Beadle's New York Dime Library, No. 40 — page 24: what you’re looking at

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

24. Beadle’s Dime Library. gles, fearing to delay; for, though she had an abundance of provisions, water there was none. Many a backward glance she cast, but the val- ley below was shrouded in gloom, A shudder shook her form at the thought that at any mo- ment she might be discovered by some one of the outlaws, though unseen himself. And then —she knew that a rifle-shot would end all, were she to refuse their command to descend; perhaps his hand would hold, his eye direct the fatal weapon! Foot by foot—almost inch by inch—she crept on and upward, frequertly forced to pense by her failing powers. The hours rolled by. The sun across-‘the narrow rift and vanished from view; yet the summit seemed as far away asever. Then—a treacherous root gave way meee as the woman’s whole weight de- ded from it, and down she fell, hurled from point to point until the same tree-trunk to which she had bound herself the night before, arrested her further fall. She hung across the tree, like one dead. A loud shout came from below, anda moment later a rifle exploded, the bullet burying itself just above the falling figure. The voice of by Tom began to curse the marksman, whose hasty shot might betray their retreat to to those who were hunting their lives; and abashed the ruffian slunk away, believing, as Baby Tom de- clared, that he had been deceived by a falling bush or broken limb. A few minutes later Martha Bascom struggled back to consciousness, and managed once more to bind herself to the tree-trunk. She knew now that the ascent was beyond her power. The fall had bruised her terribly. It seemed to her that she was dying. The trees around her were nodding and dancing, keeping time to a weird melody that seemed ringing through her brain. And then—a mist overspread her eyes—her eee drooped against the earth—all was a How long she lay in this deathlike trance Martha om never knew. The hours and days had passed over her head unheeded. It was night when her te opened. All was black and silent as death. Even the river below seemed to have ceased its complainings for the moment. With a steady, unfaltering hand, Martha Bascom unbuckled the strap that held her to the tree-trunk. She rose, grasped a slender bush and lowered herself to the full length of her arms. Her feet rested upon the end of a rock; and repeating the operation, never once hesitating or ap ng in doubt, she worked her way down the face of the hill and stood safely beside the river. For a few moments she stared steadily across to where the outlaws’ huts lay shrouded in the dense obscurity, but then she shook her head Sopranos and gliding along the bank, entered the tunnel, treading the nar- row path, peasing the many unseen gers as r ly as though crossing the smoothest floor, reaching the moonlight beyond in safety. Here she paused as though for reflection, pre- sently turning and skirting the base of the hill for several hundred yards. Entering a narrow pest, she proceeded until a narrow valley lay ore her. Passi through the bushes she came to a rude but strong corral, containing a number of horses. She entered and followed the snorting animals to the further end. She spoke a few words of soothing, and then wound her fingers in the a 5 Season of Simoom. The noble animal] followed her without an effort to break arer and stood quietly beside her while she pulled a saddle and bridle from amon others beneath a pile of brush. She adj these, then léft open the bars as she sprung into the saddle and rode mepie'y away. The noble steed obeyed her slightest gesture and a wild, erratic trail the twain left behind them! The crazed woman could remember that she had vowed to go somewhere, but that was all. She could not stop—she urged Simoom on, now in one direction, now retracing her steps, for hour after hour. Broken sentences fell from her lips. Her b eyes roved here and ther e seem- ed looking for something which constantly eluded her. Then the old feeling of faintness crept over her, and with a faint remembrance of what had poems she buckled the stout strap around her body and tied it to the high pommel of the sad- die. The reins fell from her fingers, and her head drooped. Simoom uttered a low whicker, tossed his head gladly, then turned into a valley that led at right angles. As though he knew that his rider was helpless, he paced steadily and true, though iftly. Through the valley, into Crooked Valley, past the stone fort at the base of which gaunt wolves were snarling and fight- ing over many a glistening bone—on past the spring and out upon the level, sandy plain e good horse, knowing that he was going home to his loved master. On and on as