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The Return of Blue Pete, a fiction by Luke Allan |
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Chapter 24. The Schemes Of A Leader |
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_ CHAPTER XXIV. THE SCHEMES OF A LEADER Ignace Koppowski, lazily rolling a cigarette, stood before his shack on the hill, apparently absorbed in the camp scene at his feet. In reality he was watching Torrance and Conrad watching him from the shack beside the trestle. After a time he returned inside, picked up his hat from the bunk and, rolling another cigarette, strolled out, pulling the door behind him. From the shaded side of the hut he put his fingers to his nose and waggled them in the direction of the grade, then he climbed back through the window. Inside, every vestige of impudence deserted him. A grave frown puckered his forehead as he seated himself thoughtfully on the solitary chair to sit like a statue staring at the floor. Certain sudden twistings of his clumsy frame revealed the vagrant meanderings of his mind, now satisfied and determined, now uncertain and reflective. Plainly it was a mind that refused to settle. Thus he missed the first three low taps on the wall of his hut. When it was repeated he jerked his head nervously, stared for an appreciable moment at an upper corner of the room, gripped his fists and teeth, and whispered a soft response. Werner's head appeared in the window space, smiled, pushed through, followed by a scrambling body. After him came Morani, Heppel, and eighteen villainous-looking companions. Werner, first to enter, as usual, selected the bunk, throwing himself on it with a cunning smile. He always thought too quickly for the others. His companions littered the floor, Koppy retaining the seat of state. Twenty-two vile-featured conspirators gathered in solemn conclave. A twenty-third, not so vile-featured but swarthier of skin, sank softly against the logs at the rear of the shack, one ear pressed to a chink. "You've gone the rounds?" demanded Koppy, probing each face in turn. One of the men spoke hesitatingly: "Simoff's rifles gone. We find place--all gone." Koppy turned on him. "Sure?" He knew the craven hearts and beclouding imaginations of these companions of his. "We saw marks. It was the place." The frown on their leader's forehead deepened, and for a long time he was wrapped in thought. "Yours, too, Werner!" he muttered, shaking his head. Werner read censure into the three words. "That dirty redskin caught me a clump on the coco from behind, and then a whole lot of Indians jumped on me. See, there's the lump." He felt tenderly of the crown of his head, but made no advance to enable his friends to verify his claim; it was too sore for that. "I just dropped. When I came round, the rifles were gone." "You saw the Indian?" "Sure I saw him." In time he recalled the darkness and added hastily, "with my nose. You can't fool this guy when an Indian's within a mile. I know when they're inside the township. I guess I ought to: I used to steal with 'em, out further west, trapping we was--or stealing from the other fellow's traps. Smell 'em? Well, I guess." "Do you smell one now?" asked Koppy suddenly. Twenty-one pair of eyes went swiftly to the window. Blue Pete, at his chink behind the shack, held his ground, but his muscles were tense. Werner grinned at the little joke. "There ain't much chance to smell anything else with this bunk of yours under my nose. When they burn this shack down--and they got to if they're going to live in the country--somebody's going to be asphyxiated. I hope I'm five hundred miles away about then." Koppy, struggling with anger and scorn, frowned on the would-be humourist, who hastily grinned. "Course you know it's only a joke of mine, Koppy." "Better so," returned the leader coldly. "Many Indians about?" He was searching Werner's eyes. "You saw--or smelt them." Werner wilted under that stare. Volubly he struggled to support his story with convincing details, but his face was flushed and his eyes were anywhere but on his leader's. And Koppy smiled inscrutably. "Anyway, we still got ninety-two rifles," stammered Werner. "That surely ought--" Koppy struck him to sudden silence by a peremptory hand. "You talk too much," he said acidly. "Just let me fire the first shot, that's all I want," babbled Werner, reading the disfavour under which he rested. "I'll blow the whole bunch to hell." Morani's long knife passed slickly back and forth on the side of his boot; and they watched with staring eyes. A dirty, moistened finger tested the keen edge, the dark, cruel face lit up with satisfaction, and the weapon slid unobtrusively out of sight somewhere in the Italian's clothing. Werner shuddered. "It's a wonder your vittles don't sour on your stomach, Chico. Every time I dream I can feel that stiletto spiding down my spine." And then, by a stealthy, apparently innocent movement, the knife was