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Randall Parrish - The Strange Case of Cavendish

R >> Randall Parrish >> The Strange Case of Cavendish




"You'll go then?"

"Sure; didn't I just tell you so?"

Brennan wheeled about.

"Give him his gun, Jim, and the belt," he commanded briefly. "I don't
send no man into a fracas like this unless he's heeled. Leave yer
coats here, an' take it slow. Both of yer ready?"

Not until his dying day will Westcott ever forget the moment he hung
dangling over the edge of that pit, following Moore who had
disappeared, and felt gingerly in the darkness for the narrow rock
ledge below. The young miner possessed imagination, and could not
drive from memory the mental picture of those depths beneath; the
horror was like a nightmare, and yet the one dominant thought was not
of an awful death, of falling headlong, to be crushed shapeless
hundreds of feet below. This dread was there, an intense agony at
first, but beyond it arose the more important thought of what would
become of her if he failed to attain the bottom of that cliff alive.
Yet this was the very thing which steadied him, and brought back his
courage.

At best they could only creep, feeling a way blindly from crag to crag,
clinging desperately to every projection, never venturing even the
slightest movement until either hand or loot found solid support.
Moore led, his boyish recklessness and knowledge of the way, giving him
an advantage. Westcott followed, keeping as close as possible,
endeavouring to shape his own efforts in accordance with the dimly
outlined form below; while Brennan, short-legged and stout, probably
had the hardest task of all in bringing up the rear.

No one spoke, except as occasionally Moore sent back a brief whisper of
warning at some spot of unusual danger, but they could hear each
other's laboured breathing, the brushing of their clothing against the
surface of the rock, the scraping of their feet, and occasionally the
faint tinkle of a small stone, dislodged by their passage and striking
far below. There was nothing but intense blackness down there--a
hideous chasm of death clutching at them; the houses, the men, the
whole valley was completely swallowed in the night.

Above it all they clung to the almost smooth face of the cliff,
gripping for support at every crevice, the rock under them barely wide
enough to yield purchase to their feet. Twice Westcott had to let go
entirely, trusting to a ledge below to stop his fail; once he travelled
a yard, or more, dangling on his hands over the abyss, his feet feeling
for the support beyond; and several times he paused to assist the
shorter-legged marshal down to a lower level. Their progress was that
of the snail, yet every inch of the way they played with death.

Now and then voices shouted out of the gloom beneath them, and they
hung motionless to listen. The speech was Spanish garnished with
oaths, its meaning not altogether clear. They could distinguish
Mendez's harsh croak easily among the others.

"What's he saying, Moore?" whispered Westcott to the black shape just
below.

"Something 'bout the log. I don't just make it, but I reckon they aim
now to batter in the winder."

"Well, go on," passed down the marshal gruffly. "What in Sam Hill are
yer holdin' us up yere for? I ain't got more'n two inches ter stand
on."

Fifty feet below, just as Moore rounded the dead cedar, the guns began
again, the spits of red flame lighting up the outlines of the cabin,
and the dark figures of men. It was as though they looked down into
the pit, watching the brewing of some sport of demons--the movements
below them weird, grotesque--rendered horrible by those sudden glares
of light. This firing was all from without, and was unanswered; no
boom of shotgun replied, no muffled crack of revolver. Yet it must
have been for a purpose, for the men crouching against the cliff, their
faces showing ghastly in the flashes of powder, were able to perceive a
massing of figures below. Then the shots ceased, and the butt of the
great log crashed against something with the force of a catapult, and a
yell rolled up through the night.

At last Moore stopped, and waited until Westcott was near enough for
him to whisper in the other's ear.

"There's a drop yere, 'bout ten er twelve feet, I reckon; an' then just
a slope to ther bottom. Don't make no more noise then yer have to, an'
give me a chance ter git out of ther way afore yer let go."

Westcott passed the word back across his shoulder to Brennan who was
panting heavily, and, watched, as best he could on hands and knees,
while Moore lowered himself at arm's length over the narrow rock ledge.
The boy loosened his grip, but landed almost noiselessly. Westcott,
peering over, could see nothing; there was beneath only impenetrable
blackness. Silently he also dropped and his feet struck earth, sloping
rapidly downward. Hardly had he advanced a yard, when the little
marshal struck the dirt, with a force that made him grunt audibly. At
the foot of this pile of debris, Moore waited for them, the night so
dark down there in the depths, Westcott's outstretched hand touched the
fellow before he was assured of his presence.

