The Valley of Fear
“They chose us because neither I nor the boy here drink,” Lawler
explained. “They can count on us saying no more than we should. You
must not take it amiss, but it is the orders of the County Delegate
that we obey.”
“Sure, we are all in it together,” said Scanlan, McMurdo’s mate, as the
four sat together at supper.
“That’s true enough, and we’ll talk till the cows come home of the
killing of Charlie Williams or of Simon Bird, or any other job in the
past. But till the work is done we say nothing.”
“There are half a dozen about here that I have a word to say to,” said
McMurdo, with an oath. “I suppose it isn’t Jack Knox of Ironhill that
you are after. I’d go some way to see him get his deserts.”
“No, it’s not him yet.”
“Or Herman Strauss?”
“No, nor him either.”
“Well, if you won’t tell us we can’t make you; but I’d be glad to
know.”
Lawler smiled and shook his head. He was not to be drawn.
In spite of the reticence of their guests, Scanlan and McMurdo were
quite determined to be present at what they called “the fun.” When,
therefore, at an early hour one morning McMurdo heard them creeping
down the stairs he awakened Scanlan, and the two hurried on their
clothes. When they were dressed they found that the others had stolen
out, leaving the door open behind them. It was not yet dawn, and by the
light of the lamps they could see the two men some distance down the
street. They followed them warily, treading noiselessly in the deep
snow.
The boarding house was near the edge of the town, and soon they were at
the crossroads which is beyond its boundary. Here three men were
waiting, with whom Lawler and Andrews held a short, eager conversation.
Then they all moved on together. It was clearly some notable job which
needed numbers. At this point there are several trails which lead to
various mines. The strangers took that which led to the Crow Hill, a
huge business which was in strong hands which had been able, thanks to
their energetic and fearless New England manager, Josiah H. Dunn, to
keep some order and discipline during the long reign of terror.
Day was breaking now, and a line of workmen were slowly making their
way, singly and in groups, along the blackened path.
McMurdo and Scanlan strolled on with the others, keeping in sight of
the men whom they followed. A thick mist lay over them, and from the
heart of it there came the sudden scream of a steam whistle. It was the
ten-minute signal before the cages descended and the day’s labour
began.
When they reached the open space round the mine shaft there were a
hundred miners waiting, stamping their feet and blowing on their
fingers; for it was bitterly cold. The strangers stood in a little
group under the shadow of the engine house. Scanlan and McMurdo climbed
a heap of slag from which the whole scene lay before them. They saw the
mine engineer, a great bearded Scotchman named Menzies, come out of the
engine house and blow his whistle for the cages to be lowered.
At the same instant a tall, loose-framed young man with a clean-shaved,
earnest face advanced eagerly towards the pit head. As he came forward
his eyes fell upon the group, silent and motionless, under the engine
house. The men had drawn down their hats and turned up their collars to
screen their faces. For a moment the presentiment of Death laid its
cold hand upon the manager’s heart. At the next he had shaken it off
and saw only his duty towards intrusive strangers.
“Who are you?” he asked as he advanced. “What are you loitering there
for?”
There was no answer; but the lad Andrews stepped forward and shot him
in the stomach. The hundred waiting miners stood as motionless and
helpless as if they were paralyzed. The manager clapped his two hands
to the wound and doubled himself up. Then he staggered away; but
another of the assassins fired, and he went down sidewise, kicking and
clawing among a heap of clinkers. Menzies, the Scotchman, gave a roar
of rage at the sight and rushed with an iron spanner at the murderers;
but was met by two balls in the face which dropped him dead at their
very feet.
There was a surge forward of some of the miners, and an inarticulate
cry of pity and of anger; but a couple of the strangers emptied their
six-shooters over the heads of the crowd, and they broke and scattered,
some of them rushing wildly back to their homes in Vermissa.
When a few of the bravest had rallied, and there was a return to the
mine, the murderous gang had vanished in the mists of morning, without
a single witness being able to swear to the identity of these men who
in front of a hundred spectators had wrought this double crime.
Scanlan and McMurdo made their way back; Scanlan somewhat subdued, for
it was the first murder job that he had seen with his own eyes, and it
appeared less funny than he had been led to believe. The horrible
screams of the dead manager’s wife pursued them as they hurried to the
town. McMurdo was absorbed and silent; but he showed no sympathy for
the weakening of his companion.
“Sure, it is like a war,” he repeated. “What is it but a war between us
and them, and we hit back where we best can.”
There was high revel in the lodge room at the Union House that night,
not only over the killing of the manager and engineer of the Crow Hill
mine, which would bring this organization into line with the other
blackmailed and terror-stricken companies of the district, but also
over a distant triumph which had been wrought by the hands of the lodge
itself.
It would appear that when the County Delegate had sent over five good
men to strike a blow in Vermissa, he had demanded that in return three
Vermissa men should be secretly selected and sent across to kill
William Hales of Stake Royal, one of the best known and most popular
mine owners in the Gilmerton district, a man who was believed not to
have an enemy in the world; for he was in all ways a model employer. He
had insisted, however, upon efficiency in the work, and had, therefore,
paid off certain drunken and idle employees who were members of the
all-powerful society. Coffin notices hung outside his door had not
weakened his resolution, and so in a free, civilized country he found
himself condemned to death.
