The Face in the
At nine o'clock this morning Sheriff Crumpett entered our New
England town post-office for his mail. From his box he extracted his
monthly Grand Army paper and a letter in a long yellow envelope. This
envelope bore the return-stamp of a prominent Boston lumber-company.
The old man crossed the lobby to the writing-shelf under the Western
Union clock, hooked black-rimmed glasses on a big nose and tore a
generous inch from the end of the envelope.
The first inclosure which met his eyes was a check. It was heavy and
pink and crisp, and was attached to the single sheet of letter-paper
with a clip. Impressed into the fabric of the safety-paper were the
indelible figures of a protector: Not over Five Thousand ($5000)
The sheriff read the name of the person to whom it was payable and
gulped. His gnarled old hand trembled with excitement as he glanced
over the clipped letter and then went through it again.
November 10, 1919.
MY DEAR SHERIFF:
Enclosed please find my personal check for five thousand dollars.
It is made out to Mrs. McBride. Never having known the lady
and because you have evidently represented her with the
I am sending it to you for proper delivery. I feel, from your
enthusiastic account of her recent experience, that it will give
pleasure to present it to her.
Under the circumstances I do not begrudge the money. When first
advised of Ruggam's escape, it was hot-headed impulse which
me to offer a reward so large. The old clan-blood of the Wileys
have made me murder-mad that Ruggam should regain his freedom
after the hellish thing he did to my brother. The newspapers
and then I could not retract.
That, however, is a thing of the past. I always did detest a
and if this money is going to a woman to whom it will be manna
heaven—to use your words—I am satisfied. Convey to her my
congratulations, gratitude and best wishes.
C. V. D. WILEY.
“Good old Chris!” muttered the sheriff. “He's rich because he's
white.” He thrust both check and letter back into the long envelope and
headed for the office of our local daily paper at a smart pace.
The earning of five thousand dollars reward-money by Cora McBride
made an epochal news-item, and in that night's paper we headlined it
accordingly—not omitting proper mention of the sheriff and giving him
Having so started the announcement permeating through the community,
the old man employed the office phone and called the local
livery-stable. He ordered a rig in which he might drive at once to the
McBride house in the northern part of town.
“But half that money ought to be yourn!” protested the proprietor of
the stable as the sheriff helped him “gear up the horse” a few minutes
“Under the circumstances, Joseph, can you see me takin' it? No; it
ain't in me to horn in for no rake-off on one o' the Lord's miracles.”
The old man climbed into the sleigh, took the reins from the
liveryman and started the horse from the livery yard.
Two weeks ago—on Monday, the twenty-seventh of the past
October—the telephone-bell rang sharply in our newspaper-office a few
moments before the paper went to press. Now, the telephone-bell often
rings in our newspaper-office a few moments before going to press. The
confusion on this particular Monday afternoon, however, resulted from
Albany calling on the long-distance. Albany—meaning the nearest office
of the international press-association of which our paper is a
member—called just so, out of a clear sky, on the day McKinley was
assassinated, on the day the Titanic foundered and on the day
Austria declared war on Serbia.
The connection was made, and over the wire came the voice of young
Stewart, crisp as lettuce.
“Special dispatch ... Wyndgate, Vermont, October 27th ... Ready?”
The editor of our paper answered in the affirmative. The rest of us
grouped anxiously around his chair. Stewart proceeded:
“'Hapwell Ruggam, serving a life-sentence for the murder of Deputy
Sheriff Martin Wiley at a Lost Nation kitchen-dance two years ago,
killed Jacob Lambwell, his guard, and escaped from prison at noon
“'Ruggam had been given some repair work to do near the outer
prison-gate. It was opened to admit a tradesman's automobile. As Guard
Lambwell turned to close the gate, Ruggam felled him with his shovel.
He escaped to the adjacent railroad-yards, stole a corduroy coat and
pair of blue overalls hanging in a switchman's shanty and caught the
twelve-forty freight up Green River.'“
Stewart had paused. The editor scribbled frantically. In a few words
aside he explained to us what Stewart was sending. Then he ordered the
latter to proceed.
“'Freight Number Eight was stopped by telegraph near Norwall. The
fugitive, assuming correctly that it was slowing down for search, was
seen by a brakeman fleeing across a pasture between the tracks and the
eastern edge of Haystack Mountain. Several posses have already started
after him, and sheriffs all through northern New England are being
“'Christopher Wiley, lumber magnate and brother of Ruggam's former
victim, on being told of the escape, has offered a reward of five
thousand dollars for Ruggam's capture, dead or alive. Guard Lambwell
was removed to a hospital, where he died at one-thirty'.... All
The connection was broken, and the editor removed the headpiece. He
began giving orders. We were twenty minutes behind usual time with the
papers, but we made all the trains.
When the big Duplex was grinding out newsprint with a roar that
shook the building, the boys and girls gathered around to discuss the
thing which had happened.
The Higgins boy, saucer-eyed over the experience of being “on the
inside” during the handling of the first sizable news-story since he
had become our local reporter, voiced the interrogation on the faces of
other office newcomers.
“Ruggam,” the editor explained, “is a poor unfortunate who should
have been sent to an asylum instead of the penitentiary. He killed Mart
Wiley, a deputy sheriff, at a Lost Nation kitchen-dance two years ago.”
