Blue Kingdom (26 page)

“Hypocrites we despise, and Chuck was no hypocrite. He loved saying what was in his mind, and rather than flatter a man he was almost sure to go in the opposite direction. We also despise and scorn spendthrifts, and Chuck was none of these. Whatever money came into his hands, he held with an iron grasp. Money was safer with Chuck Harper than in a steel safe. I must end by pointing out that Chuck was no destroyer of morals, and I defy any of you to say that Chuck ever
stood treat in all his days. Finally, let us remember that Chuck's death was in perfect harmony with all his acts. As he lived, so he died. For myself, I am glad that I have known the biggest man who ever strained the back of a mountain horse. I wish him the best luck that can come his way, wherever he now may be.”

Legges ended and stepped back. At a signal from Tankerton, the earth began to be shoveled back into the grave, but it was not yet half filled, when a long halloo came wavering up the hillside, and then the familiar wail of the cook was distinguished: “Hey! Come and get it! Come and get it!”

Shovels were dropped at once, and the whole crew streamed back toward the camp.

Dunmore went with the rest. He had told clearly and simply how the shooting took place, and Jimmy Larren was a vivid witness for the defense. Afterward, he furnished a new blanket in which the body of the dead man was wrapped, in lieu of a coffin, before it was lowered into the ground. In this manner, it was considered that he had fulfilled his duties, and that the review of the case had ended when Tankerton had said: “We know how Chuck Harper was killed. If any man questions the story, now is the time to speak up.”

No voices were raised.

“Then,” Tankerton said, “this is forgotten. We'll bury every grievance in the same grave that holds Harper.”

However, that was not accurately the case.

Chelton stepped beside Dunmore on the way down the hill from the interrupted burial. He said softly:
“Partner, are you satisfied with the lay-out around these parts?”

“Why not?” asked Dunmore.

“The boys don't look happy,” said Chelton. “They're ag'in' you, Dunmore.”

“Why?”

“Because they's been talk passed around. I think that Legges and Tucker have had their share of it. Don't talk to me, because, of course, they know that I'm for you. But the other boys seem to figger that you're different from the rest of 'em. That's the way that trouble starts, Dunmore, as I reckon that you know.”

“I know,” he agreed.

“All right,” remarked Chelton. “If you got the cards to play this game, go ahead. You can count me in as part of your hand, of course.”

As they approached the cook house, another form stepped beside Dunmore. It was Beatrice Kirk, saying swiftly: “Will you give me more time, Carrick? He hasn't heard about the ring yet, I think, but if you wear it at the table, he'll be sure to see.”

Dunmore hesitated. “How long will you take?” he asked.

“Only till after dinner is over. I'll tell you then, I promise, if no harm has happened to Furneaux.”

“Very well,” said Dunmore. He slipped the ring from his finger and dropped it into a vest pocket. “It's the last chance, Beatrice,” he said.

He could see her make a gesture of despair, as she turned away from him, but he, staring after her, could not help wondering. She had seemed callous enough
about other matters. She did not love Furneaux, he was sure. Still, he was amazed that she would face such sacrifices for the youngster. It showed her with new depths, and a new gentleness.

He went thoughtfully on to the noise and the confusion of the washing basins, where the men were lathering hands and faces with a great spluttering, then dashing water about liberally, and brandishing towels that left them with hair wet about the edges. Into the dining room they stamped, laughing and chatting, and not a sign on any face to indicate that an old member of the band had been killed and buried that same evening.

Dunmore, with that reflection, entered. As he looked about the wild crew, he realized that, although the first Carrick Dunmore might have established a kingdom of the blue horizon, a kingdom above and outside of the laws, such a realm was not for him. They were Tankerton's liegemen, his pledged vassals. And he, no matter what he had done to thwart the three leaders, or how he had distinguished himself in rescuing Chelton, was not really one of the gang. He felt it still more as he sat down.

There were only two pairs of eyes that ever really met his and rested upon his steadily. Those were the eyes of Chelton, whose life he had saved, and of Jimmy Larren, to whom he was a god. But the others, in talking, spoke to one another, laughed and chatted across the table, but never gave to their new leader more than a flashing side glance, as though they included him more by force of circumstance than by wish.

