Snow-blind
almost too great to bear. In the center of the back, where the cloth
would stretch over the wearer’s shoulder blades, he found a small, round
hole, soggy to the touch and stained an ugly crimson.
“Jerry!” The name stuck in his throat, choking him.
He whirled with his light to see Diane Durand standing behind him, her
lips apart, her eyes wildly gleaming as she stared at the bunk. “What is
it?” she gasped.
Kit said nothing. His spot-light was a will-o’-the-wisp, darting about
the room. A bare floor of hard-packed earth; bare, log walls; naked
timber-rafters supporting the roof: there was no hiding-place here. He
heard nothing except the thumping of his heart, the sighing of the old
cabin, the horrible sniffing of the dogs in the doorway.
The snow had swirled down through the hole in the roof, whitening the
floor in the middle of the room. In the snow Kit discovered the pattern
of a man’s boot-sole fouled with red. The light blazed a path through
the darkness as he moved forward, crouching almost to his knees. There
were other bloodspots on the floor, a spattering trail leading to the
broken window at the far end of the cabin.
On the floor beneath the casement there was an ugly, dark pool and the
windowsill was similarly bedabbled. He stood up, looked into the outer
darkness. Shrinking from contact with the red-stained sill, he thrust
his head out of doors and turned his lamp downward. His breath stopped
short as he peered after the piercing light beam.
The cabin, he discovered, had been erected on the brink of Great Owl
Run. The embankment descended in a sheer drop, straight down to the
stream, twenty or thirty feet below. In the flash of his lamp he caught
the gleam of black, open water racing under a yawning ice-tunnel a
little farther downstream.
He turned away, his eyes in a stinging mist, conjuring the image of his
lusty brother: the dauntless Jerry who had started with such supreme
self-confidence on his journey to Queen Maud Sea.
Kit needed to search no farther. He knew what had happened. Jerry must
have been in the lead, traveling down the Vermilion River and up the
course of Great Owl Run with Hell Bent only a mile or so, a couple of
hours, behind. Jerry could have had no warning that he was being
followed. Tired out after bucking the blizzard all day he had crept into
the bunk with his clothes on, rolled up in Grandfather Tearl’s blankets,
and slept.
It did not take a morbid imagination to visualize the rest. The second
man arrived stealthily under the cover of the storm. He would have
paused outside for a moment to remove his waffle-meshed snowshoes. Then
he tiptoed into the gloomy cabin, pausing to listen and searched out the
location of the bunk.
Probably the rats squeaked and scuttled away in the rafters. Silence
after that, save for the sighing of the cabin and the breathing of the
sleeping man. A furtive approach; a shot fired at close range. Utter
quiet then. Only the wind drawing softly through the cabin roof.
The valiant, resourceful Jerry had been caught asleep with his boots on.
Kit could visualize only too vividly the subsequent horrors: the
stripping off of blanket and shirt, the search of pockets; a limp shape
toppled off the bunk, dragged across the snowy floor, boosted to the
window sill and dumped overside. A plummet-like drop, a cold splash in
the darkness below.
Kitchener’s gun was in his hand, but he was not thinking of himself or
of lurking dangers. He was staring in direful fascination at the black
window opening, hearing only the swirl and gurgle of Great Owl Run, the
downpouring waters that ran under ice to empty their flotsam at last
into the frozen wastes of Queen Maud Sea.
CHAPTER X
ALWAYS FIRE FIRST
The soft stirring of footsteps jarred Kitchener out of his hideous
reverie. Diane Durand had stolen past him in the darkness, and with
reaching hands she leaned forward to look out the window. He grabbed her
and flung her backwards so violently that she cried aloud, clutching at
the finger-marks on her wrist.
“What are you doing?” she demanded, amazed and angry.
“Keep away from that window!”
“What for?”
“There’s blood on it. It’s everywhere.”
He had switched off his light and was unable to see her face, but he
heard her draw a shuddering breath and felt her dynamic glance fixed
upon him. “It’s--what?” she said in a small, muted voice.
“It’s murder,” he said, wondering what made his own speech sound so
strange. “That’s all. Just a nicely planned shooting in the back.”
“Who?” gasped the girl. “Who?”
“My--” Kit stopped so abruptly that he bit his tongue. “An old friend of
mine. He was worn out and trying to get a little sleep. I guess he
didn’t know that it happened. I--I hope he never knew.”
“You--what makes you so sure?” she asked in a chilled whisper.
“I’m as sure as though I’d seen it.” His short, ugly laugh did not have
quite the ring of sanity. “His shirt with a bullet hole in the back, all
smeared. The blankets he died in. The dripping across the floor--right
there--right at your feet. A body lugged to the window. Overboard and
into the creek. That’s how it was done. A pretty little job. A neat
piece of work from behind. Your uncle Sim or Jim or whatever you call
him. A straight-shooter--a straight-shooter-in-the-back! A nice, sweet
boy he is!”
There was a dead silence for a space, and then a harsh, choking sound in
the darkness. Then Diane Durand’s voice, icy and level and dangerously
restrained: “I can’t believe I understood you. Will you say that again?”
Kitchener was so stunned by the tragedy that he was unable at present to
think clearly or rationally. All that could matter to him was the aching
certainty that Jerry was gone. Funny old Jerry! He had been done out of
life and disposed of like a trapped, helpless animal. Stalked in his
sleep and brutally killed! The numbing realization left Kit without any
sense of discretion. He wasn’t caring about anything now, what he did or
said or what happened next.