“Where's the Lost Nation?”
“It's a term applied to most of the town of Partridgeville in the
northern part of the county—an inaccessible district back in the
mountains peopled with gone-to-seed stock and half-civilized
illiterates who only get into the news when they load up with squirrel
whisky and start a programme of progressive hell. Ruggam was the local
“What's a kitchen-dance?”
“Ordinarily a kitchen-dance is harmless enough. But the Lost Nation
folks use it as an excuse for a debauch. They gather in some sizable
shack, set the stove out into the yard, soak themselves in aromatic
spirits of deviltry and dance from Saturday night until Monday
“And this Ruggam killed a sheriff at one of them?”
“He got into a brawl with another chap about his wife. Someone
passing saw the fight and sent for an officer. Mart Wiley was deputy,
afraid of neither man, God nor devil. Martin had grown disgusted over
the petty crime at these kitchen-dances and started out to clean up
this one right. Hap Ruggam killed him. He must have had help, because
he first got Mart tied to a tree in the yard. Most of the crowd was
pie-eyed by this time, anyhow, and would fight at the drop of a hat.
After tying him securely, Ruggam caught up a billet of wood and—and
killed him with that.”
“Why didn't they electrocute him?” demanded young Higgins.
“Well, the murder wasn't exactly premeditated. Hap wasn't himself;
he was drunk—not even able to run away when Sheriff Crumpett arrived
in the neighbourhood to take him into custody. Then there was Hap's
bringing up. All these made extenuating circumstances.”
“There was something about Sheriff Wiley's pompadour,” suggested our
little lady proofreader.
“Yes,” returned the editor. “Mart had a queer head of hair. It was
dark and stiff, and he brushed it straight back in a pompadour. When he
was angry or excited, it actually rose on his scalp like wire. Hap's
counsel made a great fuss over Mart's pompadour and the part it sort of
played in egging Hap on. The sight of it, stiffening and rising the way
it did maddened Ruggam so that he beat it down hysterically in
retaliation for the many grudges he fancied he owed the officer. No, it
was all right to make the sentence life-imprisonment, only it should
have been an asylum. Hap's not right. You'd know it without being told.
I guess it's his eyes. They aren't mates. They light up weirdly when
he's drunk or excited, and if you know what's healthy, you get out of
By eight o'clock that evening most of the valley's deer-hunters, all
of the local adventurers who could buy, borrow or beg a rifle, and the
usual quota of high-school sons of thoughtless parents were off on the
man-hunt in the eastern mountains.
Among them was Sheriff Crumpett's party. On reaching the timberline
they separated. It was agreed that if any of them found signs of
Ruggam, the signal for assistance was five shots in quick succession
“and keep shooting at intervals until the rest come up.”
We newspaper folk awaited the capture with professional interest and
In the northern part of our town, a mile out on the Wickford road,
is the McBride place. It is a small white house with a red barn in the
rear and a neat rail fence inclosing the whole. Six years ago Cora
McBride was bookkeeper in the local garage. Her maiden name was Allen.
The town called her “Tomboy Allen.” She was the only daughter of old
Zeb Allen, for many years our county game-warden. Cora, as we had
always known—and called—her, was a full-blown, red-blooded, athletic
girl who often drove cars for her employer in the days when
steering-wheels manipulated by women were offered as clinching proof
that society was headed for the dogs.
Duncan McBride was chief mechanic in the garage repairshop. He was
an affable, sober, steady chap, popularly known as “Dunk the Dauntless"
because of an uncanny ability to cope successfully with the ailments of
90 per cent, of the internal-combustion hay-balers and refractory
tin-Lizzies in the county when other mechanics had given them up in
When he married his employer's bookkeeper, Cora's folks gave her a
wedding that carried old Zeb within half an hour of insolvency and ran
to four columns in the local daily. Duncan and the Allen girl motored
to Washington in a demonstration-car, and while Dunk was absent, the
yard of the garage resembled the premises about a junkshop. On their
return they bought the Johnson place, and Cora quickly demonstrated the
same furious enthusiasm for homemaking and motherhood that she had for
athletics and carburetors.
Three years passed, and two small boys crept about the yard behind
the white rail fence. Then—when Duncan and his wife were “making a
great go of matrimony” in typical Yankee fashion—came the tragedy that
took all the vim out of Cora, stole the ruddy glow from her girlish
features and made her middle-aged in a twelvemonth. In the
infantile-paralysis epidemic which passed over New England three years
ago the McBrides suffered the supreme sorrow—twice. Those small boys
died within two weeks of each other.
Duncan of course kept on with his work at the garage. He was quieter
and steadier than ever. But when we drove into the place to have a
carburetor adjusted or a rattle tightened, we saw only too plainly that
on his heart was a wound the scars of which would never heal. As for
Cora, she was rarely seen in the village.
Troubles rarely come singly. One afternoon this past August, Duncan
completed repairs on Doc Potter's runabout. Cranking the machine to run
it from the workshop, the “dog” on the safety-clutch failed to hold.
The acceleration of the engine threw the machine into high. Dunk was
pinned in front while the roadster leaped ahead and rammed the delivery
truck of the Red Front Grocery.
