Home > Authors Index > James Oliver Curwood > Valley of Silent Men: A Story of the Three River Country > This page
The Valley of Silent Men: A Story of the Three River Country, a novel by James Oliver Curwood |
||
Chapter 19 |
||
| < Previous |
Table of content |
Next > |
|
________________________________________________
_ CHAPTER XIX To the cabin Kent groped his way, and knocked, and it was Marette who opened the door for him and stepped back for him to enter. Like a great wet dog he came in, doubling until his hands almost touched the floor. He sensed the incongruity of it, the misplacement of his overgrown body in this playhouse thing, and he grinned through the trickles of wet that ran down his face, and tried to see. Marette had taken off her turban and rain-coat, and she, too, stooped low in the four-feet space of the cabin--but not so ridiculously low as Kent. He dropped on his knees again. And then he saw that in the tiny stove a fire was burning. The crackle of it rose above the beat of the rain on the roof, and the air was already mellowing with the warmth of it. He looked at Marette. Her wet hair was still clinging to her face, her feet and arms and part of her body were wet; but her eyes were shining, and she was smiling at him. She seemed to him, in this moment, like a child that was glad it had found refuge. He had thought that the terror of the night would show in her face, but it was gone. She was not thinking of the thunder and the lightning, the black trail, or of Kedsty lying dead in his bungalow. She was thinking of him. He laughed outright. It was a joyous, thrilling thing, this black night with the storm over their heads and the roll of the great river under them--they two--alone--in this cockleshell cabin that was not high enough to stand in and scarcely big enough in any direction to turn round in. The snug cheer of it, the warmth of the fire beginning to reach their chilled bodies, and the inspiring crackle of the birch in the little stove filled Kent, for a space, with other thoughts than those of the world they were leaving. And Marette, whose eyes and lips were smiling at him softly in the candle-glow, seemed also to have forgotten. It was the little window that brought them back to the tragedy of their flight. Kent visioned it as it must look from the shore--a telltale blotch of light traveling through the darkness. There were occasional cabins for several miles below the Landing, and eyes turned riverward in the storm might see it. He made his way to the window and fastened his slicker over it. "We're off, Gray Goose," he said then, rubbing his hands. "Would it seem more homelike if I smoked?" She nodded, her eyes on the slicker at the window. "It's pretty safe," said Kent, fishing out his pipe, and beginning to fill it. "Everybody asleep, probably. But we won't take any chances." The scow was swinging sideways in the current. Kent felt the change in its movement, and added: "No danger of being wrecked, either. There isn't a rock or rapids for thirty miles. River clear as a floor. If we bump ashore, don't get frightened." "I'm not afraid--of the river," she said. Then, with rather startling unexpectedness, she asked him, "Where will they look for us tomorrow?" Kent lighted his pipe, eyeing her a bit speculatively as she seated herself on the stool, leaning toward him as she waited for an answer to her question. "The woods, the river, everywhere," he said. "They'll look for a missing boat, of course. We've simply got to watch behind us and take advantage of a good start." "Will the rain wipe out our footprints, Jeems?" "Yes. Everything in the open." "But--perhaps--in a sheltered place--?" "We were in no sheltered place," he assured her. "Can you remember that we were, Gray Goose?" She shook her head slowly. "No. But there was Mooie, under the window." "His footprints will be wiped out." "I am glad. I would not have him, or M'sieu Fingers, or any of our friends brought into this trouble." She made no effort to hide the relief his words brought her. He was a little amazed that she should worry over Fingers and the old Indian in this hour of their own peril. That danger he had decided to keep as far from her mind as possible. But she could not help realizing the impending menace of it. She must know that within a few hours Kedsty would be found, and the long arm of the wilderness police would begin its work. And if it caught them-- She had thrust her feet toward him and was wriggling them inside her boots, so that he heard the slushing sound of water. "Ugh, but they are wet!" she shivered. "Will you unlace them and pull them off for me, Jeems?" He laid his pipe aside and knelt close to her. It took him five minutes to get the boots off. Then he held one of her sodden little feet close between his two big hands. "Cold--cold as ice," he said. "You must take off your stockings, Marette. Please." He arranged a pile of wood in front of the stove and covered it with a blanket which he pulled from one of the bunks. Then, still on his knees, he drew the cane chair close to the fire and covered it with a second blanket. A few moments later Marette was tucked comfortably in this chair, with her bare feet on the blanketed pile of wood. Kent opened the stove door. Then he extinguished one of the smoking candles, and after that, the other. The flaming birch illumined the little cabin with a mellower light. It gave a subdued flush to the girl's face. Her eyes seemed to Kent wonderfully soft and beautiful in that changed light. And when he had finished, she reached out a hand, and for an instant it touched his face and his wet hair so lightly that he sensed the thrilling caress of it without feeling its weight. "You are so good to me, Jeems," she said, and he thought there was a little choking note in her throat. He had seated himself on the floor, close to her chair, with his back to the wall. "It is because I love you, Gray Goose," he replied quietly, looking straight into the fire. She was silent. She, too, was looking into the fire. Close over their heads they heard the beating of the rain, like a thousand soft little fists pounding the top of the cabin. Under them they could feel the slow swinging of the scow as it responded to the twists and vagaries of the current that was carrying