“I said that your uncle came in here and stood over him while he slept
and put a bullet into his body.”
He felt the girl flinch, and he was conscious of her eyes staring at
him. “That’s a lie!” she panted.
“Killed him with the old ivory-butted gun!” Kit laughed insanely. “Of
course! The beautiful, engraved six-shooter that stood for law and
order! How things work out! God, what a joke everything is!”
The girl turned on him in a flash of savagery. “What a beast you are!
You don’t know. You make a wild and wicked guess, and accuse a man of
murder. With nothing whatever to go on except your own crazy notions of
what might be--of what you seem to want it to be. You policemen! No
wonder people are afraid of you. That’s your idea: get somebody, no
matter whom. It doesn’t matter whether he’s guilty or innocent. Get him!
Frame him! Bring him in! Swear his life away! Get your man--any man--”
“Listen, baby!” Kit cut in fiercely. “I don’t need your advice--or
criticism. That sort of talk isn’t helping any. I’ve seen what I’ve
seen. That’s plenty. The waffle-mesh tracks we followed down the river.
You know who those belong to. Stalking the two-bar shoes through the
storm, right to this place. Don’t think I don’t know the ins and outs of
this business. I know whom to look for, and I know he can’t be far from
here right now--”
“You haven’t a shred of real evidence!” she interrupted passionately.
“And to say what you’ve said, without being sure--it’s cruel, it’s
criminal!”
“Yes?” he retorted. “Well, let me tell you--I’m going out and find the
bloody prints. There’ll be tracks somewhere around here. And they’ll
show the waffle marks. I’m just that sure of that. If they shouldn’t
I’ll apologize. I’ll beg your pardon on my hands and knees. You can’t
ask anything fairer than that.”
Kit swung around to face the open doorway. It was snowing heavily
outside and the wind still moaned through the firs. In the black forest
farther down stream the frightful cry of a giant owl quavered in the
night--a hideous, hungering sound. He couldn’t forget the name of this
place. Great Owl Run. His father had been finished here twelve years
ago. And now his brother! A fateful spot for the Tearls. It wasn’t just
coincidence--it was kismet. This place had haunted his imagination since
childhood. Now he had found it for himself. And Bill was gone and Jerry
was gone, and only Kitchener was left.
Perhaps Kitchener would go next in turn. That would be consistent. And
he didn’t particularly care. Little Jane would carry on. It was queer
how his thoughts kept going back to Jane now, and he could smile
tenderly to himself, thinking of her. She was the best of the lot. It
didn’t matter about himself. He wasn’t afraid of the owls or the
mysterious forest or the red-handed murderer who undoubtedly was
skulking somewhere in the neighborhood.
His pulse had slowed to a sober, steady beat, the fever of his blood had
simmered down to an ominous coolness. There was something he had to do,
and he was ruthless and reckless in the zest to see it through. Whatever
happened, he asked only that it might be swift and decisive.
He started towards the door, but a hand reached in the darkness to grab
his sleeve. “What are you going to do?” asked Diane Durand in sudden
panic.
“Find him, and arrest him--if he doesn’t try to resist.”
“Oh, no!” The girl’s tone had changed. She was frightened and desperate.
There was frantic appeal in her voice. “No! Wait! You’ve got to wait!
Something terrible will happen! Don’t. Please don’t!”
“You seem to think he will resist.” Kitchener’s laugh sounded unfamiliar
in his own ears. “Well, he probably will.”
He shook off her hand and started again to leave the cabin. But at the
doorway he changed his mind and halted. He thought he caught a sound
behind him--not where the girl stood, a little to the left--but straight
back, over near the fireplace. He had thoroughly searched the room.
Nothing was there. And yet--
Again he heard it. Unquestionably! A soft, whisking sound--higher
up--near the roof--like snow sliding. He turned, and his pocket light
again found its way into the hand. He didn’t touch the button, but was
ready to shoot on the flash at an instant’s notice.
In his loosely gripped fist the butt of his pistol rested comfortably.
The expert marksman gave no conscious thought to the weapon. It was as
much a part of himself as the hand that held it. The safety slipped off
with the reflex of the thumb. His whole attention was centered towards
the ceiling beside the chimney, where he knew there was a wide hole
opening through the roof.
It was too dark within and without to differentiate between the solid
part of the roof and the open sky. But a prescience more astute, more
sensitive than mere eyesight, appraised him that something was blocking
the gap above, staring into the cabin.
All was still now, save the slow, gentle shifting of the rafters, but
Kit was positive that somebody or something had climbed onto the
roof--that a face was peering down.
He was waiting with every faculty straining to catch the least hint of
sound or movement, when, as sudden as lightning, a white, blinding ray
flashed downward to cut the darkness like a shining blade and hit the
farther wall in a dazzling bullseye.
Kitchener’s reactions were as spontaneous as it is to live or to breathe
or to fight back from a corner. He saw the hard, round spot of light at
the upper end of the shaft--the focus point of the searching beam. The
light was swinging his direction--reaching for him--
There was no volition on his part. It was as though his pistol lifted
and sighted itself and went off on its own responsibility, regardless of
his own will or intention.