CHAPTER XIV.
FIRE AND SMOKE.
CURLY found himself, hatless, and with two letters and a scrap of paper clasped in one hand, running swiftly toward that portion of the riverbank where stood the Bainbridge mill. What he could accomplish alone and unaided was a question which troubled him vaguely. He meant, at least, to give the best that was in him toward fighting a calamity he might have prevented if only he had kept his wits about him.
Presently he slackened his pace a little, and a puzzled wrinkle came into his forehead. There was not the slightest glare to be seen in the direction of the mill. It seemed odd that a fire in such a place should not show itself sooner. He hurried on a little farther, but still there was no sign of fire—no noise or scurrying of people. At length, reaching the fence which surrounded mill and lumber yards, he paused, wondering in which direction lay the nearest gate. A second later, half turning, he saw the glow and sparks from a burning building rising above the leafless trees at least a mile away.
“Gee!” he muttered, in a tone of relief. “I’m sure glad I was fooled. For a bit I thought it was all up, but now mebbe I kin put a crimp in their game.”
He stood silent for a minute or two, turning the matter over in his mind. There were difficulties which had not occurred to him at first. If he went to Bainbridge or to the authorities with his discovery, Bill would be sure to pay the penalty. He was not anxious for this. He did not want to mix his brother up in the affair if it were possible to keep his name out of it. If he could only see Bill he felt sure he could make him cut it all and get out of the country. But that was the trouble—to find him and do it quickly. Where had he gone this night of all others? What was keeping him away so long? Was it possible, after all, that the burning had been planned for to-night, but planned to take place later?
The interior of the inclosure seemed very quiet and peaceful, yet Curly felt a fresh stab of apprehension when presently he discovered the big gate unlocked and ajar. After a momentary hesitation he pushed the gate still farther open, and, slipping through, closed it behind him, and crept, ghostlike, along in the shadow of the fence.
Ahead loomed the mill buildings, velvet-black shadows against a blue-black sky. To his left lay great stacks of manufactured lumber worth many thousand dollars. He could not see them now, but he knew their location, and the thought of all that property going up in smoke made him scowl fiercely, and clench his fists in the darkness.
Presently he stopped abruptly as the blackness was pierced by a single gleam of light from the corner of the shadowy building. The next instant he gave a relieved chuckle. It came from the watchman’s shanty, of course. That was where it stood, close by the corner of the main building.
Everything was so quiet and peaceful that it seemed futile to go any farther, yet somehow the man wanted to make sure. Finally he decided to gain this end by giving the watchman a tip about the gate.
Crossing the open space, he stepped to the window, and peered through the dingy glass. The shack seemed empty; the lighted lantern stood on a rough table from which a straight deal chair was pushed back. Yet, in spite of this, Curly could not be quite certain, so he reached for the latch and thrust the door open.
It was not empty. Some one—something was there, a huddled mass lying face down in the corner. With a quick gasp of horror and alarm, Curly straightened and whirled round.
Too late! Something heavy struck his head and pitched him, dazed, against the wall of the shanty. He threw out both hands toward the shadows he could barely see, and from his lips came a hoarse cry of mingled pain and fury. A second blow beat through his guard, and stretched him senseless on the ground.
The coming around seemed to Curly merely a matter of seconds; really it must have been much longer. When he recovered enough of his senses to make mental notes he discovered that he was lying flat on the sawdust-covered floor near a big circular saw that gleamed like burnished silver. He was bound round and round with ropes, unable to move hand or foot. A lighted lantern made a bright spot in the intense gloom, dimly revealing above him the heavy beams and rafters of the mill. After a little he saw, sitting on the other side of the lantern, a man who gazed steadily at him, and whose face, even in the shadows, seemed familiar. A moment later he realized that the man was John Joyce.
The discovery was not a pleasant one. Joyce and he had been enemies for a considerable time, owing mainly to the fact that both were paying attentions to a certain young woman who showed decided partiality for Kollock. In a moment of passion Joyce had sworn to “get” Curly, and the latter had jeered at him. He did not jeer now. The best he could do was to summon a forced smile.
“You’ll grin out o’ the other side of your mouth afore I git done with you, you spyin’ scum,” observed the red-haired individual acrimoniously. “What are you doin’ here?”
“None o’ your business!” retorted Kollock promptly. “Where’s Bill?”
“Better keep a civil tongue in your head,” snarled Joyce. “How come you sneakin’ around this mill to-night? Who put you wise to what’s goin’ on?”
Possessed of only a small fund of diplomacy, Curly saw a chance to make his enemy writhe, and at once took it, regardless of all other considerations.
