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The Yukon Trail, a novel by William MacLeod Raine |
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Chapter 29. "Don't Touch Him! Don't You Dare Touch Him!" |
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_ CHAPTER XXIX. "DON'T TOUCH HIM! DON'T YOU DARE TOUCH HIM!" Gordon overslept. His plan had been to reach Kusiak at the end of a long day's travel, but that had meant getting on the trail with the first gleam of light. When he opened his eyes Mrs. Olson was calling him to rise. He dressed and stepped out into the cold, crisp morning. From the hill crotch the sun was already pouring down a great, fanlike shaft of light across the snow vista. Swiftwater Pete passed behind him on his way to the stable and called a cheerful good-morning in his direction. Mrs. Olson had put the stove outside the tent and Gordon lifted it to the spot where they did the cooking. "Good-morning, neighbor," he called to Sheba. "Sleep well?" The little rustling sounds within the tent ceased. A face appeared in the doorway, the flaps drawn discreetly close beneath the chin. "Never better. Is my breakfast ready yet?" "Come and help me make it. Mrs. Olson is waiting on Holt." "When I'm dressed." The smiling face disappeared. "Dublin Bay" sounded in her fresh young voice from the tent. Gordon joined in the song as he lit the fire and sliced bacon from a frozen slab of it. The howling of the huskies interrupted the song. They had evidently heard something that excited them. Gordon listened. Was it in his fancy only that the breeze carried to him the faint jingle of sleigh-bells? The sound, if it was one, died away. The cook turned to his job. He stopped sawing at the meat, knife and bacon both suspended in the air. On the hard snow there had come to him the crunch of a foot behind him. Whose? Sheba was in the tent, Swiftwater at the stable, Mrs. Olson in the house. Slowly he turned his head. What Elliot saw sent the starch through his body. He did not move an inch, still sat crouched by the fire, but every nerve was at tension, every muscle taut. For he was looking at a rifle lying negligently in brown, steady hands. They were very sure hands, very competent ones. He knew that because he had seen them in action. The owner of the hands was Colby Macdonald. The Scotch-Canadian stood at the edge of a willow grove. His face was grim as the day of judgment. "Don't move," he ordered. Elliot laughed irritably. He was both annoyed and disgusted. "What do you want?" he snapped. "You." "What's worrying you now? Do you think I'm jumping my bond?" "You're going back to Kusiak with me--to give a life for the one you took." "What's that?" cried Gordon, surprised. "Just as I'm telling you. I've been on your heels ever since you left town. You and Holt are going back with me as my prisoners." "But what for?" "For robbing the bank and murdering Robert Milton, as you know well enough." "Is this another plant arranged for me by you and Selfridge?" demanded Elliot. Macdonald ignored the question and lifted his voice. "Come out of that tent, Holt,--and come with your hands up unless you want your head blown off." "Holt isn't in that tent, you damned idiot. If you want to know--" "Come _now_, if you expect to come alive," cut in the Scotchman ominously. He raised the rifle to his shoulder and covered the shadow thrown by the sun on the figure within. Gordon flung out a wild protest and threw the frozen slab of bacon at the head of Macdonald. With the same motion he launched his own body across the stove. A fifth of a second earlier the tent flap had opened and Sheba had come out. The sight of her paralyzed Macdonald and saved her lover's life. It distracted the mine-owner long enough for him to miss his chance. A bullet struck the stove and went off at a tangent through the tent canvas not two feet from where Sheba stood. A second went speeding toward the sun. For Gordon had followed the football player's instinct and dived for the knees of his enemy. They went down together. Each squirming for the upper place, they rolled over and over. The rifle was forgotten. Like cave men they fought, crushing and twisting each other's muscles with the blind lust of primordials to kill. As they clinched with one arm, they struck savagely with the other. The impact of smashing blows on naked flesh sounded horribly cruel to Sheba. She ran forward, calling on each by name to stop. Probably neither knew she was there. Their whole attention was focused on each other. Not for an instant did their eyes wander, for life and death hung on the issue. Chance had lit the spark of their resentment, but long-banked passions were blazing fiercely now. They got to their feet and fought toe to toe. Sledge-hammer blows beat upon bleeding and disfigured faces. No thought of defense as yet was in the mind of either. The purpose of each was to bruise, maim, make helpless the other. But for the impotent little cries of Sheba no sound broke the stillness save the crunch of their feet on the hard snow, the thud of heavy fists on flesh, and the throaty snarl of their deep, irregular breathing. Gid Holt, from the window of the cabin, watched the battle with shining eyes. He exulted in every blow of Gordon; he suffered with him when the smashing rights and lefts of Macdonald got home. He shouted jeers, advice, threats, encouragement. If he had had ten thousand dollars wagered on the outcome he could not have been more excited. Swiftwater Pete, drawn by the cries of Sheba, came running from the stable. As he passed the window, Holt caught him by the arm. "What are you aimin' to do, Pete? Let 'em alone. Let 'em go to it. They got to have it out. Stop 'em now and they'll get at it with guns." Sheba ran up, wringing her hands. "Stop them, please. They're killing each other." "Nothing of the kind, girl. You let 'em alone, Pete. The kid's there every minute, ain't he? Gee, that's a good one, boy. Seven--eleven--ninety-two. 