CHAPTER XI
"THE STRAIGHT DEATH"
Hands were fumbling with the chain at the dungeon door.
It opened and Jeekum's ashen face shone in the candle-light. For a moment his frightened eyes rested on the two men still standing in their last embrace of friendship. A word of betrayal from them and he knew that his own doom was sealed.
He came in, followed by four men. One of them was MacDougall, the king's whipper. In the corridor were other faces, like ghostly shadows in the darkness. Only MacDougall's face was uncovered. The others were hidden behind white masks. The men uttered no sound but ranged themselves like specters in front of the door, their cocked rifles swung into the crooks of their arms. There was a triumphant leer on MacDougall's lips as he and the jailer approached. As the whipper bound Neil's hands behind his back he hissed in his ear.
"This will be a better job than the whipping, damn you!"
Neil laughed.
"Hear that, Nat?" he asked, loud enough for all in the cell to hear. "MacDougall says this will be a better job than the whipping. He remembers how I thrashed him once when he said something to Marion one day."
Neil was as cool as though acting his part in a play. His face was flushed, his eyes gleamed fearlessly defiant. And Nathaniel, looking upon the courage of this man, from under whose feet had been swept all hope of life, felt a twinge of shame at his own nervousness. MacDougall grew black with passion at the taunting reminder of his humiliation and tightened the thongs about Neil's wrists until they cut into the flesh.
"That's enough, you coward!" exclaimed Nathaniel, as he saw the blood start. "Here—take this!"
Like lightning he struck out and his fist fell with crushing force against the side of the man's head. MacDougall toppled back with a hollow groan, blood spurting from his mouth and nose. Nathaniel turned coolly to the four rifles leveled at his breast.
"A pretty puppet to do the king's commands!" he cried. "If there's a man among you let him finish the work!"
Jeekum had fallen upon his knees beside the whipper.
"Great God!" he shrieked. "You've killed, him! You've stove in the side of his head!"
There was a sudden commotion in the corridor. A terrible voice boomed forth in a roar.
"Let me in!"
Strang stood in the door. He gave a single glance at the man gasping and bleeding in the mud. Then he looked at Nathaniel. The eyes of the two men met unflinching. There was no hatred now in the prophet's face.
"Captain Plum, I would give a tenth of my kingdom for a brother like you!" he said calmly. "Here—I will finish the work." He went boldly to the task, and as he tied Nathaniel's arms behind him he added, "The vicissitudes of war, Captain Plum. You are a man—and can appreciate what they sometimes mean!"
A few minutes later, gagged and bound, the prisoners fell behind two of the armed guards and at a command from the king, given in a low tone to Jeekum, marched through the corridor and up the short flight of steps that led out of the jail. To Nathaniel's astonishment there was no light to guide them. Candles and lights had been extinguished. What words he heard were spoken in whispers. In the deep shadow of the prison wall a third guard joined the two ahead and like automatons they strode through the gloom with slow, measured step, their rifles held with soldierly precision. Nathaniel glanced over his shoulder and saw three other white masked faces a dozen feet away. The king had remained behind.
He shuddered and looked at Neil. His companion's appearance was almost startling. He seemed half a head taller than himself, yet he knew that he was shorter by an inch or two; his shoulders were thrown back, his chin held high, he kept step with the guards ahead. He was marching to his death as coolly as though on parade.
Nathaniel's heart beat excitedly as they came to where the scrub of the forest met the plain. They were taking the path that led to Marion's! Again he looked at Neil. There was no change in the fearless attitude of Marion's brother, no lowering of his head, no faltering in his step. They passed the graves and entered the opening in the forest where lay Marion's home, and as once more the sweet odor of lilac came to him, awakening within his soul all those things that he had tried to stifle that he might meet death like a man, he felt himself weakening, until only the cloth about his mouth restrained the moaning cry that forced itself to his lips. If he had possessed a life to give he would have sacrificed it gladly then for a word with the Mormon king, a last prayer that death might be meted to him here, where eternity would come to him with his glazing eyes fixed to the end upon the home of his beloved, and where the sweetness of the flower that had become a part of Marion herself might soothe the pain of his final moment on earth.
