The Long Arm of Mannister. E. Phillips OppenheimЧитать онлайн книгу.

      The Noxious Gift

      CHAPTER III

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      THE NOXIOUS GIFT

      "LOOK behind—once more," the woman gasped, stooping a little from the saddle.

      Even with that slight movement she swayed and almost fell. The man's hand supported her—he only knew with what an effort.

      "There is no one in sight," he muttered, but he did not look. His heart was sick with the accumulated fear of these awful months, but he did not look. His heart was sick with the accumulated fear of these awful months.

      They stumbled on again—a weary, heart-sickening procession. The woman's eyes were half closed, her cheeks were as pale as death, her black hair was powdered with dust, her clothing soiled and worn. She rode a small Mexican pony, itself in the last stage of exhaustion. By her side, on foot, with his left hand locked in the reins, the man staggered along. In her face was the white numbness of despair, the despair which takes no count of living terrors. In his the shadow of an awful fear remained. His eyes were glazed and framed in deep black rims. His mouth was open like a dog's, his knees trembled as he ran. Once the woman had turned her head, and seeing him had shivered. He reminded her of one of those prairie wolves, into whose carcass the bullet from the last cartridge in his revolver had found its way. If her lips could have borne the effort, she would have smiled at the idea that it was for love of such a man that she had thrown away her life. The terror of this unending chase had eaten the manhood out of him. He had no longer any hope, any courage. He followed only the blind impulse of the hunted animal—to flee. He wore shirt and trousers only, his socks had gone, his feet were bleeding through the gaps in his rent shoes. Yet he had held himself bravely enough once in the great world, before the cup of Iseult had touched his lips.

      A speck in front—a sombre blur upon the landscape. He saw it and pointed. The effort of stretching out his hand overbalanced him. He fell in a heap upon the rough roadway, and for a moment lay still. Her pony also halted, trembling in every limb, his fore-legs planted outwards, his nose close to the ground.

      She leaned down towards him.

      "Gaston," she cried feebly, "are you hurt?"

      He rose to his feet, and as he did so she noticed that he kept his head studiously turned away from the direction whence they had come. He shook the dust from his rags of clothing, and he gathered the reins once more into his hands. Of his hurts, if he had received any, he took no more notice than a dumb animal.

      "Come on," he gasped. "There is wooded country ahead. We may find shelter. Come!"

      "Look behind," she directed.

      "No!" he answered, shivering.

      "Look behind—I wish it," she insisted. "It is better to know."

      Slowly he turned his head. There was little room for expression left in his face, but she saw the slow dilation of his eyes, the animal drop of his jaw. He stood as one turned to stone, gazing back along the way by which they had come. As the woman understood, she drew one long sigh and slipped from the saddle, mercifully unconscious. The man did not heed her. His eyes were still fixed upon that speck in the distance, a cloud of dust, a man on horseback. Curiously enough, his most poignant feeling was one of relief. It was the end at last then, the end of a chase surely more terrible than any since the days when sin itself was born.

      She opened her eyes for a moment.

      "It is he?" she questioned.

      "It is he," the man repeated, as one might tell the time to a stranger.

      She pointed to the revolver in his belt, but he shook his head. She remembered that his cartridges were all gone.

      "Kill me some other way," she pleaded.

      "I could not," he answered. "I am not strong enough. I have no strength left. We have been very foolish, Christine. We should have waited in the city. There it would have been man to man at least. Now I am broken. I cannot strike a blow. I cannot even kill myself. I cannot kill you. I have no strength left. This flight by night and by day has robbed me of it. It was foolish!"

      She turned her face to the ground with a little sob.

      "I will hold my breath and die," she declared. "He shall not see me like this."

      The man stared at her dully. What did it matter, the rents in her garments, such trifles in the presence of death. He was a stupid fellow, and he had never gauged the measure of a woman's vanity.

      The speck in the distance grew more distinct, the cloud of dust larger. Then there came to the man a last access of strength, a strength wholly artificial, begotten of the terror which lay like ice upon his heart. He plucked at the woman and half helped, half pushed her upon the waiting pony.

      "He will catch us! He is here at last, Christine," he jabbered. "We must get to the wood. Perhaps we can hide, and strike him down when he is looking for us. I have a stone in my pocket I picked up. It is sharp—sharp as a knife! If I could get behind him ——"

      The woman shivered, but she suffered herself to be led. The pony staggered on as though every step might be its last. The man ran, breathing like a crazy machine, and with face almost black. And in their hearts they both knew that it was useless. Their pursuer was only cantering his horse, and he was gaining at every stride. Down the wind came the sound of his voice, the voice of the untired man who triumphs.

      "Gently, my friends, gently! Do you not see that it is I, Mannister, who calls? Why do you hurry so?"

      Over on his face went the hunted man, nerveless, and stricken with a new fear at the sound of that mocking voice. The pony stopped and swayed—collapsing rather than falling in the rough way. The woman lay there with her face to the earth and her arms