'Attaboy!" Macdonald had slipped on the snow and gone down to his hands and knees. Swift as a wildcat the younger man was on top of him. Hampered though he was by his parka, the Scotchman struggled slowly to his feet again. He was much the heavier man, and in spite of his years the stronger. The muscles stood out in knots on his shoulders and across his back, whereas on the body of his more slender opponent they flowed and rippled in rounded symmetry. Active as a heather cat, Elliot was far the quicker of the two. Half-blinded by the hammering he had received, Gordon changed his method of fighting. He broke away from the clinch and sidestepped the bull-like rush of his foe, covering up as well as he could from the onset. Macdonald pressed the attack and was beaten back by hard, straight lefts and rights to the unprotected face. The mine-owner shook the matted hair from his swollen eyes and rushed again. He caught an uppercut flush on the end of the chin. It did not even stop him. The weight of his body was in the blow he lashed up from his side. The knees of Elliot doubled up under him like the blade of a jackknife. He sank down slowly, turned, got to his hands and knees, and tried to shake off the tons of weight that seemed to be holding him down. Macdonald seized him about the waist and flung him to the ground. Upon the inert body the victor dropped, his knees clinching the torso of the unconscious man. "Now, Pete. Go to him," urged Holt wildly. But before Swiftwater could move, before the great fist of Macdonald could smash down upon the bleeding face upturned to his, a sharp blow struck the flesh of the raised forearm and for the moment stunned the muscles. The Scotch-Canadian lifted a countenance drunk with rage, passion-tossed. Slowly the light of reason came back into his eyes. Sheba was standing before him, his rifle in her hand. She had struck him with the butt of it. "Don't touch him! Don't you dare touch him!" she challenged. He looked at her long, then let his eyes fall to the battered face of his enemy. Drunkenly he got to his feet and leaned against a willow. His forces were spent, his muscles weighted as with lead. But it was not this alone that made his breath come short and raggedly. Sheba had flung herself down beside her lover. She had caught him tightly in her arms so that his disfigured face lay against her warm bosom. In the eyes lifted to those of the mine-owner was an unconquerable defiance. "He's mine--mine, you murderer," she panted fiercely. "If you kill him, you must kill me first." The man she had once promised to marry was looking at a different woman from the girl he had known. The soft, shy youth of her was gone. She was a forest mother of the wilds ready to fight for her young, a wife ready to go to the stake for the husband of her choice. An emotion primitive and poignant had transformed her. His eyes burned at her the question his parched lips and throat could scarcely utter. "So you ... love him?" But though it was in form a question he knew already the answer. For the first time in his life he began to taste the bitterness of defeat. Always he had won what he coveted by brutal force or his stark will. But it was beyond him to compel the love of a girl who had given her heart to another. "Yes," she answered. Her hair in two thick braids was flung across her shoulders, her dark head thrown back proudly from the rounded throat. Macdonald smiled, but there was no mirth in his savage eyes. "Do you know what I want with him--why I have come to get him?" "No." "I've come to take him back to Kusiak to be hanged because he murdered Milton, the bank cashier." The eyes of the woman blazed at him. "Are you mad?" "It's the truth." Macdonald's voice was curt and harsh. "He and Holt were robbing the bank when Milton came back from the dance at the club. The cowards shot down the old man like a dog. They'll hang for it if it costs me my last penny, so help me God." "You say it's the truth," she retorted scornfully. "Do you think I don't know you now--how you twist and distort facts to suit your ends? How long is it since your jackal had him arrested for assaulting you--when Wally Selfridge knew--and you knew--that he had risked his life for you and had saved yours by bringing you to Diane's after he had bandaged your wounds?" "That was different. It was part of the game of politics we were playing." "You admit that you and your friends lied then. Is it like you could persuade me that you're telling the truth now?" The big Alaskan shrugged. "Believe it or not as you like. Anyhow, he's going back with me to Kusiak--and Holt, too, if he's here." An excited cackle cut into the conversation, followed by a drawling announcement from the window. "Your old tillicum is right here, Mac. What's the use of waiting? Why don't you have your hanging-bee now?" _ |
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