“Never you mind who put me wise,” he retorted. “I’m on, all right. I know you’re goin’ to set fire to the mill to-night, an’, what’s more, I know who put you up to it—see? Git that through your dome? I’ve got evidence stowed away—in a safe place, too—that’ll send somebody to Thomaston Prison for a nice little bit. Get me?”
All of this was not strictly true, but the young riverman could not pass up the chance to make Joyce shiver. A moment later he more than regretted the impulse.
“Little Johnny-on-the-spot, ain’t you?” snarled the red-headed man, when he had partially recovered from the shock. “You made a nice bull, though, exposin’ your cards before the show-down.”
His jaws came together with a snap, and, rising suddenly to his feet, he dropped on one knee beside Curly. In another second he had thrust a lump of waste between the helpless riverman’s jaws, and tied it down with a dirty strip of cloth. Then he resumed his seat.
“Jest a little precaution against noise,” he said unpleasantly. “My pals are out in the yard, an’ I ain’t anxious for ’em to know I brung you in here. They think you’re a second watchman—see? I got sight o’ your face first an’ covered it up so nobody would know you was here. Bill’s down to Lynchburg, soused, an’ likely won’t show up till mornin’. This was to be the night for our little shindy, only, not havin’ no word yet, I was goin’ to give it up—till you come along. Now I think I’ll let things go ahead, word or no word. Get me, Steve?”
He arose, leering hideously, and Curly felt the perspiration begin to burst out all over his body. His wide-open eyes—the only part of him which could move—sought Joyce’s, but the fellow’s gaze, shifting continually, thwarted the attempt. Kollock noticed—just why he did not know—that the other’s face was deathly pale, and that his low forehead was covered with little beads of sweat. A second later Joyce picked up the lantern and moved lightly toward the door.
“Jest tell ’em that you saw me, an’ give ’em my regards,” he sneered over his shoulder, but his voice cracked on the last word, and, stumbling over a loose board in the floor, he disappeared.
For perhaps half a minute Curly lay absolutely still. Then the horror of what that human fiend meant to do struck him with full force, turning him cold and then hot as fire. He rolled over on his face, and, bracing both feet against the foundation of the saw, strained the splendid muscles of back and arm and shoulder as he had never strained them before. The ropes cracked a little, but held fast, biting deep into his flesh. He paid no heed to the pain. Again he strove with all his might to break those bonds. Again he failed. Joyce had done his work well.
He was still straining, twisting, and flinging himself about till every inch of his body seemed sore to the touch, when of a sudden the faint, light tang of something new in the air made him stop like a person paralyzed.
Smoke!
For a second he did not dare to breathe. Slowly, fearfully, he drew in the air. Then a smothered, inarticulate sound, half scream, half groan, echoed through the dark mill. It was smoke! The coward had kept his word and fired the building. No one would ever know. The flames were coming fast—fast. Presently they would reach him
In a panic of horror he again cast himself here and there over the board floor, the sawdust sometimes muffling the thudding sound of his body. There was not one chance in a thousand that one would hear him. He stopped and listened, but detected no sound. A fresh puff of smoke made him gag. It was coming faster and faster, thicker and thicker.
Gasping for breath, he flung himself about again in a mad paroxysm of fear. Above the thudding noise of his own making he could hear the horrible, ominous crackling of flames. Crevices here and there began to be outlined in dull, glowing, changing red. He thought he heard the clanging of the primitive alarm, but he could not be sure.
Hither and thither he rolled, keeping up the motion without conscious volition, scraping, scratching, bumping against obstacles, but always blindly to get farther away from the consuming element beyond the partition.
At one time the lapping, gurgling sound of water struck on his dazed senses with the shock of the incredible. Then he realized that it came from beneath him, and knew that he must be in the portion of the mill built out over the river. A few inches of flooring was all that separated him from the cool, soothing touch of that water. The bitter irony of it ate into his soul like caustic, and brought a sudden rush of scalding tears to the stinging, smoke-blinded eyes.
The glow brightened, grew more vivid. A single tongue of flame slid through a crack, and began licking up the wall. The sight seemed to arouse Curly to fresh exertions. He flung himself furiously to one side, and by a strange chance he struck glancingly against the teeth of the circular saw, which cut his face cruelly and tore away the gag.
It took him a second or two to realize what had happened. Then from between his swollen lips a fierce, wild cry of desperate appeal rang out. It rose shrilly, piercingly, ended in a choke. He tried to cry again, but the smoke rushed into his lungs and turned the shout into a gruesome groan.
That smoke was pouring into the room in clouds now. The single tongue of flame had bred a score, casting a lurid light over the place, and driving black despair into the half-conscious brain of the hopeless victim.