Chapter III: Without Mercy

For a breathless interval Dexter held his position before the closed door, listening to the amazing voice within. A woman! Her words came to him, decisive and sharp, in high-keyed inflection. It was too dark to look for new footprints, but whoever she was, she must have arrived there during his absence. But whence had she come? What was a woman doing in this far-off, snow-buried forest? Even a vivid imagination failed to answer.

Had he acted on first impulses, Dexter would have thrust his way into the room to demand explanations. But reflection stayed him. He probably would learn more about her if he kept out of sight.

She was talking excitedly, in quick, broken sentences. "Betrayed!" he heard her say to some one invisible. "The police are in the valley."

There ensued a brief pause. Then she spoke again. "Yes! Both arrested! Murder--a constable from Fort Dauntless!"

Another silence followed, and the listener outside waited in acutest suspense. "That's what I was afraid of," said the speaker finally, as though in response to a question. "They quizz them until their nerve breaks, and they tell all they know. But don't worry. I'll take care of that danger. Nobody's going to talk this time."

There was a hushed interval once more, and then the woman laughed. It was a strange, mirthless laugh, with a wild, inhuman note that sent a shiver through the hearer's veins. "Lifeless tongues never talk!" she asserted in a reckless tone. "You lie low for a while, and you're in no danger. I give you my word! There's one thing left to do, and I'm doing it now!" A breathless interlude passed, and the woman spoke with sharp finality. "I'm going through with it!" she declared in rising accents. "That's settled! Good-by!"

The voice broke off with a hysterical catch at the end. For five seconds no sound came from the cabin. From the spruces somewhere a little timber owl sent forth a hollow, long-drawn trill, that floated in the air, lonesome and remote, and died like an expiring breath. The veering wind eddied around the north wall of the cabin, cutting with razor sharpness through protecting woolens, flinging snow particles. Corporal Dexter shivered, and again his hand reached for the door latch.

But before he found the handle, the silence was rent by a man's scream--a hoarse voice, straining to unnatural falsetto, that carried terror and craven pleading in a single frenzied outcry, "Don't! Oh, no! Merc--!"

The appeal broke in the middle of the word, and the door of the cabin trembled before the jarring concussion of an exploding firearm.

There was an appalling hush; and then the horrid thump of another gunshot jarred the door of the cabin.

The corporal's chilled fingers had found the latch at last, and as he lifted it up, he flung his weight forward to throw open the door. But the latch seemed to have jammed, and his shoulder bumped forcibly against solid planks that failed to give. He hammered at the catch, and heaved himself recklessly against the barrier, in an effort to break his way in. But he only bruised his shoulder, and the door would not yield. Instead of wasting his further efforts, he stooped to discover what was wrong. And then he understood. The bar was down. The door had been locked from the inside.

From the darkened cabin there came a vague jumble of sounds: a soft thud of a weight falling, a stifled groan of mortal anguish, a fluttering movement of something on the creaking floor boards. But the wind was also in Dexter's ears, and he could not have sworn definitely just what it was he heard.

He remembered a split of log on the ground, that he had stumbled over when he crossed the clearing a while before. Now he retraced his steps, and dug the heavy billet out of the snow. The quartered section of tree trunk was as much as his strength could manage, but he lugged it back to the cabin and contrived to swing it as a ram. The first and second blows seemed to have little effect on the stoutly barred door, but the continued battering began to tell. Finally he heard a splintering crack within, and at last something gave way entirely, and the door broke from its frame and sprang open with a crash. He dropped his log and stepped across the threshold, his narrowed eyes searching the gloom of the smoke-filled room.

The hearth fire had dwindled down to a few smoldering coals that threw a dull red shimmer to the opposite wall. But beyond the faint streak of light, the darkness was impenetrable. An ominous silence surcharged the oppressive, tainted atmosphere.

Baxter's finger was on the trigger of his carbine as he held impassive, listening for some rustle of sound to locate an intruding presence. He knew that his figure loomed in silhouette against the dim glowing hearth, and he was keenly alive to the imminence of danger. At any instant he might see the flash, hear the crash of a shot fired treacherously from the darkness; and he steeled himself unconsciously to the shock of sudden hurt.

His weapon was balanced lightly at his hip, and with his free hand he drew out his pocket lamp. The shaft of light struck across the room, throwing its brilliant white bull's-eye upon the bunks. He looked, and his eyes dilated at the ugly sight before him.

Fallen backwards, half in and half out of the bunk, Mudgett hung feet uppermost, his head and shoulders resting on the floor, his ankles still tied to the foot logs, as the corporal had left him. His long, matted hair had tumbled back from his temples, and he gazed up at the ceiling with unmoving eyes that shone with the luster of opaque glass. His hands were still bound together by the elkskin thong. From under his shoulders a dark tinged stain trickled and spread upon the floor.

Automatically, as a man acting in a daze, Dexter shifted his light upward. The higher bunk was still occupied by the man without a name. He was lying on his side, still and lifeless, his manacled arms dangling limply over the edge of the bunk. His feet were securely tied to the end post, and so, like Mudgett, he had met his fate while helplessly fettered, tethered like a sheep for slaughter, without a chance of fighting back.

The fierce dark eyes were closed, and the bitter lines of malice somehow had been erased from his pallid face. His temple was black with powder burn, and just behind his eye there showed the red drilled mark of an entering bullet. Dexter observed certain other details of fact, and it needed no closer examination to tell him that both prisoners had been delivered from his hands by death.