The main business of eating took up the first few
moments of every meal, with anxious reaching after the great platters, lest the choicest bits should be taken by a neighbor, but Dunmore paid little heed to this. He kept his attention fixed upon three people—Tankerton, young Furneaux, and Beatrice.

Furneaux had no power to keep his glances from the girl, and, although she disregarded him frequently, once, at least, Dunmore saw her smile deliberately, tenderly on the youngster, and saw Furneaux color to the eyes with a sudden joy.

But all was going well for a peaceful termination of that meal, when suddenly the genial voice of Dr. Legges broke in: “Well, Dunmore, you got Furneaux's ruby out of him, I see?”

With the shock of that speech, it seemed to Dunmore that the lights were a great dazzle above his head, and through the dazzle he strained his eyes at the grinning malice of Legges, and then toward the girl and Furneaux.

Beatrice had been struck white. All her assurance, all her poise, were not enough, now. And she looked humbly before her.

Tankerton was as alert as a cat instantly. It seemed as though he had known beforehand of this plan. Only Furneaux did not understand the speech, as it appeared.

“My ruby, Doctor?” he asked. “Beatrice is keeping it safe for me. I was tired of chipping it.” He laughed, rather foolishly, as though he expected every man to guess, at once, the heart of his mystery.

“Where's she keeping it for you, Rodman?” asked Legges. “Not on her finger, I see?”

Furneaux glanced at the girl's hand and frowned a little. Then he looked up at her face. She was making a desperate effort to keep control of herself, but that effort was a failure, totally.

Jimmy Larren slipped unnoticed from his place, and left the house at once. Even Dunmore hardly noted what the boy had done. Dunmore would have liked to take Legges by the throat, but that worthy now laughed and rubbed his hands.

“Ah, these girls,” he said. “We never know when we have them. The rascal wheedles a pretty ring out of you, Furneaux, and hands it on to this famous fellow, Dunmore.” He laughed again, and still rubbed his hands, while Furneaux looked actually agape at Beatrice.

“To Dunmore?” he asked huskily.

Not a word came from Beatrice.

Then Furneaux, convinced, whiter than the girl herself, leaned back in his chair a little. “Well,” he said, “some men have a way of getting what they can . . . out of girls.” He sneered at Dunmore, and a red haze passed over the eyes of the latter. He saw every man at the table grow tense; he saw hands ready to thrust back out of harm's course, when the guns were drawn; he saw the eyes of Beatrice like staring wells of darkness, and Tankerton faintly smiling, an acid smile.

Then Dunmore understood. It was all arranged beforehand between Tankerton and Legges. They were to make Furneaux badger him into a fight. Furneaux was a quick hand with a gun and a straight shot. Who could tell but that he might drop even a more formidable fighter than Dunmore? Besides, in the confusion of the shots, might not someone fire from the side—Legges, say, or Lynn Tucker, pale with malice?

But he, for his own part, was for the first time in his life digesting an insult without striking back. He bent his attention to his plate, and went on with his eating.
He heard a little murmur, made by the indrawn breath of many men. They were struck with wonder to see him “take water”—he who had stood up to Harper, to Legges, to Lynn Tucker, to Tankerton himself.

Furneaux raised his voice. “Did you hear me, Dunmore?” he said.

Dunmore shrugged his shoulders, and still he did not look up. Both hands trembled with eagerness to get at his guns, yet he restrained himself.

“I said,” went on Furneaux, “that there are some men in the world who are curs enough to hunt for what they can get . . . from women.”

Slowly Dunmore looked up. He saw, in his agony, the blood-red heap of apples that graced the center of the table. He saw, beyond them, the desperate and appealing face of the girl, and that sight gave him a sudden courage.

Furneaux was still and tensely alert in his chair. His left hand was on the edge of the table. His right hand was out of sight—gripping the handle of a Colt, no doubt.

“Doctor,” said Dunmore, “you're handy to the apples, there. Will you throw me one?”

Legges hesitated, frowning a little. He could not understand this request, at such a time, but eventually he reached out and picked up an apple. “It's bigger,” said the doctor, “but it ain't a ruby to set in a ring.” He tossed the apple toward Dunmore.