them on. And Kent, unseen by the girl who was looking away from him, raised his eyes. The birch light was glowing in her hair; it trembled on her white throat; her long lashes were caught in the shimmer of it. And, looking at her, Kent thought of Kedsty lying back in his bungalow room, choked to death by a tress of that glorious hair, so near to him now that, by leaning a little forward, he might have touched it with his lips. The thought brought him no horror. For even as he looked, one of her hands crept up to her cheek--the small, soft hand that had touched his face and hair as lightly as a bit of thistle-down--and he knew that two hands like that could not have killed a man who was fighting for life when he died. And Kent reached up, and took the hand, and held it close in his own, as he said, "Little Gray Goose, please tell me now--what happened in Kedsty's room?" His voice thrilled with an immeasurable faith. He wanted her to know, no matter what had happened, that this faith and his love for her could not be shaken. He believed in her, and would always believe in her. Already he was sure that he knew how Kedsty had died. The picture of the tragedy had pieced itself together in his mind, bit by bit. While he slept, Marette and a man were down in the big room with the Inspector of Police. The climax had come, and Kedsty was struck a blow--in some unaccountable way--with his own gun. Then, just as Kedsty was recovering sufficiently from the shock of the blow to fight, Marette's companion had killed him. Horrified, dazed by what had already happened, perhaps unconscious, she had been powerless to prevent the use of a tress of her hair in the murderer's final work. Kent, in this picture, eliminated the boot- laces and the curtain cords. He knew that the unusual and the least expected happened frequently in crime. And Marette's long hair was flowing loose about her. To use it had simply been the first inspiration of the murderer. And Kent believed, as he waited for her answer now, that Marette would tell him this. And as he waited, he felt her fingers tighten in his hand. "Tell me, Gray Goose--what happened?" "I--don't--know--Jeems--" His eyes went to her suddenly from the fire, as if he was not quite sure he had heard what she had said. She did not move her head, but continued to gaze unseeingly into the flames. Inside his palm her fingers worked to his thumb and held it tightly again, as they had clung to it when she was frightened by the thunder and lightning. "I don't know what happened, Jeems." This time he did not feel the clinging thrill of her little fingers and soft palm. Deep within him he experienced something that was like a sudden and unexpected blow. He was ready to fight for her until his last breath was gone. He was ready to believe anything she told him--anything except this impossible thing which she had just spoken. For she did know what had happened in Kedsty's room. She knew--unless-- Suddenly his heart leaped with joyous hope. "You mean--you were unconscious?" he cried in a low voice that trembled with his eagerness. "You fainted--and it happened then?" She shook her head. "No. I was asleep in my room. I didn't intend to sleep, but--I did. Something awakened me. I thought I had been dreaming. But something kept pulling me, pulling me downstairs. And when I went, I found Kedsty like that. He was dead. I was paralyzed, standing there, when you came." She drew her, hand away from him, gently, but significantly. "I know you can't believe me, Jeems. It is impossible for you to believe me." "And you don't want me to believe you, Marette." "Yes--I do. You must believe me." "But the tress of hair--your hair--round Kedsty's neck--" He stopped. His words, spoken gently as they were, seemed brutal to him. Yet he could not see that they affected her. She did not flinch. He saw no tremor of horror. Steadily she continued to look into the fire. And his brain grew confused. Never in all his experience had he seen such absolute and unaffected self-control. And somehow, it chilled him. It chilled him even as he wanted to reach out and gather her close in his arms, and pour his love into her ears, entreating her to tell him everything, to keep nothing back from him that might help in the fight he was going to make. And then she said, "Jeems, if we should be caught by the Police-- it would probably be quite soon, wouldn't it?" "They won't catch us." "But our greatest danger of being caught is right now, isn't it?" she insisted. Kent took out his watch and leaned over to look at it in the fireglow. "It is three o'clock," he said. "Give me another day and night, Gray Goose, and the Police will never find us." For a moment or two more she was silent. Then her hand reached out, and her fingers twined softly round his thumb again. "Jeems-- when we are safe--when we are sure the Police won't find us--I will tell you all that I know--about what happened in Kedsty's room. And I will tell you--about--the hair. I will tell you-- everything." Her fingers tightened almost fiercely. "Everything," she repeated. "I will tell you about that in Kedsty's room--and I will tell you about myself--and after that--I am afraid--you won't like me." "I love you," he said, making no movement to touch her. "No matter what you tell me, Gray Goose, I shall love you." She gave a little cry, scarcely more than a broken note in her throat, and Kent--had her face been turned toward him then--would have seen the glory that came into it, and into her eyes, like a swift flash of light--and passed as swiftly away. What he did see, when she turned her head, were eyes caught suddenly by something at the cabin door. He looked. Water was trickling in slowly over the sill. "I expected that," he said cheerfully. "Our scow is turning into a rain-barrel, Marette. Unless I bail out, we'll soon be flooded." He reached for his slicker and put it on. "It won't take me long to throw the water overboard," he added. "And while I'm doing that I want you to take OFF your wet things and tuck yourself into bed. Will you, Gray Goose?" "I'm not tired, but if you think it is best--" Her hand touched his arm. "It is best," he said, and for a moment he bent over her until his lips touched her hair. Then he seized a pail, and went out into the rain. _ |
||