His heart leaped with hope as a sharp voice from the rear commanded a halt. It was Jeekum. He came up out of the darkness from behind the rear guard, his face still unmasked, and for a few moments was in whispered consultation with the guards ahead. Had Strang, in the virulence of that hatred which he concealed so well, conceived of this spot to give added torment to death? It was the poetry of vengeance! For the first time Neil turned toward his companion. Each read what the other had guessed. Neil, who was nearest to the whispering four, turned suddenly toward them and listened. When he looked at Nathaniel again it was with a slow negative shake of his head.
Jeekum returned quickly and placed himself between them, seizing each by an arm, and the forward guards, pivoting to the left, set off at their steady pace across the clearing. As they entered the denser gloom of the forest on the farther side Nathaniel felt the jailer's fingers tighten about his arm, then relax—and tighten again. A gentle pressure held him back and the guards in front gained half a dozen feet. In a low voice Jeekum called for those behind to fall a few paces to the rear.
Then came again the mysterious working of the man's fingers on Nathaniel's arm.
Was Jeekum signaling to him?
He could see Neil's white face still turned stoically to the front. Evidently nothing had occurred to arouse his suspicions. If the maneuvering of Jeekum's fingers meant anything it was intended for him alone. Action had been the manna of his life. The possibility of new adventure, even in the face of death, thrilled him. He waited, breathless—and the strange pressure came again, so hard that it hurt his flesh.
There was no longer a doubt in his mind. The king's sheriff wanted to speak to him.
And he was afraid of the eyes and ears behind.
The fingers were cautioning him to be ready—when the opportunity came.
The path widened and through the thin tree-tops above their heads the starlight filtered down upon them. The leading guards were twenty feet away. How far behind were the others?
A moment more and they plunged into deep night again. The figures ahead were mere shadows. Again the fingers dug into Nathaniel's arm, and pressing close to the sheriff he bent down his head.
A low, quick whisper fell in his ear.
"Don't give up hope! Marion—Winnsome—"
The sheriff jerked himself erect without finishing. Hurried footsteps had come close to their heels. The rear guards were so near that they could have touched them with their guns. Had some spot of lesser gloom ahead betrayed the prisoner's bowed head and Jeekum's white face turned to it? There was a steady pressure on Nathaniel's arm now, a warning, frightened pressure, and the hand that made it trembled. Jeekum feared the worst—but his fear was not greater than the chill of disappointment that came to smother the excited beating of Nathaniel's heart. What had the jailer meant to say? What did he know about Marion and Winnsome, and why had he given birth to new hope in the same breath that he mentioned their names?
His words carried at least one conviction. Marion was alive despite her brother's somber prophesies. If she had killed herself the sheriff would not have coupled her name with Winnsome's in the way he had.
Nathaniel's nerves were breaking with suspense. He stifled his breath to listen, to catch the faintest whisper that might come to him from the white faced man at his side. Each passing moment of silence added to his desperation. He squeezed the sheriff's hand with his arm, but there was no responding signal; in a patch of thick gloom that almost concealed the figures ahead he pressed near to him and lowered his head again—and Jeekum pushed him back fiercely, with a low curse.
They emerged from the forest and the clear starlight shone down upon them. A little distance off lay the lake in shimmering stillness. Nathaniel looked boldly at the sheriff now, and as his glance passed beyond him he was amazed at the change that had come over Neil. The young man's head was bowed heavily upon his breast, his shoulders were hunched forward, and he walked with a listless, uneven step. Was it possible that his magnificent courage had at last given way?
A hundred steps farther they came to the beach and Nathaniel saw a boat at the water's edge with a single figure guarding it. Straight to this Jeekum led his prisoners. For the first time he spoke to them aloud.
"One in front, the other in back," he said.
For an instant Nathaniel found himself close beside Neil and he prodded him sharply with his knee. His companion did not lift his head. He made no sign, gave no last flashing comradeship with his eyes, but climbed into the bow of the boat and sat down with his chin still on his chest, like a man lost in stupor.