Duncan was taken to our memorial hospital with internal injuries and
dislocation of his spine. He remained there many weeks. In fact, he had
been home only a couple of days when the evening stage left in the
McBride letter-box the daily paper containing the story of Ruggam's
“break” and of the reward offered for his capture.
Cora returned to the kitchen after obtaining the paper and sank
wearily into a wooden chair beside the table with the red cloth.
Spreading out the paper, she sought the usual mental distraction in the
three-and four-line bits which make up our local columns.
As the headlines caught her eye, she picked up the paper and entered
the bedroom where Duncan lay. There were telltale traces of tears on
his unshaven face, and an ache in his discouraged heart that would not
be assuaged, for it was becoming rumoured about the village that Dunk
the Dauntless might never operate on the vitals of an ailing tin-Lizzie
“Dunnie,” cried his wife, “Hap Ruggam's escaped!” Sinking down
beside the bedroom lamp, she read him the article aloud.
Her husband's name was mentioned therein; for when the sheriff had
commandeered an automobile from the local garage to convey him and his
posse to Lost Nation and secure Ruggam, Duncan had been called forth to
preside at the steering-wheel. He had thus assisted in the capture and
later had been a witness at the trial.
The reading ended, the man rolled his head.
“If I wasn't held here, I might go!” he said. “I might try for that
five thousand myself!”
Cora was sympathetic enough, of course, but she was fast approaching
the stage where she needed sympathy herself.
“We caught him over on the Purcell farm,” mused Duncan. “Something
ailed Ruggam. He was drunk and couldn't run. But that wasn't all. He
had had some kind of crazy-spell during or after the killing and wasn't
quite over it. We tied him and lifted him into the auto. His face was a
sight. His eyes aren't mates, anyhow, and they were wild and unnatural.
He kept shrieking something about a head of hair—black hair—sticks up
like wire. He must have had an awful impression of Mart's face and that
hair of his.”
“I remember about Aunt Mary Crumpett's telling me of the trouble her
husband had with his prisoner in the days before the trial,” his wife
replied. “He had those crazy-spells often, nights. He kept yelling that
he saw Martin Wiley's head with its peculiar hair, and his face peering
in at him through the cell window. Sometimes he became so bad that
Sheriff Crumpett thought he'd have apoplexy Finally he had to call Dr.
Johnson to attend him.”
“Five thousand dollars!” muttered Duncan. “Gawd! I'd hunt the devil
for nothing if I only had a chance of getting out of this bed.”
Cora smoothed her husband's rumpled bed, comforted him and laid her
own tired head down beside his hand. When he had dozed off, she arose
and left the room.
In the kitchen she resumed her former place beside the table with
the cheap red cloth; and there, with her face in her hands, she stared
into endless distance.
“Five thousand dollars! Five thousand dollars!” Over and over she
whispered the words, with no one to hear.
The green-birch fire snapped merrily in the range. The draft sang in
the flue. Outside, a soft, feathery snow was falling, for winter came
early in the uplands of Vermont this past year. To Cora McBride,
however, the winter meant only hardship. Within another week she must
go into town and secure work. Not that she minded the labour nor the
trips through the vicious weather! The anguish was leaving Duncan
through those monotonous days before he should be up and around. Those
dreary winter days! What might they not do to him—alone.
Five thousand dollars! Like many others in the valley that night she
pictured with fluttering heart what it would mean to possess such a sum
of money; but not once in her pitiful flight of fancy did she disregard
the task which must be performed to gain that wealth.
It meant traveling upward in the great snowbound reaches of Vermont
mountain-country and tracking down a murderer who had killed a second
time to gain his freedom and would stop at nothing again.
And yet—five thousand dollars!
How much will a person do, how far will a normal human being travel,
to earn five thousand dollars—if the need is sufficiently provocative?
As Cora McBride sat there in the homely little farmhouse kitchen and
thought of the debts still existent, contracted to save the already
stricken lives of two little lads forgotten now by all but herself and
Duncan and God, of the chances of losing their home if Duncan could
work no more and pay up the balance of their mortgage, of the days when
Duncan must lie in the south bedroom alone and count the figures on the
wallpaper—as she sat there and contemplated these things, into Cora
McBride's heart crept determination.
At first it was only a faint challenge to her courage. As the
minutes passed, however, her imagination ran riot, with five thousand
dollars to help them in their predicament. The challenge grew.
Multitudes of women down all the years had attempted wilder ventures
for those who were dear to them. Legion in number had been those who
set their hands and hearts to greater tasks, made more improbable
sacrifices, taken greater chances. Multitudes of them, too, had won—on
little else than the courage of ignorance and the strength of
She had no fear of the great outdoors, for she had lived close to
the mountains from childhood and much of her old physical resiliency
and youthful daredeviltry remained. And the need was terrible; no one
anywhere in the valley, not even her own people, knew how terrible.