out again, sliding along the leather of the boot. "If you don't put that sticker where it belongs," protested Werner, "I'm going to carry a gun. I suppose you got to be carving something. Well, go out and tackle a log. You was brought up on a knife instead of a spoon." "Saturday night!" Koppy announced suddenly. "Er--what's that?" Werner had straightened on the bunk and was regarding his leader with fearful eyes. "Ah--yes--Saturday night. But don't you think a week from now, say next Tuesday--" "Saturday night," repeated Koppy. "If you wouldn't be so swift, Koppy, I was going to point out that the moon will be darker a few days later. I'm a regular nightingale when it comes to the dark." "Some bird!" sneered Koppy. "Maybe you flew from the Indians." "Look here, old chap," Werner bridled, "you don't think I ran about looking for that Indian and threw the damn things at him?" "You run-a spry away from him," jeered Morani. Werner made a furious movement, but noticed the Italian's knife-hand in time. "I wish to blazes I'd run spryer before he hit me. Anybody's welcome to this knob on my nut. Trouble was I was too heavily armed to fight. Ask me my private opinion and I'd say Mavy's brought his tribe down to bother us. I'm game to butt up against anything that wears boots. But them Indians don't even wear pants--not what you'd notice." "Indians got-a you--they wear pants, no?" leered Morani. Koppy interrupted what promised to develop into a row. "At one o'clock Saturday night," he announced in a loud voice. "Till then no touch rifles. Say nothing till the day. That's all." He dismissed them with a wave of his hand. The half breed lifted himself from the ground behind the shack and slunk away. Half the conspirators were already through the window when Koppy made a movement of his hand toward the camp. Creatures of his will, they obeyed without a word and wound away, later to drop down to the camp. Koppy followed. Straight through the unkempt cluster of buildings they went until they were out in the open river bottom far from the nearest group of gamblers, who turned dull eyes on them between plays. Koppy seated himself and waved to his followers to do the same. Up at the end of the trestle the light from the boss's shack twinkled through the gloom. Close beside them the gurgle of the waters was soft and soothing, and the colour-touched clouds above the setting sun cast an unreal glow over the edges of the river bank. Koppy moved his eyes about uncomfortably on the day's good-night. The mumblings of Werner brought him to the task in hand. "We attack to-morrow night at midnight!" he announced. A gasp went up from the lips about him. Fanatic and bloodthirsty as they were, the imminence of the ordeal that was to requite their wrongs startled them. Their preference was to curse their bosses and spur others to dangerous revenge. In moments of carefully developed hysteria they were reckless enough--when the hour came they would probably go forward blindly, with the foolhardiness of the ignorant--but Koppy's methods to-night were singularly unenflaming. Werner expressed himself first: "Like hell we do!" Koppy ignored their agitation; for some reason he did not choose to exercise then the petty arts of the leader. "Perhaps some one hear up there," he explained, jerking an impatient thumb toward the shack they had left. "I fool him." "You fool us, too," grumbled Werner. "To-morrow night at midnight we strike. Boss asleep, everybody asleep. Police asleep, too. Sure thing!" "I be blowed!" Werner snarled to himself. "Here I been counting on a week or so to live--or make a getaway. Now I'm to be shot at midnight! A dog would get a fairer chance." "At supper to-morrow tell the men," ordered Koppy. "Morani get dynamite. Werner take ten men and watch Mr. Conrad--perhaps a knife. Heppel tear up track and stop Police. Lomask take ten rifles back of boss's shack. Hoffman smash boss's speeder. One-Eye Sam take rock-hogs to trestle. Dimhoff cut wires." Silence was over the group. Even in their trepidation the completeness of their leader's programme over-awed them. Werner alone, driven by his fears, forgot to await the formal dismissal that was the main feature of the ritual, and started away. Koppy waved him back angrily. "One thing--remember!" He glared about on them. "There's a hundred and one I'm trying to remember before I kick the bucket," murmured Werner. "But all I seem to get is a picture of a thousand bullets meanderin' about loose to-morrow night in the dark at midnight, and the worst of them's not going to be going away from us." The leader closed the mouth of the fearful one with a look. "Remember"--the grimness of Koppy's tone was a threat--"the girl's mine." "First catch your fish," muttered Werner. "All the others, kill. But the girl--must not--be hurt! Understand?" "Not till you get your ugly paws on her!" said Werner with a significant leer. _ |
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