Chapter XXXI: Ill-Favored Company

For an interval of ten seconds Crill stood like a man turned to putty, his mouth sagging as though it had suddenly lost muscular support, his babyish complexion changing to a sickly grayish hue. "Where--what the--?" he started to mutter, and then somehow failed to find the words to finish.

"You're wondering how I got here?" inquired the corporal politely. "I merely followed down through the pass. I didn't die under that fallen tree, as you probably supposed."

"What are you doing here?" the officer pursued as Crill continued speechless. "Locked yourself out, or something? What's inside that makes it worth so much trouble to reach the bar?

"Find out for myself if you're tongue-tied," he added after a moment of straining silence. With revolver in hand he moved forward and kicked the door panel with his heavy boot. "Hello!" he called out. "Anybody in there?"

As he paused to listen he caught a creaking sound within, light footsteps approached the threshold, and a faint, frightened voice spoke through the door. "Oh--who is it?" some one asked breathlessly.

It was a woman--Alison Rayne: and his eyes grew thoughtful as he recognized her voice. She had called to him, and the far cry in some wondrous manner had reached him when he stood at the head of the pass, miles away. A miracle had been wrought, and he could not guess its manner of accomplishment. He did not try, but turned to Crill with a direful glance.

"So--you were trying to cut your way through the door!" he said harshly. His fingers unconsciously tightened upon the butt of his gun, but after measuring the man up and down, he swung around to the cabin entrance. "Alison!" he called. "It's I--Dexter."

"Oh, thanks--thanks!" he heard the girl say in a half sobbing voice; then the bar was thrown up, the door opened, and Alison stumbled forward to meet him.

He looked searchingly into the blue eyes that lifted to his. "What happened?" he asked.

"This man!" she said with a shudder. "I barred myself inside, and he--he's been trying to cut his way through the door--working for hours with his knife blade. He--he's a beast!"

The corporal favored Crill with a saturnine stare. "Well, he'll have something else to think about from now on," he remarked grimly. "There's a beam and a rope and a trap waiting for him in the Cook County jail yard."

"I ain't there yet," said the outlaw, with a throaty effort of speech.

Dexter ignored the man, and glanced again at Alison. "Why did you leave me?" he asked. "I trusted your word, you know."

She faced him with level gaze. "My word is good," she said quietly. "I had every intention of coming back."

"Then what--"

"My brother, of course," she interrupted. "I didn't think he could be far ahead of us, and I knew he'd have to stop for the night. I was afraid he might not get started early enough this morning, so I came on ahead, hoping that I might find him at this cabin. I meant to warn him to hurry on before you could overtake him."

"So it was only pretense last night--you're being too tired to travel."

"I was very tired," she said, "but--well, I admit I was able to go a little farther--after you were asleep."

Dexter could not help smiling at her frankness. "And you found your brother here at this cabin?"

"No. I thought he'd be here, but I guess he didn't stop. He must have hurried on in the night."

"To catch up with Stark, I suppose?"

She shook her head. "I don't know anything about Stark," she told him.

The corporal turned to Crill. "Where are your friends?" he asked.

"Wouldn't you like to know?" said the other with a sullen leer.

"I imagine that I do know," replied the officer placidly. "Probably not far ahead. You came back over the trail, I presume--after something you'd forgotten. And found Miss Rayne here. However it doesn't matter why you came. You're here. That's all I'm interested in knowing."

He eyed the outlaw somberly, wondering at the fact that he had risked a night abroad without a weapon. "What became of your rifle?" he inquired.

"Lost it in that cursed creek," was the reply. "Had to grab a rock when I was wading across, and the gun slipped from my hand. If it hadn't been for that, you wouldn't be standing there now asking me questions."

Dexter shrugged his shoulders lightly. "Let's go inside and cook bacon and coffee," he suggested. "I don't imagine any of us has had breakfast."

He stood warily aside and motioned towards the doorway, and after an instant's hesitation, the outlaw stepped forward and passed into the cabin. Dexter followed at his heels, and shut the door behind him.