Nathaniel followed him, scarcely believing his eyes, and sat himself in the stern, leaning comfortably against the knees of the man who took the tiller. He felt a curious thrill pass through him when he discovered a moment later that this man was Jeekum. Two men seized the oars amidships. A fourth, with his rifle across his knees sat facing Neil.
For the first time Nathaniel found himself wondering what this voyage meant. Were they to be rowed far down the shore to some secret fastness where no other ears would hear the sound of the avenging rifles, and where, a few inches under the forest mold, their bodies would never be discovered? Each stroke of the oars added to the remoteness of this possibility. The boat was heading straight out to sea. Perhaps they were to meet a less terrible death by drowning, an end which, though altogether unpleasant, held something comforting in it for Captain Plum. Two hours passed without pause in the steady labor of the men at the oars. In those hours not a word was spoken. The two men amidships held no communication. The guard in the bow moved a little now and then only to relieve his cramped limbs. Neil was absolutely motionless, as though he had ceased to breathe. Jeekum uttered not a whisper.
It was his whisper that Nathaniel waited for, the signaling clutch of his fingers, the sound of his breath close to his ears. Again and again he pressed himself against the sheriff's knees. He knew that he was understood, and yet there came no answer. At last he looked up, and Jeekum's face was far above him, staring straight and unseeing into the darkness ahead. His last spark of hope went out.
After a time a dark rim loomed slowly up out of the sea. It was land, half a mile or so away. Nathaniel sat up with fresh interest, and as they drew nearer Jeekum rose to his feet and gazed long and steadily in both directions along the coast. When he returned to his seat the boat's course was changed. A few minutes later the bow grated upon sand. Still voiceless as specters the guards leaped ashore and Neil roused himself to follow them, climbing over the gunwale like a sick man. Nathaniel was close at his heels. With a growing sense of horror he saw two ghostly stakes thrusting themselves out of the beach a dozen paces away. He looked beyond them. As far as he could see there was sand—nothing but sand, as white as paper, scintillating in a billion flashing needle-points in the starlight. Instinctively he guessed what the stakes were for, and walked toward them with the blood turning cold in his veins. Neil was before him and stopped at the first stake, making no effort to lift his eyes as Nathaniel strode past him. At the second, a dozen feet beyond, Nathaniel's two guards halted, and placed him with his back to the post. Two minutes later, bound hand and foot to the stake, he shifted his head so that he could look at his companion.
Neil was similarly fastened, with his face turned partly toward him. There was no change in his attitude. His head hung weakly upon his chest, as if he had fainted.
What did it mean?
Suddenly every nerve in Nathaniel's body leaped into excited action.
The guards were entering their boat! The last man was shoving it off—they were rowing away! His throbbing muscles seemed ready to burst their bonds. The boat became indistinct in the starry gloom—a mere shadow—and faded in the distance. The sound of oars became fainter and fainter. Then, after a little, there was wafted back to him from far out in the lake a man's voice—the wild snatch of a song. The Mormons were gone! They were not to be shot! They were not—
A voice spoke to him, startling him so that he would have cried out if it had not been for the cloth that gagged him. It was Neil, speaking coolly, laughingly.
"How are you, Nat?"
Nathaniel's staring eyes revealed his astonishment. He could see Neil laughing at him as though it was an unusually humorous joke in which they were playing a part.
"Lord, but this is a funny mess!" he chuckled. "Here am I, able and willing to talk—and there you are, as dumb as a mummy, and looking for all the world as if you'd seen a ghost! What's the matter? Aren't you glad we're not going to be shot?"
Nathaniel nodded.
The other's voice became suddenly sober.
"This is worse than the other, Nat. It's what we call the 'Straight Death.' Unless something turns up between now and to-morrow morning, or a little later, we'll be as dead as though they had filled us with bullets. Our only hope rests in the fact that I can use my lungs. That's why I didn't let them know when my gag became loose. I had the devil's own time keeping it from falling with my chin; pretty near broke my neck doing it. A little later, when we're sure Jeekum and his men are out of hearing, I'll begin calling for help. Perhaps some fisherman or hunter—"
He stopped, and a chill ran up Nathaniel's back as he listened to a weird howl that came from far behind them. It was a blood-curdling sound and his face turned a more ghastly pallor as he gazed inquiringly at Neil. His companion saw the terrible question in his face.