Cora McBride, alone by her table in the kitchen, that night made her
She took the kitchen lamp and went upstairs. Lifting the top of a
leather trunk, she found her husband's revolver. With it was a belt and
holster, the former filled with cartridges. In the storeroom over the
back kitchen she unhooked Duncan's mackinaw and found her own
toboggan-cap. From a corner behind some fishing-rods she salvaged a
pair of summer-dried snowshoes; they had facilitated many a previous
hike in the winter woods with her man of a thousand adventures. She
searched until she found the old army-haversack Duncan used as a
game-bag. Its shoulder-straps were broken but a length of rope sufficed
to bind it about her shoulders, after she had filled it with
With this equipment she returned below-stairs. She drew on heavy
woollen stockings and buckled on arctics. She entered the cold pantry
and packed the knapsack with what supplies she could find at the hour.
She did not forget a drinking-cup, a hunting-knife or matches. In her
blouse she slipped a household flash-lamp.
Dressed finally for the adventure, from the kitchen she called
softly to her husband. He did not answer. She was overwhelmed by a
desire to go into the south bedroom and kiss him, so much might happen
before she saw him again. But she restrained herself. She must not
She blew out the kerosene lamp, gave a last glance about her
familiar kitchen and went out through the shed door, closing it softly
It was one of those close, quiet nights when the bark of a distant
dog or whinny of a horse sounds very near at hand. The snow was falling
An hour later found her far to the eastward, following an old side
road that led up to the Harrison lumber-job. She had meantime paid Dave
Sheldon, a neighbour's boy, encountered by his gate, to stay with
Duncan during her absence which she explained with a white lie. But her
conscience did not bother. Her conscience might be called upon to
smother much more before the adventure was ended.
Off in the depths of the snowing night she strode along, a weird
figure against the eerie whiteness that illumined the winter world. She
felt a strange wild thrill in the infinite out-of-doors. The woodsman's
blood of her father was having its little hour.
And she knew the woods. Intuitively she felt that if Ruggam was on
Haystack Mountain making his way toward Lost Nation, he would strike
for the shacks of the Green Mountain Club or the deserted logging-camps
along the trail, secreting himself in them during his pauses for rest,
for he had no food, and provisions were often left in these structures
by hunters and mountain hikers. Her plan was simple. She would
investigate each group of buildings. She had the advantage of starting
on the northwest side of Haystack. She would be working toward Ruggam,
while the rest of the posses were trailing him.
Mile after mile she covered. She decided it must be midnight when
she reached the ghostly buildings of the Harrison tract, lying white
and silent under the thickening snow. It was useless to search these
cabins; they were too near civilization. Besides, if Ruggam had left
the freight at Norwall on the eastern side of Haystack at noon, he had
thirty miles to travel before reaching the territory from which she was
starting. So she skirted the abandoned quiet of the clearing, laid the
snowshoes properly down before her and bound the thongs securely about
She had plenty of time to think of Ruggam as she padded along. He
had no snowshoes to aid him, unless he had managed to secure a pair by
burglary, which was improbable. So it was not difficult to calculate
about where she should begin watching for him. She believed he would
keep just off the main trail to avoid detection, yet take its general
direction in order to secure shelter and possible food from the
mountain buildings. When she reached the country in which she might
hope to encounter him, she would zigzag across that main trail in order
to pick up his foot-tracks if he had passed her undetected. In that
event she would turn and follow. She knew that the snow was falling too
heavily to continue in such volume indefinitely; it would stop as
suddenly as it had started.
The hours of the night piled up. The silent, muffling snowfall
continued. And Cora McBride began to sense an alarming weariness. It
finally dawned upon her that her old-time vigour was missing. The
strength of youth was hers no longer. Two experiences of motherhood and
no more exercise than was afforded by the tasks of her household, had
softened her muscles. Their limitations were now disclosed.
The realization of those limitations was accompanied by panic. She
was still many miles even from Blind Brook Cabin, and her limbs were
afire from the unaccustomed effort. This would never do. After pauses
for breath that were coming closer and closer together, she set her
lips each time grimly. “Tomboy Allen” had not counted on succumbing to
physical fatigue before she had climbed as far as Blind Brook. If she
were weakening already, what of those many miles on the other side?
Tuesday the twenty-eighth of October passed with no tidings of
Ruggam's capture. The Holmes boy was fatally shot by a rattleheaded
searcher near Five-Mile Pond, and distraught parents began to take
thought of their own lads missing from school. Adam MacQuarry broke his
leg near the Hell Hollow schoolhouse and was sent back by friends on a
borrowed bobsled. Several ne'er-do-wells, long on impulse and short on
stickability, drifted back to more comfortable quarters during the day,
contending that if Hap were captured, the officers would claim the
reward anyhow—so what was the use bucking the System?
The snowfall stopped in the early morning. Sunrise disclosed the
world trimmed from horizon to horizon in fairy fluff. Householders
jocosely shoveled their walks; small children resurrected attic sleds;
here and there a farmer appeared on Main Street during the forenoon in
a pung-sleigh or cutter with jingling bells. The sun soared higher, and
the day grew warmer. Eaves began dripping during the noon hour, to stop
when the sun sank about four o'clock behind Bancroft's hill.
After the sunset came a perfect evening. The starlight was magic.
Many people called in at the newspaper-office, after the movies, to
learn if the man hunt had brought results.
Between ten and eleven o'clock the lights on the valley floor
blinked out; the town had gone to bed—that is, the lights blinked out
in all homes excepting those on the eastern outskirts, where nervous
people worried over the possibilities of a hungry, hunted convict's
burglarizing their premises, or drawn-faced mothers lived mentally
through a score of calamities befalling red-blooded sons who had now
been absent twenty-four hours.