There had to be some outlet for the pent-up fury that was working in the heart of Dunmore, and now he snatched a revolver out of the empty air, as it seemed to those astonished eyes that watched him. It flashed
and exploded at the same instant, and the apple, torn in two, fell back on the table. One half struck a tin cup and raised a great rattling. The other half rolled off upon the floor.

Furneaux, at the same instant, had made a move with his own weapon, but only the muzzle of it had appeared above the edge of the table before Dunmore drew and fired.

The inference was clear enough. The face of Rodman Furneaux grew patched with purple, he bit his lower lip, and slowly put up the revolver.

“That apple was no good, Doctor,” said Dunmore cheerfully. “You can see by the inside of it that the worms were already in it. Pass me another, will you?”

Again Legges threw an apple, but this time Dunmore caught it with his left hand and started eating it. “Try one, Furneaux,” he urged. “You know what they say . . . an apple a day keeps the doctor away.” He glanced at Legges, as he spoke, and the worthy doctor lost control of himself so completely that he scowled broadly, for all to see.

Tankerton, too, sat with pinched lips, and Lynn Tucker was breathing hard.

One would have said that the least matter in the world—the mere falling of a leaf—would have made all three leap into immediate action. But the leaf did not fall.

Furneaux, brave as a lion and willing to fight, still hesitated a little, for he had seen his own death, as it were, rehearsed before his eyes, and the picture was something to remember. Besides, there still was the acrid taint of powder smoke in the air.

The atmosphere was still charged with danger, when Beatrice Kirk pushed back her chair and rose. No one spoke to her. She did not utter a word, but looked at Dunmore as though at the end of the world. Then she left the room, hesitating for an instant at the door, with one hand against the jamb of it, as though she were dizzy.

The long silence at the table continued. It began to grow breathless; Dunmore could see the brow of Furneaux shining with moisture beneath the lamp. He had turned paler than before, and his eyes looked hollow, but he was brave as any hero could be. Finally he thrust back his chair. The scrape of it on the floor was like the scream of a human being in that tense stillness, and every man at the table started.

“Dunmore,” said Furneaux, “I'm going to be waiting for you outside the door of the bunkhouse where I sleep. I'll have some things to say to you . . . you can talk to me. And it won't be an apple that answers you back.”

He turned on his heel and strode out into the darkness. However, Dunmore could see that he did not turn in the direction that the girl had taken, and that eased his heart.

Tankerton spoke for first time. “Dunmore,” he said, “that was a fine thing to do. You kept Furneaux from joining Harper, and that would have been a crowded berth for him. Besides, he wasn't ready to make the trip, I think.”

“Thank Legges, too,” said Dunmore. “There's a fellow that's got my good at heart, and Furneaux's, too. However, I got an idea that he wouldn't've been
standin' by doin' nothing. Not him. Doctor, I drink to you!” He raised a cup of coffee and drained off the steaming contents. Never had he wanted a stimulant more. “When I finish with Furneaux,” he said then, “I'll come back and have a little chat with you. Where'll I find you?”

The doctor turned gray-green around the eyes. The greater part of his face was covered by his beard. Yet he answered stoutly: “I sit on the steps of the bunkhouse after dinner, always. You can come and talk to me there, Dunmore.”

“All right,” said the latter. “We're going to be a chummy lot of friends, I can see.” He stood up, stretching himself, and, as he did so, he felt all eyes dwell upon him critically. Dunmore smiled upon them, and then walked slowly out of the room.

At the door, as Beatrice had done, so did he do, pausing with his back turned full upon them, and waiting, as it were, in defiance of them all, but no hand was raised, and no voice spoke against him. Then he descended quietly to the ground, and went out into the dark. There he paused for a moment, took note of the glimmering lights that showed through the windows and through the open doors of the bunkhouses, took heed of the gentle and irregular circle of shadows, which embraced the clearing, and of the big bonfire in the center, now burning down, but with the great embers of the logs glowing rich and red. There were fragrances, too, in this place—the scent of the fresh wood smoke, beyond all things appealing to lovers of the open, and there were the perfumes of the pines, and of flowers, mysteriously mingled with the other odors.