"Wolves," he said. "They're away back in the forest. They won't come down to us." For a moment he was silent, his eyes turned to the sea. Then he added, "Do you notice anything queer about the way you're bound to that stake, Nat?"
There was a thrilling emphasis in Nathaniel's answer. He nodded his head affirmatively, again and again.
"Your hands are tied to the post very loosely, with a slack of say six inches," continued Neil with an appalling precision. "There is a rawhide thong about your neck, wet, and so tight that it chafes your skin when you move your head. But the very uncomfortable thing just at this moment is the way your feet are fastened. Isn't that so? Your legs are drawn back, so that you are half resting on your toes, and I'm pretty sure your knees are aching right now. Eh? Well, it won't be very long before your legs will give way under you and the slack about your wrists will keep you from helping yourself. Do you know what will happen then?"
He paused and Nathaniel stared at him, partly understanding, yet giving no sign.
"You will hang upon the thong about your neck until you choke to death," finished Neil. "That's the 'Straight Death.' If the end doesn't come by morning the sun will finish the job. It will dry out the wet rawhide until it grips your throat like a hand. Poetically we call it the hand of Strang. Pleasant, isn't it?"
The grim definiteness with which he described the manner of their end added to those sensations which had already become acutely discomforting to Nathaniel. Had he possessed the use of his voice when the Mormons were leaving he would have called upon them to return and lengthen the thongs about his ankles by an inch or two. Now, with almost brutal frankness, Neil had explained to him the meaning of his strange posture. His knees began to ache. An occasional sharp pain shot up from them to his hips, and the thong about his neck, which at first he had used as a support for his chin, began to irritate him. At times he found himself resting upon it so heavily that it shortened his breath, and he was compelled to straighten himself, putting his whole weight on his twisted feet. It seemed an hour before Neil broke the terrible silence again. Perhaps it was ten minutes.
"I'm going to begin," he said. "Listen. If you hear an answer nod your head."
He drew a deep breath, turned his face as far as he could toward the shore, and shouted.
"Help—help—help!"
Again and again the thrilling words burst from his throat, and as their echoes floated back to them from the forest, like a thousand mocking voices, Nathaniel grew hot with the sweat of horror. If he could only have added his own voice to those cries, shrieked out the words with Neil—joined even unavailingly in this last fight for life, it would not have been so bad. But he was helpless. He watched the desperation grow in his companion's face as there came no response save the taunting echoes; even in the light of the stars he saw that face darken with its effort, the eyes fill with a mad light, and the throat strain against its choking thong. Gradually Neil's voice became weaker. When he stopped to rest and listen his panting breath came to Nathaniel like the hissing of steam. Soon the echoes failed to come back from the forest, and Nathaniel fought like a crazed man to free himself, jerking at the thongs that held him until his wrists were bleeding and the rawhide about his neck choked him.
"No use!" he heard Neil say. "Better take it easy for a while, Nat!"
Marion's brother had turned toward him, his head thrown back against the stake, his face lifted to the sky. Nathaniel raised his own head, and found that he could breath easier. For a long time his companion did not break the silence. Mentally he began counting off the seconds. It was past midnight—probably one o'clock. Dawn came at half past two, the sun rose an hour later. Three hours to live! Nathaniel lowered his head, and the rawhide tightened perceptibly at the movement. Neil was watching him. His face shone as white as the starlit sand. His mouth was partly open.
"I'm devilish sorry—for you—Nat—" he said.
His words came with painful slowness. There was a grating huskiness in his voice.
"This damned rawhide—is pinching—my Adam's apple—"
He smiled. His white teeth gleamed, his eyes laughed, and with a heart bursting with grief Nathaniel looked away from him. He had seen courage, but never like this, and deep down in his soul he prayed—prayed that death might come to him first, so that he might not have to look upon the agonies of this other, whose end would be ghastly in its fearless resignation. His own suffering had become excruciating. Sharp pains darted like red-hot needles through his limbs, his back tortured him, and his head ached as though a knife had cloven the base of his skull. Still—he could breathe. By pressing his head against the post it was not difficult for him to fill his lungs with air. But the strength of his limbs was leaving him. He no longer felt any sensation in his cramped feet. His knees were numb. He measured the paralysis of death creeping up his legs inch by inch, driving the sharp pains before it, until suddenly his weight tottered under him and he hung heavily upon the thong about his throat. For a full half minute he ceased to breathe, and a feeling of ineffable relief swept over him, for during those few seconds his body was at rest. He found that by a backward contortion he could bring himself erect again, and that for a few minutes after each respite it was not so difficult for him to stand.