Sometime between nine o'clock and midnight—she had no way of
telling accurately—Cora McBride stumbled into the Lyons clearing. No
one would have recognized in the staggering, bedraggled apparition that
emerged from the silhouette of the timber the figure that had started
so confidently from the Harrison tract the previous evening.
For over an hour she had hobbled blindly. It was wholly by accident
that she had stumbled into the clearing. And the capture of Ruggam had
diminished in importance. Warm food, water that would not tear her raw
throat, a place to lie and recoup her strength after the chilling
winter night—these were the only things that counted now. Though she
knew it not, in her eyes burned the faint light of fever. When a snag
caught her snowshoe and tripped her, there was hysteria in her cry of
As she moved across from the timber-line her hair was revealed
fallen down; she had lost a glove, and one hand and wrist were cruelly
red where she had plunged them several times into the snow to save
herself from falling upon her face. She made but a few yards before the
icy thong of her right snowshoe snapped. She did not bother to repair
it. Carrying it beneath her arm, she hobbled brokenly toward the
shelter of the buildings.
Her failure at the other cabins, the lack, thus far, of all signs of
the fugitive, the vastness of the hunting-ground magnified by the
loneliness of winter, had convinced her finally that her quest was
futile. It was all a venture of madness. The idea that a woman, alone
and single-handed, with no weapon but a revolver, could track down and
subdue a desperate murderer in winter mountains where hardly a wild
thing stirred, and make him return with her to the certain
penalty—this proved how much mental mischief had again been caused by
the lure of money. The glittering seduction of gold had deranged her.
She realized it now, her mind normal in an exhausted body. So she
gained the walls of the buildings and stumbled around them, thoughtless
of any possible signs of the fugitive.
The stars were out in myriads. The Milky Way was a spectacle to
recall vividly the sentiment of the Nineteenth Psalm. The log-buildings
of the clearing, every tree-trunk and bough in the woods beyond, the
distant skyline of stump and hollow, all stood out sharply against the
peculiar radiance of the snow. The night was as still as the spaces
between the planets.
Like some wild creature of those winter woods the woman clumped and
stumbled around the main shack, seeking the door.
Finding it, she stopped; the snowshoe slipped from beneath her arm;
one numb hand groped for the log door-casing in support; the other
fumbled for the revolver.
Tracks led into that cabin!
A paralysis of fright gripped Cora McBride. Something told her
intuitively that she stood face to face at last with what she had
traveled all this mountain wilderness to find. Yet with sinking heart
it also came to her that if Hap Ruggam had made these tracks and were
still within, she must face him in her exhausted condition and at once
make that tortuous return trip to civilization. There would be no one
to help her.
She realized in that moment that she was facing the primal. And she
was not primal. She was a normal woman, weakened to near-prostration by
the trek of the past twenty-four hours. Was it not better to turn away
while there was time?
She stood debating thus, the eternal silence blanketing forest-world
and clearing. But she was allowed to make no decision.
A living body sprang suddenly upon her. Before she could cry out,
she was borne down precipitously from behind.
She tried to turn the revolver against the Thing upon her, but the
gun was twisted from her raw, red fingers. The snow into which she had
been precipitated blinded her. She smeared an arm across her eyes, but
before clear sight was regained, talon fingers had gripped her
shoulders. She was half lifted, half dragged through the doorway, and
there she was dropped on the plank flooring. Her assailant, turning,
made to close and bar the door.
When she could see clearly, she perceived a weak illumination in the
cabin. On the rough bench-table, shaded by two slabs of bark, burned
the stub of a tallow candle probably left by some hunting-party.
The windows were curtained with rotting blankets. Some rough
furniture lay about; rusted cooking-utensils littered the tables, and
at one end was a sheet-iron stove. The place had been equipped after a
fashion by deer-hunters or mountain hikers, who brought additional
furnishings to the place each year and left mouldy provisions and
unconsumed firewood behind.
The man succeeded finally in closing the door. He turned upon her.
He was short and stocky. The stolen corduroy coat covered
blacksmith's muscles now made doubly powerful by dementia. His hair was
lifeless black and clipped close, prison-fashion. His low forehead hung
over burning, mismated eyes. From her helplessness on the floor Cora
McBride stared up at him.
He came closer.
“Get up!” he ordered. “Take that chair. And don't start no
rough-house; whether you're a woman or not, I'll drill you!”
She groped to the indicated chair and raised herself, the single
snowshoe still dragging from one foot. Again the man surveyed her. She
saw his eyes and gave another inarticulate cry.
“Shut your mouth and keep it shut! You hear me?”
The greenish light burned brighter in his mismated eyes, which gazed
intently at the top of her head as though it held something unearthly.
“Take off your hat!” was his next command.
She pulled off the toque. Her hair fell in a mass on her
snow-blotched shoulders. Her captor advanced upon her. He reached out
and satisfied himself by touch that something was not there which he
dreaded. In hypnotic fear she suffered that touch. It reassured him.