though his limbs would never tire sped the blood bay, and at length the dis- tant — - = bigreris = visible. — a sharp neigh, Simoom tches out in a long sweeping stride. The woman lifts her head with a start and low cry of wonder. She notices the fort—she sees a crowd of men col- lected; and a bright light—the light of return- ing reason—fills hereyes. She knew now what she had been seeking for! She saw the puff of smoke—heard the heavy report—and as one man fell to the earth, Si- moom utters a shrill neigh and plunges on, only pausing when his hoofs graze the side of his fallen master! CHAPTER XXIX,. THE DEAD PAST REVIVED. Srmoom paused short beside his one-time master, and bent his neck until his velvet muz- zle almost touched the white, rigid face. But the eager whimper met with no hs eg Martha Bascom, as though awaking from a dream, stared wildly around her, pushing back the heavy masses of gra streaked hair from her bandaged face. She shivered from head to foot as her gaze rested upon the face of Colonel Markham, who, recognizing the horse, was eager] advancing, a wild hope of hearing some- ing efinite concerning his lost child fillin g his eart ** The man is dead!” repeated Doctor Hurlbutt, and raising the blanket from the coffin, he covered the blood-stained form. But his words, * tan so close beside her, attracted Martha ascom’s attention, and for the first time she noticed the faceof the co A low, wailing cry parted her lips, she covered her face as though to shut out some dread object, and it seemed as though the leather strap alone kept her from falling to the earth. eee pony. = yours, ees ae char of it,’’ and as he e the surgeon i- moom by the battle, and rhced, ge ag es ay a the coffin. This movement brought them face to face with Colonel Markham. Martha Bascom bent her head until it was level with the soldier’s face. Her voice was low, and she spoke 5 parr yet each word was like the deliberate planting of a bullet. .‘*The curse of the past is working, Alfred Markham! You lenge me to scorn, then—it is my turn now. y for you, my master, my father might now be alive. That loss was my unishment—yonder is yours! Down Epon rae ees, man, and pray for the soul of Jo k- ham—of your son, whom you have murdered!” ‘““A lie—he was no son of mine!” Markham, yet the ghastly or that over- spread his face told how near his heart the ar- row was planted. ‘‘ Who are you—I don’t—” A low, mocking laugh interrupted him. ‘* A change, is there not? Yet once—bah! the sacha ! Enough that your son lies there— ead, his life cut short by your hand. See!— the blood! it wells up—it spreads—it bears wit- ness to God!” ‘*A fit—make way!’ cried Dr. Hurlbutt, ex- citedly, as the woman’s head fell back, a bloody foot oozing through her tightly - clenched teeth. Cutting the strap that bound her to the pom- mel, the surgeon called a couple of men, and with their aid bore the woman into the fort. Colonel Markham had turned toward the body of the man whom he had doomed to death—the body of his own son, if Martha Bascom spoke true. It was false—it must be false! And yet it required niet courage in him to resolve to remove the blanket, to satisfy his doubts, than would have led him to the mouth of a cannon. But Bill Comstock crouched beside the bod of his friend, one hand resting upon the blood- stained blanket, the other grasping a cocked re- volver. There was a fierce, hunted look in his eyes, and his voice sounded harsh and unnatural as he snarled, rather than spoke: *“'You’ve did your bloody work, Colonel Markham. They ain’t nothin’ more you kin hurt. Go your way afore the devil that’s in me its the upper han’—go your way, an’ pray to God that your trail won’t never ag’in cross that o’ Bill Comstock!” ‘* You heard what that woman said? I must see—if he is my—my son,” muttered the officer, his fingers nervously pla) in with a coat-button. ‘* Lay one finger on t blanket, an’ I'll kill you,” said in a low, deadly tone. ‘What he was in life don’t matter to nobody. Afore he died, he give me his body. He told me aforehand what I was to do, an’ sure as thar’s a God lookin’ down on us, Tl kill the man as tries to cross me in in’ out his wishes! Big a& man as you be, you ’t tetch this body, an’ live. I’most wis yous try! only I know he wouldn’t like it. Go! ef you ain't achin’ to die—git away from me. I tell you thar’s a bloody devil in me a-callin’-— Drive up on this side, Martin,” the scout added, as his brother scout drew near, leading a horse and small am- bulance. Like one in a maze, Colonel Markham stood watching the two men as they lifted the bod and placed it in the ambulance. The coffin fol- lowed, then Martin took the horse by the bridle and moved slowly away. Comstock, with drawn pistol, w ind, with many a backward glance, as