Argosy All-Story Weekly, May 3, 1924 — page 161: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

THE LIGHT IN THE CABIN. power that he was able to meet that wild stare. Suddenly the old man’s voice boomed out, hollow and strident: “Sir, death feasts with us to-night!” Rork felt his scalp prickle; first scatter- ‘ingly, then as though it was suddenly cold, chilled. He experienced a peculiar sinking sensation at the pit of his stomach; his mouth was dry. Was it possible that he, the Killer, was afraid of this harmless old creature? Was superstition breaking his nerve—he, the slayer of a dozen men? He tried to speak, to hurl some vile epi- thet at the old preacher; but the words would not come. They stuck in his throat, unuttered, silenced by some strange power he could not resist. His right hand sought his gun butt—and then withdrew. Much as he wanted to, he could not draw the gun and shoot. With- out taking further notice of him, Preacher Job started to eat, and after a moment or two Rork followed suit. The meal was consumed in silence. The Killer ate nervously, glancing furtively from time to time across the table at his strange host. Each time he seemed to meet the old man’s piercing gaze—and each time he looked away unable to encounter the ebon flames of those eyes. Outside the storm continued to beat against the cabin in unabated fury. Rork finished first, but the old preacher continued ‘to eat his fill in maddening de- liberation. He seemed lost in contempla- tion. Finally he pushed his chair back from the table and stared fixedly across at the Killer. Rork thought he was never going to break the silence. When he did it was in a ringing voice, with a wild gesture of the arm. ‘Now, Steve Rork, I have things to say to thee. The day of judgment has arrived, and thou must pay—even to the last far- thing.” Then, his blazing eyes fixed on Rork, the old man began to expound the Gospel —expound it in ringing tones and biting words. And strangely enough, the Killer listened—listened in spite of an overpower- 951 ing desire to, pump his accuser full of lead and then flee into the storm away from this accursed place. In bitter words the old preacher drew from his biblical store a scathing arraign- ment of Rork’s crimes. He heaped religious anathema upon religious anathema. He castigated the Killer in phrases that -out and burned like hot iron. He heaped Gas- pel invective upon Gospel invective until he had made out a case against the man be- fore him that reeked with every vile crime in the calendar. And then slowly, with a precision and logic surprising in one of his meager edu- cation, he drew from that same biblical store an indictment that would have been superb in any court of justice—a judgment unenforceable, but none the less fearful. And the Killer listened, silently, sullenly, but with a constantly rising gorge of anger. Suddenly the old man leaped to his feet and, pointing a bony forefinger at Rork, deliv- ered his sentence: “Steve Rork, to-night God hast deliv- ered thee into mine hands. Tonight you go to Red Cliff and give yourself up to the law!” Even as the old man rose to his feet the Killer did likewise, and, without taking his eyes from his accuser, he slowly backed away from the table and down the room until the two men were separated by a dozen feet or more. ‘““T guess you got another think comin’, old man,” he snarled. <A nervous twitch to his lips gave his forbidding countenance a bestial aspect. The preacher turned, without lowering his arm, and again his voice boomed above the storm: “I repeat, Steve Rork—to-night you give yourself up to the law!” These last words seemed abruptly to end the spell that bound the Killer. His lips parted in a hard, fixed grin. His hand darted to his gun butt. The little cabin was suddenly filled with the thunder of a report. Rork saw the splinters fly from a log in back of Preacher Job as the heavy lead slug bit deep into the wood. He expected to see the old man crumple up on the floor. comniiclsoo! S (©