The Mexicans were still; whatever deviltry they were up to, it was
being carried on now in silence; the only sound was a muffled scraping.
Brennan yet struggled for breath, but was eager for action. He shoved
his head forward, listening.

"What do yer make o' that noise?" he asked, his words scarcely audible.

"I heerd it afore yer come up," returned Moore. "'Tain't nuthin'
regular. I figure the Mex are goin' in through that winder they
busted. That sound's their boots scaling the wall."

"Ever been inside?"

"Wunst, ter take some papers ter Lacy."

"Well, what's it like? For God's sake speak up--there's goin' ter be
hell to pay in a minute."

"Thar's two rooms; ther outside door an' winder are in the front one,
which is the biggest. The other is whar Mendez sleeps, an' thar's a
door between 'em."

"No windows in the rear room?"

"None I ever see."

"And just the one door; what sort o' partition?"

"Just plain log, I reckon."

"That's all right, Jim," and Westcott felt the marshal's fingers grasp
his arm. "I got it sized up proper. Whoever them folks be, they've
barricaded inter that back room. Likely they've got a dead range on
the front door, an' them Mexes have had all they want tryin' to get to
'em in that way. So now they're crawlin' in through the window.
There'll be some hellabaloo in there presently to my notion, an' I want
ter be thar ter see the curtain go up. Wharabouts are we, Matt?"

"Back o' the bunk-house. Whar do yer want ter go? I kin travel 'round
yere with my eyes shut."

"The front o' Mendez's cabin," said the marshal shortly. "Better take
the other side; if that door is down we'll take those fellows in the
rear afore they know what's happening." He chuckled grimly. "We've
sure played in luck so far, boys; go easy now, and draw yer guns."

They were half-way along the side wall when the firing began--but it
was not the Mexicans this time who began it. The shotgun barked; there
was the sound of a falling body; two revolver shots and then the sharp
ping of a Winchester. Brennan leaped past the boy ahead, and rounded
the corner. A Mexican stood directly in front of the shattered door
peering in, a rifle yet smoking in his hands. With one swift blow of a
revolver butt the marshal dropped him in his tracks, the fellow rolling
off the steps onto the ground. With outstretched hands he stopped the
others, holding them back out of any possible view from within.

"Quick now, before that bunch inside gets wise to what's up. We've got
'em cornered. You, Matt, strip the jacket off that Mex, an' get his
hat; bunch 'em up together, and set a match to 'em. That's the stuff!
Now, the minute they blaze throw 'em in through that doorway. Come on,
Westcott, be ready to jump."

The hat was straw, and the bundle of blazing material landed almost in
the centre of the floor, lighting up the whole interior. Almost before
it struck, the three men, revolvers gleaming in their hands, had leaped
across the shattered door, and confronted the startled band huddled in
one corner. Brennan wasted no time, his eyes sweeping over the array
of faces, revealed by the blaze of fire on the floor.

"Hands up, my beauties--every mother's son of yer. Yes, I mean you,
yer human catapiller. Don't waste any time about it; I'm the caller
fer this dance. Put 'em up higher, less yer want ter commit suicide.
Now drop them rifles on the floor--gently, friends, gently. Matt,
frisk 'em and see what other weapons they carry. Ever see nicer bunch
o' lambs, Jim?" His lips smiling, but with an ugly look to his
gleaming teeth, and steady eyes. "Why they'd eat outer yer hand.
Which one of yer is Mendez?"

"He dead, _senor_," one fellow managed to answer in broken English.
"That heem lie dar."

"Well, that's some comfort," but without glancing about. "Now kick the
guns over this way, Matt, and touch a match to the lamp on that shelf
yonder; and, Jim, perhaps you better stamp out the fire; we'll not need
it any more. Great Scott! What's this?"