There was but one room in the place--a solid walled chamber with a fireplace and built-in bunk, and three or four pieces of rude furniture scattered about. A packing box in the center of the floor apparently served as a table. Above it, from a ceiling beam, hung a lighted lantern. The corporal glanced swiftly about him and saw that the structure did not differ in any essential from the two cabins in the valley on the southern side of the pass. There were cooking utensils, a shelf full of provisions, and plenty of cut firewood. Evidently the place was one of a line of way stations intended for the accommodation of Stark's transient guests.

Dexter indicated a slab stool in the corner, and told Crill to sit down. He dropped the revolver into the side pocket of his jacket where it might be easily reached. "I won't hesitate to kill you," he said quietly. He eyed the outlaw's huge shoulders and big, ham-like hands, and knew that without the use of his right arm he could not hope to last two seconds in a physical encounter. "You stay your distance, always," he pursued. "The dead line is five feet and if you come nearer than that to me at any time, I'm going to let you have it."

Having delivered himself of his warning, he turned casually aside, laid kindling in the hearth, and built a fire. He ransacked a cupboard, helped himself to such provisions as he found there, and started breakfast for three people. Then, while the coffee pot was simmering, he stood as close as he dared to the fire, drying his dripping clothes.

Alison had come forward to toast the bacon, and he found a chance to talk to her, without being overheard by Crill.

"I heard your call for help," he told her. "The place was seven or eight miles from here. How was it done?"

"I may have cried out," she said. "I--I was terribly frightened when I realized that this man was cutting through the door to reach the latch."

"I heard your voice--recognized it," he persisted. "It was as though it had carried to me on the breeze from a great distance. And you spoke my name." He eyed her keenly. "How did you make me hear?"

Her glance shifted, and she refused to meet his gaze. "It could have been just your imagination," she said after a little pause. "I--I was in great trouble, and it could be that by a--some strange occult way my thoughts and fears were carried to you. Queer things like that have happened--things that none of us can understand." Her eyes softened as she lifted them fleetingly to his face. "But whatever it was you heard or fancied you heard, you came to me. I shall never forget that."

He regarded her tensely for a moment, and shook his head. Whatever the mystery of the far-off voice, she had no intention of confiding the truth to him. After all, he was her enemy, and he could expect no help from her in solving riddles. And from previous experience he knew how futile it was to cross-question her when she had made up her mind to keep silent. He smiled lightly. "All right," he said. "It's evident that Stark and his guests have some uncanny method of projecting voices through the wilderness. And you're wise not to tip yourselves off to the police. But whatever the system is, I'm glad at least that I heard, and got here in time."

The breakfast preparations were finished in silence, and while the girl put plates on the packing box table, he poured the coffee and served the grilled bacon strips, Crill was motioned to a place at the table opposite Dexter, and he sat down sullenly to eat.

"How did you reach this island?" the corporal was reminded to ask Alison as she pulled up a chair at his left hand.

"Why, I waded across," she said in apparent surprise. "It wasn't deep."

Dexter looked up from his plate with a start. "How deep?" he demanded.

"Not up to my knees."

"When did you reach here?" he asked sharply.

"Early in the morning. Several hours before you came."

The corporal suddenly pushed his stool back from the table and stood up. "Come with me, Crill," he commanded. "I want you where I can keep an eye on you." He pointed towards the doorway. The outlaw stared at him from under lowering brows, but after a sharp exchange of glances, the man got up reluctantly and moved across the room.

Dexter forced his prisoner to precede him outside the cabin, and together they walked down through the timber to the edge of the rapids. The corporal looked across the rushing, tumbling surface of the stream, and his worst fear was realized. The water had risen at least half a foot since he had crossed. Presumably an ice jam had broken somewhere in the mountains, and the flood was released. Some of the bowlders he had clung to now had disappeared from sight. He had barely managed to force the passage when he came from the opposite bank, and the few added inches of depth made the return impossible. He and Alison and Crill were marooned on the island, and it might be many days before the stream subsided sufficiently for them to dare the return trip. Meanwhile, it was a certainty that Stark and the others of his gang would soon be returning to look for the missing Crill.