After a third effort he turned again toward Neil. A groan of horror rose to his imprisoned lips. His companion's face was full upon him, ghastly white; his eyes were wide and staring, like balls of shimmering glass in the starlight, and his throat was straining at the fatal rawhide! Nathaniel heard no sound, saw no stir of life in the inanimate figure.
A moaning, wordless cry broke through the cloth that gagged him.
At the sound of that cry, faint, terrifying, with all the horror that might fill a human soul in its inarticulate note, a shudder of life passed into Neil's body. Weakly he flung himself back, stood poised for an instant against the stake, then fell again upon the deadly thong. Twice—three times he made the effort, and failed. And to Nathaniel, staring wild eyed and silent now, the spectacle was one that seemed to blast the very soul within him and send his blood in rushing torrents of fire to his sickened brain. Neil was dying! A fourth time he struggled back. A fifth—and he held his ground. Even in that passing instant something like a flash of his buoyant smile flickered in his face and there came to Nathaniel's ears like a throttled whisper—his name.
"Nat—"
And no more.
The head fell forward again. And Nathaniel, turning his face away, saw something come up out of the shimmering sea, like a shadow before his blistering eyes, and as his own limbs went out from under him and he felt the strangling death at his throat there came from that shadow a cry that seemed to snap his very heartstrings—a piercing cry and (even in his half consciousness he recognized it) a woman's cry! He flung himself back, and for a moment he saw Neil struggling, the last spark of life in him stirred by that same cry; and then across the white sand two figures flew madly toward them and even as the hot film in his eyes grew thicker he knew that one of them was Marion, and that the other was Winnsome Croche.
His heart seemed to stop beating. He strove to pull himself together, but his head fell forward. Faintly, as on a battlefield, voices came to him, and when with a superhuman effort he straightened himself for an instant he saw that Neil was no longer at the stake but was stretched on the sand, and of the two figures beside him one suddenly sprang to her feet and ran to him. And then Marion's terror-filled face was close to his own, and Marion's lips were moaning his name, and Marion's hands were slashing at the thongs that bound him. When with a great sigh of joy he crumpled down upon the earth he knew that he was slipping off into oblivion with Marion's arms about his neck, and with her lips pressing to his the sweet elixir of her love.
Darkness enshrouded him but a few moments, when a dash of cool water brought him back into light. He felt himself lowered upon the sand and after a breath or two he twisted himself on his elbow and saw that Neil's white face was held on Winnsome's breast and that Marion was running up from the shore with more water. For a space she knelt beside her brother, and then she hurried to him. Joy shone in her face. She fell upon her knees and drew his head in the hollow of her arm, crooning mad senseless words to him, and bathing his face with water, her eyes shining down upon him gloriously. Nathaniel reached up and touched her face, and she bowed her head until her hair smothered him in sweet gloom, and kissed him. He drew her lips to his own, and then she lowered him gently and stood up in the starlight, looking first at Neil and next down at him; and then she turned quickly back to the sea.
From down near the shore she called back some word, and with a shrill cry Winnsome followed her. Nathaniel struggled to his elbow, to his knees—staggered to his feet. He saw the boat drifting out into the night, and Winnsome standing alone at the water-edge, her sobbing cries of entreaty, of terror, following it unanswered. He tottered down toward her, gaining new strength at each step, but when he reached her the boat was no longer to be seen and Winnsome's face was whiter than the sands under her feet.
"She is gone—gone—" she moaned, stretching out her arms to him. "She is going—back to Strang!"
And then, from far out in the white glory of the night, there came back to him the voice of the girl he loved.
"Good-by—Good-by—"