ties in a state of suspended animation. the reading of which induces despair or madness. Other stories in the volume include ”The Repairer of Reputations,” a bizarre story of New York City in the future; ”The Demoiselle d'Ys,” a delicate tale of the medieval past impinging upon the present; and ”The Mask,” a story exquisitely fusing beauty and horror in its account of a chemical that freezes living ent.i.ties in a state of suspended animation.
THE YELLOW SIGN.
”Let the red dawn surmise What we shall do, When this blue starlight dies And all is through.”
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