Chapter XXXIII: Face to Face

Veiled though the wording of that letter was, we had understood, where the good, but ignorant, people in Coovers Falls had not. And what a blessing their ignorance was!

“How he must have suffered!” Tom murmured.

Brent sighed. “With all McClintick’s ability to make money,” he said, “and his supposed strength of will, the son, with his apparent weakness for gambling and draft-dodging, proved the stronger.”

“Yes,” I said, “he went through the acid test. Do you think he’s quite sane, though?”

“You mean, his reference to Northrop no longer being in a tainted grave?”

“Yes.”

“I think so. I think it’s his conscience working all through the whole thing, even the money. That’s probably why he came back to live in the mountains so he could save the money and send it to Mrs. Northrop sometime. I don’t think he’s crazy though. His lonely existence and deprivations may have affected his mind. But I don’t think he’s a maniac by far.”

“Well, it would be a wonder if he isn’t,” Tom said. “I wonder where he lives up there?”

“He must have a shack, I guess,” Brent answered. “All the hermits in the movies do.”

“Well, this isn’t a movie,” I said, “it’s too real, by far.”

“At any rate,” Brent said, “I guess that Weston chap is the murderer.”

“Yes,” said Tom, “but try and find him!”

“They say a murderer always comes back, Tom,” I reminded.

The rest of the day was spent in apprehension and odd jobs. Just trying to kill time and thought until half past five.

About four o’clock, I was raking up some shavings around one of the newly completed shacks. Brent was gathering them up and burning them. The sun had gone partly under a mischievous gray cloud which at once gave the earth a sickly appearance.

“Brent,” I said, looking skyward with squinting eyes, “you might possibly see the sunset in the mountains, but you’ll never see the moonlight to-night!”

“Why, what makes you think so?” he asked. I pointed to the sun.

“Just a passing cloud,” he said. “Be clear in another minute.”

* * * * *

Tom and Rivers ahead, and Brent and myself following, were walking along the first slope at just six o’clock that evening.

The sun was beginning to set and looked like a huge balloon poised on the crest of old Hogback. Violet-colored shadows traced in weird shaped patterns spread across the sky. And from the valley below a purplish mist was rising, completely obliterating our view of the camp. Then the sun sank out of sight.

“Goin’ to rain!” Rivers said, as he adjusted his rifle over his shoulder. Tom also had his pistol (which I knew he didn’t intend using if he could help it), but Brent and I were unarmed except for a hatchet.

“What makes you think it will rain, Rivers?” Brent asked.

“Sun set too quick!”

“Then we’ll have a nice wet night!” Brent said, optimistically. Rivers looked back and grinned. He was going to enjoy the evening’s adventure, no matter what the weather.

Up on the second slope, the going was difficult. Tom, of course, was keeping ahead and watching the ground with a keen eye. A few drops of rain touched my cheek lightly, then a zigzag flash of lightning raced across the heavens.

“Let ’er rain,” Brent said, defiantly. “See if I care!”

We were pretty well clothed, so it didn’t make much difference except that the premature darkness would impede our progress.

“Better gather a little wood, fellows,” Tom said. “We may need it if we get stuck up here until morning.”

“That’s the stuff, Tommy,” Brent said. “Always looking out for a rainy day.”

It was raining in earnest at about eight o’clock, but we were deep in the forest and the thickly grown trees protected us from the storm. Tom and Rivers were lighting the way with two powerful searchlights. The tracks were still to be seen.

“I wonder if Tom sees the _other_ tracks?” I asked Brent, in an undertone.

“I think so,” Brent replied.

“The tracks are turning again, boys!” Tom said softly. “I think out of these woods and around the cleft.”

“It’s jes’ prob’ly what the critter’d do,” Rivers murmured, “a night like this.”

We did emerge from the woods and out by the cleft. The brook below in the light of day seemed to strike a silver chord of happiness within me. Now, in the storm-ridden darkness, it echoed plaintively along the gully.

The swish of the water flowing so rapidly over the rocks gave me the ghostly thought that perhaps it was the phantom feet of Peter Northrop retracing his steps down there and not the swish of the water at all. Tom’s voice jolted me out of my eerie musing.