“Your hair now,” he demanded; “it don't stand up, does it? No, o'
course it don't. You ain't him; you're a woman. But if your hair
comes up, I'll kill you—understand? If your hair comes up, I'll
She understood. She understood only too well. She was not only
housed with a murderer; she was housed with a maniac. She sensed, also,
why he had come to this mountain shack so boldly. In his dementia he
knew no better. And she was alone with him, unarmed now.
“I'll keep it down,” she whispered, watching his face out of
The wind blew one of the rotten blankets inward. Thereby she knew
that the window-aperture on the south wall contained no sash. He must
have removed it to provide means of escape in case he were attacked
from the east door. He must have climbed out that window when she came
around the shack; that is how he had felled her from behind.
He stepped backward now until he felt the edge of the bench touch
his calves. Then he sank down, one arm stretched along the table's rim,
the hand clutching the revolver.
“Who are you?” he demanded.
“I'm Cora McB——” She stopped—she recalled in a flash the part her
husband had played in his former capture and trial. “I'm Cora Allen,”
she corrected. Then she waited, her wits in chaos. She was fighting
desperately to bring order out of that chaos.
“What you doin' up here?”
“I started for Millington, over the mountain. I lost my way.”
“Why didn't you go by the road?”
“That's a lie! It ain't. And don't lie to me, or I'll kill you!”
“Who are you?” she heard herself asking. “And why are you acting
this way with me?”
The man leaned suddenly forward.
“You mean to tell me you don't know?”
“A lumberjack, maybe, who's lost his way like myself?”
His expression changed abruptly.
“What you luggin' this for?” He indicated the revolver.
“There ain't no wild things in these mountains this time o' year;
they're snowed up, and you know it.”
“I just felt safer to have it along.”
“To protect you from men-folks, maybe?”
“There are no men in these mountains I'm afraid of!” She made the
declaration with pathetic bravado.
His eyes narrowed.
“I think I better kill you,” he decided. “You've seen me; you'll
tell you seen me. Why shouldn't I kill you? You'd only tell.”
“Why? What have I done to you?” she managed to stammer. “Why should
you object to being seen?”
It was an unfortunate demand. He sprang up with a snarl. Pointing
the revolver from his hip, he drew back the hammer.
“Don't!” she shrieked. “Are you crazy? Don't you know how to
treat a woman—in distress?”
“Distress, hell! You know who I be. And I don't care whether
you're a woman or not, I ain't goin' to be took—you understand?”
“Certainly I understand.”
She said it in such a way that he eased the hammer back into place
and lowered the gun. For the moment again she was safe. In response to
her terrible need, some of her latent Yankee courage came now to aid
her. “I don't see what you're making all this rumpus about,” she told
him in as indifferent a voice as she could command. “I don't see why
you should want to kill a friend who might help you—if you're really
in need of help.”
“I want to get to Partridgeville,” he muttered after a moment.
“You're not far from there. How long have you been on the road?”
“None of your business.”
“Have you had any food?”
“If you'll put up that gun and let me get off this snowshoe and
pack, I'll share with you some of the food I have.”
“Never you mind what I do with this gun. Go ahead and fix your foot,
and let's see what you got for grub.” The man resumed his seat.
She twisted up her tangled hair, replaced her toque and untied the
Outside a tree cracked in the frost. He started in hair-trigger
fright. Creeping to the window, he peeped cautiously between casing and
blanket. Convinced that it was nothing, he returned to his seat by the
“It's too bad we couldn't have a fire,” suggested the woman then.
“I'd make us something hot.” The stove was there, rusted but still
serviceable; available wood was scattered around. But the man shook his
After a trying time unfastening the frosted knots of the ropes that
had bound the knapsack upon her back, she emptied it onto the table.
She kept her eye, however, on the gun. He had disposed of it by
thrusting it into his belt. Plainly she would never recover it without
a struggle. And she was in no condition for physical conflict.
“You're welcome to anything I have,” she told him.
“Little you got to say about it! If you hadn't given it up, I'd took
it away from you. So what's the difference?”
She shrugged her shoulders. She started around behind him but he
sprang toward her.
“Don't try no monkey-shines with me!” he snarled. “You stay here in
front where I can see you.”
She obeyed, watching him make what poor meal he could from the
contents of her bag.
She tried to reason out what the denouement of the situation was to
be. He would not send her away peacefully, for she knew he dared not
risk the story she would tell regardless of any promises of secrecy she
might give him. If he left her bound in the cabin, she would freeze
before help came—if it ever arrived.
No, either they were going to leave the place and journey forth
together—the Lord only knew where or with what outcome—or the life of
one of them was to end in this tragic place within the coming few
minutes. For she realized she must use that gun with deadly effect if
it were to come again into her possession.
The silence was broken only by the noises of his lips as he ate
ravenously. Outside, not a thing stirred in that snowbound world. Not a
sound of civilization reached them. They were a man and woman in the
primal, in civilization and yet a million miles from it.
“The candle's going out,” she announced. “Is there another?”
“There'll be light enough for what I got to do,” he growled.
Despite her effort to appear indifferent, her great fear showed
plainly in her eyes.
“Are we going to stay here all night?” she asked with a pathetic
attempt at lightness.
“That's my business.”
“Don't you want me to help you?”
“You've helped me all you can with the gun and food.”
“If you're going to Partridgeville, I'd go along and show you the
He leaped up.
