Part 15 (1/2)

”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 Jose 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 Jose 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 Jose 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.