“Where shall we go from here, Charlie?” he asked.

“No place. We’ll stay. He’ll come sometime to-night, a’right.”

“My feet are cold,” Brent said, soberly. “Couldn’t we make a little fire in through the trees there somewhere?”

“Sure!” Rivers said. “We haint heard him howl yet. That’s time enough to watch.”

The campfire was a welcome sight and put to flight all my morbid thoughts. We were sheltered by the trees some twenty-five feet from the cleft.

For about an hour we sat and chatted pleasantly. Except Rivers. He seemed to have sunken back into his usual silence again, and as I glanced at his face, I thought I detected a look of cunning. One felt, glancing at his face, that he had an air of expectancy about him. As if he had been listening and waiting all through his life for just that moment.

A terrific clap of thunder broke and the mountains seemed to be crashing around us. As it rolled away, we heard that great mournful wail, now becoming so familiar to our ears.

Again it came and again. I suddenly felt terribly chilled. Rivers got up stealthily and in a whispered voice told us that he’d go out and keep under cover of darkness and for us to sit quiet and wait.

Above the whistling of the howling gales, the cry of the animal sounded nearer and nearer. We were rigid. Not a sound came from the darkness outside by the cleft, but we knew Charlie Rivers was watching--and waiting.

It must have been near midnight, I thought.

I was sorry I had come. I wondered if Brent was? And Tom? Why should that animal be killed? He wasn’t hurting anyone by howling at night. I would have gotten up and spoken my mind, if I had thought Rivers wouldn’t have laughed at me.

Then the cries ceased. But the fire hissed and seemed to make a terrific noise, just when I wanted to concentrate my whole mind on listening. Brent made a funny gurgling sound in his throat. What made him do that, I wondered. Tom glared at him.

A hush had fallen over the whole place. For at least five minutes I hadn’t heard a sound or a move anywhere. But I felt a presence of something. Without twitching a muscle, Tom, Brent and I looked first at each other then out into the darkness.

Two eyes like glittering bits of steel, peered intently at us. The rest of the body was enveloped in the night, like a shroud.

It moved slightly, pawing the ground and then settling back on its hind paws. Although the silence was deadly, the animal suddenly swung around. I knew it must be Rivers!

It was too late when I saw it! Rivers’ gun was on the ground near the tree where he had been sitting. How he had forgotten it, I don’t know. But it was too late for him to get it.

The animal stood halfway between Rivers and ourselves. Tom’s hand made a move toward his back pocket, but Charlie had rushed for the lynx!

Before I realized what had happened, the woodsman had his brawny fingers tightly clasped about the animal’s throat. In the struggle, he had forced it back nearer the fire and into the light, and it stood erect on its hind paws.

Standing full in the firelight, I was horrified to see the maniacal expression on Rivers’ face. His small eyes seemed riveted upon his victim and he held the powerful jaws taut with a sort of fiendish delight.

It wasn’t the face of the defenceless man, killing a dangerous animal. It was the face of a dangerous man, killing a defenceless animal. The beast uttered a few stifled gasps and started to sink to the ground.

A screech and then a sort of hysterical laugh sounded shrilly through the trees. We stared with frightened eyes and pounding hearts.

Rivers released the dead animal and stood as if rooted to the spot.

Standing just between the darkness and the firelight, was the hermit! His long, unkempt hair and beard were dripping wet and the few rags that served to cover his poor, thin body were clinging to him.

The wild haunting eyes looked long at the prone beast, then at Rivers and ourselves. He seemed to see all and yet nothing. Then his long white bony fingers reached out toward Rivers. And he laughed--that horrible, terrible laugh. Charlie stepped back.

“So!” the hermit shrieked and moved nearer Rivers, “you don’t recognize me, eh, _Weston_?” Rivers flinched and drew himself up.

“It’s I, Weston!” he cried, “_I, Roland McClintick!_ I see you don’t kill with the gun any more! You like strangling best, is that it?” Rivers had moved back toward us. And the hermit laughed, his voice breaking into a sob.

“You won’t get away from _me_, Weston! You killed Northrop and my father, and now my pet!” Tears were streaming down his cheeks. His voice was quiet when he spoke again.

“I intend to kill _you_!”