a lion sometimes reluctant- ly leaves its prey. A shrill roy, ee Simoom started in pursuit, falling into line; and thus the strange funeral cortege disappeared amid the darkening shadows. Lieutenant Blake advanced and addressed the colonel, Markham started like one just awaken- ing from a dream, brushed his hand quickl across his face as though he could thus wee the black memories that thronged his brain, and muttered a brief reply—what, he knew not, and turning, he strode toward the fort, swiftly, et with the uncertain step of a man who has n drinking. ‘‘The woman is better, and has been asking for you, colonel,” said Dr. Hurlbutt, meetin him at the gates. ‘‘She must have end frightful sufferings—I would give much to know her whole history!” ‘* Is—is her mind clear?” hesitated Markham. ‘““As yours, my dear sir; that is, for the resent. She has had fits of insanity, and more han once; she will have another—and she will never live throughit. She begged me to send for you. Thereis something prelening pen her mind. With that removed, she may live on for months; otherwise, she will never see another sunset.” ‘Where is she?” “‘In my quarters. I couldn’t take her to the iar hall I tell her you will come?” lonel Markham signed for him to lead the way. Obeying, the surgeon paused inside only long enough to give his patient a draught of cordial, then, bowing gravely, he closed the door behind him. ‘“‘There was a time when I did not have to send for you, Alfred,” uttered Martha Bascom, in a low but clear voice. ‘‘ You stare at me— am Iso changed, then? Through all the long, weary years that have gone by, I knew your face at the first glance, Alfred. Look at me once more—you can remember what I once was, when you knew me as Martha Bogarth—” A strange cry parted the soldier’s lips. The woman smiled. ‘**T tell you true, Alfred. I am the little Martha to whom you taught the first lesson of life. The finger of time has touched me heavier than you; but that does not matter. I did not send for you to weary you with complaints of vanished beauty. I have sumething more im- portant—” ' ** Some other time—I don’t think I can bear your eoprcaohes now, Martha,” said the soldier, oarse ee Goons other time! have Iso much longer to live? No, Alfred Markham, we are only sure of the present. I know that I have only a short time to live—and I must clear my soul as far as confession of sin can.” , “The sin was mine—not yours,” muttered The first—yes. I was innocent and pure at heart as an infant, when you first met me, Al- fred. And yet—-{ cannot regret those days—so happy, my ! It was like a glimpse of heaven —the only heaven there is for such as I! But never mind. know that you did love me, then. And I—you were my god! Then you went away—I read your letter—and I went mad. There was a baby—and when my reason returned, they said I killed it. I do not know. If so, it was for the best. It died before its cheek could learn to flush with shame at its mother’s name. ‘** Alfred—it is hard to say what I must ; and better, then.” yet I cannot die with “ga sin untold. your face away, I can tell it Colonel Markham sunk into a chair, and Martha Bascom turned heavily in bed, so that her face was hidden from the light. She spoke quickly, as though fearing to allow herself time to reflect upon what she was res ‘*T followed you to the city. You were liv- ing with your wife, and—her child. You must remember the time, for soon after I found you, you received a note—a note that I wrote but did not sign. The words it contained were false —a deliberate lie. The woman they accused of sin was pure as anangel. I knew that; but you loved her—had left me for her, and that was enough. I believe my mind was crazed, even then. ‘That note was followed by others. They ac- cused your wife of betray you—of lovin - other. The proofs that gave were false, though so cunningly contrived that you be- lieved them. ‘*T had an accomplice—a man who loved me well, at that time. He was rude and ignorant and when [I promised to marry him he agreed to help mein my plans, You saw him, once, if you remember: he was in disguise, then. That was when you found him with your wife. ‘*In compliance with my plans, you agreed to tell her that business would call you away from town for several nights. ad, you disgui yourself and remained in readiness for my sum- mons. You did not have to wait long. <Ac- companied by a witness you drove to the house I had named, forced your way gs we and found her—your wife—in a private chamber, witha man. With a curse you struckher down —would have killed her, only for your friend. The stranger escaped. That man was my friend. I sent your wife word that you were fatally wounded—she fell into the trap. 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