“Now I know you been lyin!'“ he bellowed. “You said you was
headed for Millington. And you ain't at all. You're watchin' your
chance to get the drop on me and have me took—that's what you're
“Wait!” she pleaded desperately. “I was going to Millington.
But I'd turn back and show you the way to Partridgeville to help you.”
“What's it to you?” He had drawn the gun from his belt and now was
fingering it nervously.
“You're lost up here in the mountains, aren't you?” she said. “I
couldn't let you stay lost if it was possible for me to direct you on
“You said you was lost yourself.”
“I was lost—until I stumbled into this clearing. That gave me my
“Smart, ain't you? Damn' smart, but not too smart for me, you
woman!” The flare flamed up again in his crooked eyes. “You know who I
be, all right. You know what I'm aimin' to do. And you're stallin' for
time till you can put one over. But you can't—see? I'll have this
business done with. I'll end this business!”
She felt herself sinking to her knees. He advanced and gripped her
left wrist. The crunch of his iron fingers sent an arrow of pain
through her arm. It bore her down.
“For God's sake—don't!” she whispered hoarsely, overwhelmed
with horror. For the cold, sharp nose of the revolver suddenly punched
“I ain't leavin' no traces behind. Might as well be hung for a sheep
as a lamb. Never mind if I do——”
“Look!” she cried wildly. “Look, look, look!” And with her
free hand she pointed behind him.
It was an old trick. There was nothing behind him. But in that
instant of desperation instinct had guided her.
Involuntarily he turned.
With a scream of pain she twisted from his grasp and blotted out the
A long, livid pencil of orange flame spurted from the gun-point. She
sensed the powder-flare in her face. He had missed.
She scrambled for shelter beneath the table. The cabin was now in
inky blackness. Across that black four more threads of scarlet light
were laced. The man stumbled about seeking her, cursing with
Suddenly he tripped and went sprawling. The gun clattered from his
bruised fingers; it struck the woman's knee.
Swiftly her hand closed upon it. The hot barrel burned her palm.
She was on her feet in an instant. Her left hand fumbled in her
blouse, and she found what had been there all along—the flash-lamp.
With her back against the door, she pulled it forth. With the gun
thrust forward for action she pressed the button.
“I've got the gun—get up!” she ordered. “Don't come too near
me or I'll shoot. Back up against that wall.”
The bull's-eye of radiance blinded him. When his eyes became
accustomed to the light, he saw its reflection on the barrel of the
revolver. He obeyed.
“Put up your hands. Put 'em up high!”
“Suppose I won't?”
“I'll kill you.”
“What'll you gain by that?”
“Five thousand dollars.”
“Then you know who I be?”
“And was aimin' to take me in?”
“How you goin' to do that if I won't go?”
“You're goin' to find out.”
“You won't get no money shootin' me.”
“Yes, I will—just as much—dead as alive.”
With his hands raised a little way above the level of his shoulders,
he stood rigidly at bay in the circle of light.
“Well,” he croaked at last, “go ahead and shoot. I ain't aimin' to
be took—not by no woman. Shoot, damn you, and have it done with. I'm
“Keep up those hands!”
“I won't!” He lowered them defiantly. “I w-wanted to m-make
Partridgeville and see the old lady. She'd 'a' helped me. But
anything's better'n goin' back to that hell where I been the last two
years. Go on! Why don't you shoot?”
“You wanted to make Partridgeville and see—who?”
“My mother—and my wife.”
“Have you got a mother? Have you got a—wife?”
“Yes, and three kids. Why don't you shoot?”
It seemed an eon that they stood so. The McBride woman was trying to
find the nerve to fire. She could not. In that instant she made a
discovery that many luckless souls make too late: to kill a man
is easy to talk about, easy to write about. But to stand deliberately
face to face with a fellow-human—alive, pulsing, breathing, fearing,
hoping, loving, living,—point a weapon at him that would take his
life, blot him from the earth, negate twenty or thirty years of
childhood, youth, maturity, and make of him in an instant—nothing!
—that is quite another matter.
He was helpless before her now. Perhaps the expression on his face
had something to do with the sudden revulsion that halted her finger.
Facing certain death, some of the evil in those crooked eyes seemed to
die out, and the terrible personality of the man to fade. Regardless of
her danger, regardless of what he would have done to her if luck had
not turned the tables, Cora McBride saw before her only a lone man with
all society's hand against him, realizing he had played a bad game to
the limit and lost, two big tears creeping down his unshaved face,
waiting for the end.
“Three children!” she whispered faintly.
“You're going back to see them?”
“Yes, and my mother. Mother'd help me get to Canada—somehow.”
Cora McBride had forgotten all about the five thousand dollars. She
was stunned by the announcement that this man had relatives—a mother,
a wife, three babies. The human factor had not before occurred
to her. Murderers! They have no license to let their eyes well with
tears, to have wives and babies, to possess mothers who will help them
get to Canada regardless of what their earthly indiscretions may have
At this revelation the gun-point wavered. The sight of those tears
on his face sapped her will-power even as a wound in her breast might
have drained her life-blood.
Her great moment had been given her. She was letting it slip away.
She had her reward in her hand for the mere pulling of a trigger and no
incrimination for the result. For a bit of human sentiment she was
bungling the situation unpardonably, fatally.
