CHAPTER XX

Bud, after making his escape, ran down the mountain road to the home of Roge Carver, where he borrowed a rifle and ammunition. Roge loaned both without either question or comment, although later he admitted to his neighbors that it did occur to him that the incident was more or less unusual. It was not easy to understand how Bud happened to be without a gun of his own when within so short a distance of his shack, or why he needed one, anyway, on a stormy night at one o’clock in the morning.

“He was all riled up,” explained Roge. “So I didn’ hold no talk with ’um.”

No one disputed that as an unwise decision. When a man like Bud goes gunning in the dead of night, he is best left alone. The explanation Roge offered his wife when he returned to bed seemed fairly reasonable.

“Mebbe one o’ them Enfield boys is prowlin’ round.”

On the whole, however, it made little difference to his neighbors what Bud was about as long as they were not immediately involved. That a man out there alone on the mountain-side, in Stygian darkness, was battling with all the devils of Hell did not interest them. Bruised and sore from head to foot, with the tips of his raw fingers quivering, Bud could fight it out and welcome as long as he kept to himself. It even made little difference whether he lost or won.

As he staggered up the rocky road, he would have been the first to admit the truth of this. This was his fight now--his alone. He could depend upon neither God, man, nor the Devil for assistance. He was against the universe and the universe against him. Even the mountain wind bred in his own mountain trees had played him false. It had lured him into danger at the door. It was trying to press him back even now and whipping his black hair into his eyes. In desperate rage he cursed it as he stumbled on.

No matter how small the man, there is something Homeric about his struggles when he comes to grips with elemental forces. Whether king or common slave, a man who swayed by big passions does his best against odds acquires a certain majesty. Men respect even rats who fight hard for life.

If Bud had been dominated at the moment of his escape by nothing but black revenge, this, before he returned to the shack, had changed into something else, no less intense, but on the whole worthier. His objective remained still the same--the death of Allston. But while he lay bound upon the floor suffering acute physical pain, he had looked forward to this as a matter solely of personal satisfaction. It was man to man then, with Roxie stimulating the enmity, but she herself almost wholly eliminated from the final issue. Once Bud was free and, rifle in hand, within sight of his own door again, the girl assumed to him her old importance. Because, as he realized now, with Allston dead, she would be left more than ever his. The first time he had secured no more than temporary possession; this time possession would be permanent.

So after all he did not stand altogether alone against the universe. With Roxie still alive that was not possible. God, man, and the Devil--they could all be against him, but as long as he kept within striking distance of this girl he could still hope. In a way she was nearer him at this moment than she had ever been before. He had until now been under certain restraints. She had forced upon him a compromise. For her sake he had twice spared Allston. She could not expect that again of him. The issue now was clean-cut and that suited him better.

Within a hundred yards of his shack, Bud paused. The windows were dark--a fact that made him smile grimly. It indicated that the two were still within or they would not have taken this precaution. And that they were still inside was all he asked. It meant that they must come out--in one hour, two hours, ten hours, twenty hours. It did not much matter when. They must come out of one of two doors.

Bud took up a position by the spring-house to the left. From that angle he commanded either door. With rifle cocked he sat down to wait.

But waiting was a more difficult business than he anticipated. That was because his thoughts refused to stand still. And yet often enough he had sat on a rock for hours at a time waiting for a buck to pass down a mountain trail--waited stolidly and indifferently for his quarry. He had not then been worried by thought. He had been patient enough. This was all that was necessary now.

If Allston had only been in there alone, Bud could have sat where he was a week, indifferent to sleep, indifferent to hunger, indifferent to the weather. Each passing hour then would only have heightened his expectancy. But Roxie was there too.

He wondered what the two were doing. There were moments when he thought he caught the sound of their muffled voices--as he had caught them when he lay prone and bound on the floor. Then the moisture started to his forehead and his arm muscles twitched and the tips of his raw fingers began to quiver. He was tempted then to beat down one of those silent, blank doors and force his way in.

Only he knew better. He would be shot in his tracks--through the panels most likely. He did not underestimate his man--pink-cheeked, lily-fingered though he might be. Lily fingers could pull a gun trigger quite as easily as any other kind. Furthermore, he had had evidence that Allston could shoot straight. He did not like to remember the night of their first meeting when this stranger had shot the gun out of his hands. Yet it was one of the things he could not forget.

He must wait--but what were they doing in there? Holding hands, perhaps. Gawd A’mighty! And he sitting out here in the dark--sitting outside his own home!

It was curious, but from the first Bud had never considered as a possibility the fact that Roxie might really care for this stranger. His mind could no more conceive this than that she should not in the end care for himself. Allston was fooling her, that was all, and she was being fooled. One of the traditional old wives’ tales hereabouts was of a country girl ruined by a city chap. Bud had heard it since a boy. He knew of other cases, too, where the villain had not been a city chap; but those stories, though based on sounder evidence, were not as dramatic. They were, perhaps because of this evidence, distinctly commonplace.

Whatever Roxie’s relations with Allston were, then, they were only temporary. And she was not at fault. She did not know men. It was the old story of the summerer and his fine clothes, except that Roxie would never be fooled too far. Bud knew that. He had known it before, but the early part of this evening the girl had proven it. The little wildcat had taken a knife out of her bosom and started for him. And he--well, he was almost tempted to risk one cut for a kiss. Her eyes had stopped him. They had warned that the cut would be deep.

Now she was in there with Allston. That was what made it hard to wait. It was this which moved him from his position once and urged him to one of those front windows. Cautiously he peered in. He could see only the dying fire lighting dimly the hearthstones. But this sight maddened him. It was cold outside, and here he was barred from his own fire. To the right was a black shadow. Upon the impulse of the moment he raised his rifle and fired into it. Then he moved back swiftly to his point of vantage by the spring-house.

Nothing followed. The shadow evidently was only a shadow. It was expecting too much to hope it was anything else. Roxie was no fool. She would see to it that Allston kept out of range. For that matter Allston himself was no fool.

Bud made up his mind that he could look forward to little action until morning, and the only consolation he could get out of that was that daylight would increase his chances. Daylight would make the result certain. In the dark a man, no matter how good a shot, might shoot wild. Once the sun was up Bud knew that not even a rat could move ten inches from either doorsill.

With his rifle across his arm he sat down, his thin lips drawn taut, his blue eyes as hard and cold as steel.