Three sevens A detective story
life in prison was like a dream. He had never been arrested, never
been tried, never been handcuffed. So it seemed it had all been a
nightmare. Now he was waking from it. He had been sick. Who was this
girl? He must have muttered something of this.
“Who are you?” she asked in turn.
“Daniel Craig.”
“Craig? Craig? I remember no such name in the San Pedro list.”
“No one knew,” he announced with a glimmer of triumph. “Here, I was
Thomas Masters--Three Sevens!”
“Why did you kill that man?” She had suddenly remembered.
“I didn’t.” He laughed. “The kid shot him on his sister’s account.
Poor little----”
Craig jerked back his head, awake again.
“Tell me,” said the girl.
“What?”
“You didn’t kill him, but----”
A one-armed convict with a face like a weasel, or like an ermine,
rather, his face was so white, came limping into the room with a
grin. He was small and wizened. He carried a sheet of flimsy yellow
paper in his hand, and this stirred Craig to the knowledge that here
was the prison telegrapher.
“Been lookin’ for you, boss,” he said in a high, nasal voice. “Looks
like some of the boys----”
He stopped and stared at the girl with a malicious grin.
“Give me the message and go back to the key,” said Craig, as he put
out an unsteady hand.
But when the telegrapher was gone, Craig looked at the yellow tissue
paper the telegrapher had handed him; he was unable to read what was
written thereon.
“Something the--matter--with my eyes,” said Craig.
The girl took the message, read:
“BANNER JUNCTION.
“Train No. 93 robbed ten miles east here by masked men,
supposed escaped convicts, San Pedro. Party boarded train
on signal at your station last night----”
“Shall I go on?” the girl faltered.
“My work!” breathed Craig ghastly. “Go on! Go on!”
She read:
“Conductor, brakeman shot, and three passengers also
wounded. Leader of band partly identified Bud Gaspell
supposed to have been in San Pedro serving life
imprisonment. Wire details.”
There followed the name of a famous sheriff.
“My work! My work!” breathed Craig.
CHAPTER VI
JUST AND UNJUST
There was a sound of cheering from the prison yard, and this brought
the two of them again to their feet. Craig was stricken. In his
own mind he was like a crazy man. He was a man who had committed a
stupendous crime. There was no righting of it. Glimpsingly, he looked
back on himself as he had been in the cell, and found that it was
then he had been blessed without knowing it--serving a term on behalf
of another, on behalf of a lad he had scarcely known, but whom he
had pitied. Then, his conscience had been clear. Now, he was already
seared with the fire eternal. And this, or most of it, must have been
in his eyes as they met hers.
Craig picked up the revolver he had discarded when she had begun to
bandage him. He handed this to her.
“Take this,” he said. “As soon as I’m through that door, lock it.
There’s the telephone. Use it as you will. You can. The exchange in
Pine City will help you.”
She took the revolver. She understood the possible necessity of it.
She shuddered.
“Where are you going?”
“Out there.”
“You may be killed. They’re out of hand.”
“They’re out of hand,” he said. “That’s why I go. There’ll be
wholesale murder next. The old warden--the guards! Locked up! Men who
have sworn to kill----”
There was another outburst of cheering. No, cheering is not the word.
It was the howl of a mob.
“Fire!” the girl gasped.
Through the window that overlooked the yard there had come a curl of
smoke. There slanted across the yard a shadow as from a cloud, and
she knew that the sky was cloudless. She hurried across the room to
look out. She turned. Craig was gone.
How strangely she had remembered the facts of his case as soon as
he had mentioned the name of Thomas Masters. She and her father had
looked up this case particularly when the major was still making up
his mind whether or not he should accept the almost martyrdom of an
appointment to San Pedro--exchange his residence, well equipped,
luxurious, even, for the squalid quarters which were all that San
Pedro would have to offer; exchange the society of his friends for
the society of Nature’s misfits and throwbacks, her human failures
and freaks. But San Pedro had offered an appeal all its own--that
ancient riddle of Evil, and of Good.
“No man is consistently evil; no man is consistently good,” Jerome
Gracie had said. “Now, here is the case of this Thomas Masters.
See! They have him at San Pedro--twenty years--for murder. Now, I
happened to be present at his trial. He might have saved himself
had he spoken. He didn’t kill that man, Beekman, for robbery, nor,
apparently, for revenge, nor yet, certainly, for sheer wantonness.
What was the motive?”
What was Joan Gracie’s motive now when, instead of locking herself in
this room where she would be safe, she ran out to follow Craig? Him,
the all-but-nameless convict? Him, whose work this was?
No answer, except, perhaps, that she was her father’s daughter.
So Jerome Gracie himself would have done. Or, that simpler answer
yet; that she was feminine--that this convict had fought in her
defense and that she had nursed his wounds, and that, therefore, by
the oldest law of the world--but one which she would have instantly
denied--this man to some extent was hers and she was his.
She sped down the stairs. The iron gate that guarded the bottom of
them was still closed and locked. She went back through a corridor.
Here was an open door. This way he had passed. She found another door
and stumbled through it into the brightness of the yard.