The execution had now been duly carried out. Ted Baldwin, who sprawled
now in the seat of honour beside the Bodymaster, had been chief of the
party. His flushed face and glazed, bloodshot eyes told of
sleeplessness and drink. He and his two comrades had spent the night
before among the mountains. They were unkempt and weather-stained. But
no heroes, returning from a forlorn hope, could have had a warmer
welcome from their comrades.
The story was told and retold amid cries of delight and shouts of
laughter. They had waited for their man as he drove home at nightfall,
taking their station at the top of a steep hill, where his horse must
be at a walk. He was so furred to keep out the cold that he could not
lay his hand on his pistol. They had pulled him out and shot him again
and again. He had screamed for mercy. The screams were repeated for the
amusement of the lodge.
“Let’s hear again how he squealed,” they cried.
None of them knew the man; but there is eternal drama in a killing, and
they had shown the Scowrers of Gilmerton that the Vermissa men were to
be relied upon.
There had been one contretemps; for a man and his wife had driven up
while they were still emptying their revolvers into the silent body. It
had been suggested that they should shoot them both; but they were
harmless folk who were not connected with the mines, so they were
sternly bidden to drive on and keep silent, lest a worse thing befall
them. And so the blood-mottled figure had been left as a warning to all
such hard-hearted employers, and the three noble avengers had hurried
off into the mountains where unbroken nature comes down to the very
edge of the furnaces and the slag heaps. Here they were, safe and
sound, their work well done, and the plaudits of their companions in
their ears.
It had been a great day for the Scowrers. The shadow had fallen even
darker over the valley. But as the wise general chooses the moment of
victory in which to redouble his efforts, so that his foes may have no
time to steady themselves after disaster, so Boss McGinty, looking out
upon the scene of his operations with his brooding and malicious eyes,
had devised a new attack upon those who opposed him. That very night,
as the half-drunken company broke up, he touched McMurdo on the arm and
led him aside into that inner room where they had their first
interview.
“See here, my lad,” said he, “I’ve got a job that’s worthy of you at
last. You’ll have the doing of it in your own hands.”
“Proud I am to hear it,” McMurdo answered.
“You can take two men with you—Manders and Reilly. They have been
warned for service. We’ll never be right in this district until Chester
Wilcox has been settled, and you’ll have the thanks of every lodge in
the coal fields if you can down him.”
“I’ll do my best, anyhow. Who is he, and where shall I find him?”
McGinty took his eternal half-chewed, half-smoked cigar from the corner
of his mouth, and proceeded to draw a rough diagram on a page torn from
his notebook.
“He’s the chief foreman of the Iron Dike Company. He’s a hard citizen,
an old colour sergeant of the war, all scars and grizzle. We’ve had two
tries at him; but had no luck, and Jim Carnaway lost his life over it.
Now it’s for you to take it over. That’s the house—all alone at the
Iron Dike crossroad, same as you see here on the map—without another
within earshot. It’s no good by day. He’s armed and shoots quick and
straight, with no questions asked. But at night—well, there he is with
his wife, three children, and a hired help. You can’t pick or choose.
It’s all or none. If you could get a bag of blasting powder at the
front door with a slow match to it—”
“What’s the man done?”
“Didn’t I tell you he shot Jim Carnaway?”
“Why did he shoot him?”
“What in thunder has that to do with you? Carnaway was about his house
at night, and he shot him. That’s enough for me and you. You’ve got to
settle the thing right.”
“There’s these two women and the children. Do they go up too?”
“They have to—else how can we get him?”
“It seems hard on them; for they’ve done nothing.”
“What sort of fool’s talk is this? Do you back out?”
“Easy, Councillor, easy! What have I ever said or done that you should
think I would be after standing back from an order of the Bodymaster of
my own lodge? If it’s right or if it’s wrong, it’s for you to decide.”
“You’ll do it, then?”
“Of course I will do it.”
“When?”
“Well, you had best give me a night or two that I may see the house and
make my plans. Then—”
“Very good,” said McGinty, shaking him by the hand. “I leave it with
you. It will be a great day when you bring us the news. It’s just the
last stroke that will bring them all to their knees.”
McMurdo thought long and deeply over the commission which had been so
suddenly placed in his hands. The isolated house in which Chester
Wilcox lived was about five miles off in an adjacent valley. That very
night he started off all alone to prepare for the attempt. It was
daylight before he returned from his reconnaissance. Next day he
interviewed his two subordinates, Manders and Reilly, reckless
youngsters who were as elated as if it were a deer-hunt.
Two nights later they met outside the town, all three armed, and one of
them carrying a sack stuffed with the powder which was used in the
quarries. It was two in the morning before they came to the lonely
house. The night was a windy one, with broken clouds drifting swiftly
across the face of a three-quarter moon. They had been warned to be on