THE WORLD'S GREAT SNARE. E. Phillips OppenheimЧитать онлайн книгу.
night, and be d—d to you!” muttered Mr.
Hamilton surlily as he scrambled down the hillside, holding on to the young fir-trees, and every now and then balancing himself with difficulty. “What the devil were you thinking of when you built your shanty up in the clouds?” he shouted back as at last he reached the bottom. “I’m bruised all over. I’ll be shot if I come again.”
The Englishman laughed out lustily, and thrust his hands into his pockets.
“Good night, Jim!” he shouted, his deep bass voice awakening strange echoes as it travelled across the rocky gorge. “Don’t know what you want to swear at me for! You’ve drunk my whisky, and smoked my tobacco, and won my money, you surly beggar, you! Good night, Pete!” he added to his partner in a milder tone. “Be careful how you go, there! You’ve had as much liquor as you can carry, you have, you idiot!”
He walked a step or two further out, and watched both men gain their shanties. Then he turned round and stood for a moment or two gazing thoughtfully out into the darkness. A sudden impatience had prompted him to get rid of his rough companions, but he had no desire to sleep. The still, starlit night, the faint snowy outline of the distant mountains, the perfume of flowering shrubs, and the night odour of the pines, had quickened his senses and stirred vaguely his inherent love of beauty; so that he was forced to rid himself abruptly of his coarse surroundings and hasten out into the darkness. He leaned against the frail supports of his little dwelling, with folded arms, and dreamed—dreamed of that Eastern world which he had left, and which seemed a thing so far away from this deep majestic solitude. He turned his face towards the plains, and half closed his eyes. His had been a curious and a solitary life; a life oftenest gloomy, yet just once or twice bathed in a very bright light. It was something to think about—these brighter places so few and far between. Did he wish that he was back again where they would be once more possible? He scarcely knew! The fierce trouble and the disquiet of the days behind was no pleasant memory. He looked across, to the mist-topped hills and dark forests, and he felt that they had grown in a measure dear to him. In his heart, this great lonely man with the limbs and sinews of a giant was a poet. He was ignorant of books, and uneducated, but he loved beauty, and he loved nature, and in his way he loved solitude. He was happier here by far than he had been amongst the gilded saloons and cheap haunts of the Western cities. It was only the monotony and the apparent uselessness of his life here that oppressed him. He was a man with a purpose, a purpose which he had followed over land and sea, through cities and lonely places, with a dogged persistence characteristic of the man and of his race. In his expedition here, for the first time he had turned away from it, and the knowledge was beginning to trouble him. The hard physical labour, the glory of his surroundings, the mighty forests and hills broken up into valley, and precipice, and gorge, and all the time overshadowed by that everlasting background of the snow-capped Sierras, these things were all dear to him, and rough and uncultured though he was, they sank deeper into his being day by day, and night by night. He could not have talked about them. Nature had given him the sensibility of the poet and the artist, but education had denied him the use of words with which to express himself. As yet he scarcely appreciated all that he lost. That would conic some day.
Suddenly his dreaming was brought to an abrupt termination. His body stiffened, and his hand felt for the revolver in his belt. With the ready instinct of a man used to all sorts of emergencies, he recognized that he was no longer alone. Yonder, almost at his feet, behind that low prickly shrub, a man was lying.
“Who are you?” he asked quickly. “What do you want here? Put up your hands!”
The reply came only in a faint whisper.
“Bryan! Bryan, come and help me! Give me some brandy! I’m almost done! Thank God, I’ve found you!”
The Englishman stuck his revolver into his belt, and took a giant stride over to the spot.
“Who are you?” he asked, dropping on one knee, “and where, in God’s name, have you come from? How do you know my name?”
The figure raised itself a little. The tattered remnants of a cap fell off, and the moonlight fell upon the wan but strangely handsome face, gleaming in the dark eyes lit up with a sudden eager light.
“Don’t you know me, Bryan?” asked a soft, caressing voice. “Am I so altered?”
The Englishman gave a great start, and his bronzed face grew pale.
“My God!” he exclaimed. “It’s Myra!”
II. ON THE BANKS OF THE BLUE RIVER
The moon, which had risen now high above the wood-crowned hills, was shining with a faint ghostly light upon the new-corner’s wan face. The Englishman, who had started back like a man who sees a vision, as suddenly recovered himself. Surprising though this advent was, there was no doubt as to the identity of his visitor. Neither was there any doubt but that she was on the point of exhaustion. His first duty was plain. She must be taken care of.
“Can you walk into the cabin, or shall I carry you?” he asked, in a tone as matter-of-fact as though he was accustomed every day to receive such visits. “Better carry you, I think! You look all used up!”
“I—I’m afraid I can’t walk, Bryan,” she admitted, looking up at him with the ghost of a smile on her lips. “I guess I fainted a bit ago! It was the sound of your voice brought me to!”
Without another word he lifted the prostrate figure into his arms, and carried her into the shanty. Arrived safely inside—he had to bend almost double to enter the doorway—be laid her on his bed, and threw a blanket over her.
Then he took up his own tin mug of brandy, found that it was half full, and forced a little between the white lips.
The effect was swift and almost magical. A little faint colour stole into her cheeks, and she opened her eyes.
“Guess I’m starved!” she remarked, with a slight uplifting of the eyelids. “Got anything to eat?”
Her eyes wandered round the place hungrily. The Englishman stood still and considered for a moment. Then he struck a match and lit an oil stove, opened a tin of beef extract, and in a few minutes had a steaming cup full of the liquid. He brought it to her side, and she clutched it eagerly.
“Drink it slowly!” he advised. “That’s the style! Good God!”
He went out into the darkness, and returned in a few minutes with a pail of water. Then he turned up his shirtsleeves, and taking her shapely little feet into his great hands, bathed them carefully while she lay quite still with half closed eyes. When he had finished, he lit his pipe, and sat down by her side.
“Don’t hurry, Myra!” he said, leaning back against the wall, and thrusting his hands into his pockets. “Don’t talk at all unless you feel like it! More beef tea, eh? There, just a drop! That’s right!”
He held the cup to her lips, and then set it down.
“If you feel like going right off to sleep, why, off you go!” he said. “You can tell me all about it in the morning!”
He spoke cheerfully, but there was an undercurrent of anxiety in his tone which the girl’s quick ears detected. Henceforth she watched him furtively out of her big dark eyes, filled now with a fresh alarm.
“I’d as lief tell you now!” she said. “I’m rested!”
“That’s capital! Well, how did you get here all by yourself? That’s what I want to know.”
A little note of triumph crept into the girl’s tone. She watched her companion carefully to see what effect her words had upon him.
“I came on a mule half the way, Bryan. He died four days ago, and since then I have been walking!”
“You came on a mule!” the Englishman repeated