Why did she not shoot? Because she was a woman. Because it is the
God-given purpose of womanhood to give life, not take it.
The gun sank, sank—down out of the light, down out of sight.
And the next instant he was upon her.
The flash-lamp was knocked from her hand and blinked out. It struck
the stove and she heard the tinkle of the broken lens. The woman's hand
caught at the sacking before the window at her left shoulder. Gripping
it wildly to save herself from that onslaught, she tore it away. For
the second time the revolver was twisted from her raw fingers.
The man reared upward, over her.
“Where are you?” he roared again and again. “I'll show you! Lemme at
Outside the great yellow moon of early winter, arising late, was
coming up over the silhouetted line of purple mountains to the
eastward. It illumined the cabin with a faint radiance, disclosing the
woman crouching beneath the table.
The man saw her, pointed his weapon point-blank at her face and
To Cora McBride, prostrate there in her terror, the impact of the
bullet felt like the blow of a stick upon her cheek-bone rocking her
head. Her cheek felt warmly numb. She pressed a quick hand
involuntarily against it, and drew it away sticky with blood.
Click! Click! Click!
Three times the revolver mechanism was worked to accomplish her
destruction. But there was no further report. The cylinder was empty.
“Oh, God!” the woman moaned. “I fed you and offered to help you. I
refused to shoot you because of your mother—your wife—your babies.
And yet you——”
“Where's your cartridges?” he cried wildly. “You got more; gimme
She felt his touch upon her. His crazy fingers tried to unbutton the
clasp of the belt and holster. But he could secure neither while she
fought him. He pinioned her at length with his knee. His fingers
secured a fistful of the cylinders from her girdle, and he opened the
chamber of the revolver.
She realized the end was but a matter of moments. Nothing but a
miracle could save her now.
Convulsively she groped about for something with which to strike.
Nothing lay within reach of her bleeding fingers, however, but a little
piece of dried sapling. She tried to struggle loose, but the lunatic
held her mercilessly. He continued the mechanical loading of the
The semi-darkness of the hut, the outline of the moon afar through
the uncurtained window—these swam before her.... Suddenly her eyes
riveted on that curtainless window and she uttered a terrifying cry.
Outlined in the window aperture against the low-hung moon Martin
Wiley, the murdered deputy, was staring into the cabin!
From the fugitive's throat came a gurgle. Some of the cartridges he
held spilled to the flooring. Above her his figure became rigid. There
was no mistaking the identity of the apparition. They saw the man's
hatless head and some of his neck. They saw his dark pompadour and the
outline of his skull. As that horrible silhouette remained there,
Wiley's pompadour lifted slightly as it had done in life.
The cry in the convict's throat broke forth into words.
“Mart Wiley!” he cried, “Mart Wiley! Mart—Wiley!”
Clear, sharp, distinct was the shape of that never-to-be-forgotten
pompadour against the disk of the winter moon. His features could not
be discerned, for the source of light was behind him, but the
silhouette was sufficient. It was Martin Wiley; he was alive. His head
and his wirelike hair were moving—rising, falling.
Ruggam, his eyes riveted upon the phantom, recoiled mechanically to
the western wall. He finished loading the revolver by the sense of
Spurt after spurt of fire lanced the darkness, directed at the Thing
in the window. While the air of the hut reeked with the acrid smoke,
the echo of the volley sounded through the silent forest-world miles
But the silhouette in the window remained.
Once or twice it moved slightly as though in surprise; that was all.
The pompadour rose in bellicose retaliation—the gesture that had
always ensued when Wiley was angered or excited. But to bullets fired
from an earthly gun the silhouette of the murdered deputy's ghost,
arisen in these winter woods to prevent another slaughter, was
Ruggam saw; he shrieked. He broke the gun and spilled out the empty
shells. He fumbled in more cartridges, locked the barrel and fired
again and again, until once more it was empty.
Still the apparition remained.
The man in his dementia hurled the weapon; it struck the sash and
caromed off, hitting the stove. Then Hap Ruggam collapsed upon the
The woman sprang up. She found the rope thongs which had bound her
pack to her shoulders. With steel-taut nerves, she rolled the
insensible Ruggam over.
She tied his hands; she tied his ankles. With her last bit of rope
she connected the two bindings tightly behind him so that if he
recovered, he would be at her mercy. Her task accomplished, on her
knees beside his prone figure, she thought to glance up at the window.
Wiley's ghost had disappeared.
Sheriff Crumpett and his party broke into the Lyons clearing within
an hour. They had arrived in answer to five successive shots given a
few moments apart, the signal agreed upon. The mystery to them,
however, was that those five shots had been fired by some one not of
The sheriff and his men found the McBride woman, her clothing half
torn from her body, her features powder-marked and blood-stained; but
she was game to the last, woman-fashion weeping only now that all was
over. They found, too, the man they had combed the country to
find—struggling fruitlessly in his bonds, her prisoner.
And they likewise found the miracle.
On the snow outside under the window they came upon a black
porcupine about the size of a man's head which, scenting food within
the cabin, had climbed to the sill, and after the habit of these little
animals whose number is legion all over the Green Mountains, had
required fifteen bullets pumped into its carcass before it would
release its hold.
Even in death its quills were raised in uncanny duplication of Mart