How fast he had gone! She saw him crossing the yard--a gaunt and
shaky figure in bandages. He was making toward a band of men who
turned to greet him. And once more, unaccountably, the girl felt for
him a spasm of pity; of more than pity--of sympathy, of anguish and
admiration.
But Craig himself had moved with a strength that was not his own.
So he himself would have testified. So far as he was concerned, his
prayers had been answered, and he had died, and this thing that he
called himself was the mere ghost of the Daniel Craig who had once
lived, and moved, and had his being in the vast freedom of the world.
Like that he moved upon the merrymakers who had started the fire. It
wasn’t much of a fire as yet, but smoky--the paint house, happily
detached. Had Craig been a ghost in all reality not otherwise
would the cheerful bandits have looked at him. For Craig had that
supernatural look about him that most men have when they have passed
above natural fear.
“Choke off that fire, you fools!”
Not loud. He didn’t have to raise his voice.
“Shut the door,” some one cried softly.
The door of the paint house was shut, and they that had set the fire
now ran this way and that like rats out of a demolished barn.
In this the groping convicts had been able to act swiftly, at
last. There were a few who had lingered, after the scene in the
chapel--lingered with some idea of loot, some hankering for revenge,
but it was Freedom that was calling to them the loudest. They had
begun to scatter. The scatter had become a rush. No longer than it
had taken Craig to get the girl to the office, and the girl there to
bandage his wounds, and the brief time required for such other things
as had there transpired, than the prison had begun to be abandoned.
Only the former officers remained, locked up; and only a few wretches
who had been hurt in the rioting.
Craig and the girl went here and there about the prison.
They found Eddie, the Yegg, of the tragic eyes, unhurt. He whispered
that he had sequestered the horse on which the girl had come riding
to the prison.
“You could have taken it and ridden away,” said Miss Gracie.
Eddie had no word for that. He wasn’t used to speaking to women. He
merely looked at Craig with a haunted smile.
“He knew that he wouldn’t get far,” said Craig.
Eddie nodded.
“Few of them will,” said the girl. “It’s always that way. They’ll be
rounded up--almost all of them----”
She broke off and communed with herself, as one will who has got hold
of a thought that leads off into channels not yet clearly seen.
“I did this,” said Craig, “as an act of justice--justice! In the
world I was living in there was no justice! The innocent suffered
with the wicked! I knew that it shouldn’t be! I wanted to set things
right!”
He was half out of his head.
Perhaps they all were out of their heads a little bit. There was a
grotesquerie in the world itself that wasn’t rational at all. This
was a beautiful Sunday, now warming to late afternoon, yet it was
shot full of nightmare. This was a prison. In it the only prisoners
were those who should have been the masters.
The three of them--Eddie, Craig, and the girl--succored the wounded.
They gave water to the men whom Craig himself had caged. Craig would
have let them out, but the girl prevented him, Eddie abetting. There
were those among the guards who would have killed Craig and Eddie,
too, as their first act on getting out.
CHAPTER VII
THE PROMISE
The girl said a number of things in the course of this day that were
to remain with Craig always, just as would the presence of her as she
said them--soft-voiced, clear-eyed, brave. She was only eighteen or
so, but she had talked so much with her father that she talked like a
man plus a woman’s instinct to soothe and heal:
“You’ve had a dream that turned out bad--but that is no reason why
you shouldn’t dream again. Half the tragedies of this world were
caused by dreamers, but so also all of the world’s progress. My
father’ll set things right here in San Pedro. The courts’ll put you
in a cell for life if you stay here. You can be of more use outside.
Outside you can offset the evil you’ve let loose.”
She was urging him to flee.
“If I should bring them back?” said Craig.
“Bring them back?”
“Ben Jarvis, Bud Gaspell----”
Among the papers that had been left on the chapel table by the
convict who had acted as clerk of that curious, improvised court of
the morning, was a little red memorandum book. The girl seized this.
She meditated. She looked at Craig.
“Yes, yes,” she said. “The small and the weak--they don’t matter.
They’ll be herded back here like sheep, when the posses get a start.
It’s the men like Bud Gaspell, train robber and highwayman, and Ben
Jarvis, who kills for pleasure, and ‘Trick’ O’Ray.”
The two of them worked over the records like a pair of students in
a library. They added name after name to the list in the little
red book. There were those on the list whom Craig had never seen
nor known. But the girl knew them, by reputation. She had been her
father’s secretary--and, for that matter, almost his sole companion,
since her mother’s death two years before.
Sinister, cruel, perverse; men who were as deadly as moccasin snakes,
and as ruthless, as concentrated in the satisfaction of their own
needs and appetites. Wild men, like “Sancho Red,” “of the arid hills,
who tortured as well as killed”--their names, and, when necessary,
their descriptions, all went into the little red ledger, put there by
this girl with blue eyes and the shimmering hair, written out in a
schoolgirl hand.
There was no time to waste. Craig himself had now sent the news
of what had happened in the prison by telephone and haltingly, by
telegraph, to the outside world.
Craig had told the girl the purport of that first telephone message
that had reached him after he and she had left the chapel when the