It was Miss Donovan, her dress torn, her hair dishevelled, a revolver
still clasped in her hand, half levelled as though she yet doubted her
realisation of what had occurred. She emerged from the blackness of
the rear room, advanced a step and stood there hesitating, her
wide-open eyes gazing about in bewilderment on the strange scene
revealed by the glow of the lamp. That searching, pathetic glance
swept from face to face about the motionless circle--the cowed Mexican
prisoners with uplifted hands backed against the wall; the three dead
bodies huddled on the floor; Moore, with the slowly expiring match yet
smoking in his fingers; the little marshal, erect, a revolver poised in
either hand, his face set and stern. Then she saw Westcott, and her
whole expression changed. An instant their eyes met; then the revolver
fell to the floor unnoticed, and the girl sprang toward him, both hands
outstretched.

"You!" she cried, utterly giving way, forgetful of all else except the
sense of relief the recognition brought her. "You! Oh! Now I know it
is all right! I was so sure you would come."

He caught the extended hands eagerly, drawing her close, and looking
straight down into the depths of her uplifted eyes. To him, at that
moment, there was no one else in the room, no one else in the wide,
wide world.

"You knew I would come?" he echoed. "You believed that much in me?"

"Yes; I have never had a doubt. I told him so; that if we could only
hold out long enough we would be saved. But," her lips quivered, and
there were tears glistening in the uplifted eyes, "you came too late
for him."

"For him? The man who was with you, you mean? Has he been shot?"

She bent her head, the lips refusing to answer.

"Who was he?"

"Mr. Cavendish--oh!"

It was a cry of complete reaction; the room reeled about her and she
would have fallen headlong had not Westcott clasped the slender form
closely in his arms. An instant he stood there gazing down into her
face. Then he turned toward Brennan.

"Leave us alone, Dan," he said simply. "Get that gang of blacklegs out
of here."




CHAPTER XXXII: IN THE TWO CABINS

The marshal's lips smiled.

"Sure, Jim," he drawled, "anything to oblige, although this is a new
one on me. Come on, Matt; it seems the gentleman does not wish to be
disturbed---- Well, neither would I under such circumstances. Here
you! line up there in single file, and get a move on you--pronto! Show
'em what I mean, Matt; put that guy that talks English at the head----
Yes, he's the one. Now look here, _amigo_, you march straight out
through that door, and head for the bunk-house--do you get that?"

"_Si, senor_; I savvy!"

"Well, you better; tell those fellows that if one of 'em makes a break
he's goin' ter be a dead Mex--will yer? Get to the other side of them,
Matt; now step ahead--not too fast."

Westcott watched the procession file out, still clasping the partially
unconscious girl in his arms. Moore, bringing up the rear, disappeared
through the entrance, and vanished into the night without. Except for
the three motionless bodies, they were alone. The lamp on the high
shelf flared fitfully in the wind, and the charred embers on the floor
exhibited a glowing spark of colour. From a distance Brennan's voice
growled out a gruff order to his line of prisoners. Then all was
still. The eyes of the girl opened slowly, her lids trembling, but as
they rested on Westcott's face, she smiled.

"You are glad I came?"

"Glad! Why I never really knew what gladness meant before."

He bent lower, his heart pounding fiercely, strange words struggling
for utterance.

"You love me?"

She looked at him, all the fervent Irish soul of her in her eyes. Then
one arm stole upward to his shoulder.

"As you love me," she whispered softly, "as you love me!"

"I can ask no more, sweetheart," he breathed soberly, and kissed her.
At last she drew back, still restrained by his arms, but with her eyes
suddenly grave and thoughtful.

"We forget," she chided, "where we are. You must let me go now, and
see if he is alive. I will wait on the bench, here."

"But you said he had been killed."

"I do not know; there was no time for me to be sure of that. The shot
struck him here in the chest, and when he fell he knocked me down. I
tore open his shirt, and bound up the wound hastily; it did not bleed
much. He never spoke after that, and lay perfectly still."

"Poor old Fred. I'll do what I can for him--I'll not be away a minute,
dear."

He could see little from the doorway, only the dark shadow of a man's
form lying full length on the floor. To enter he pushed aside the
uptilted bed, picking up the shotgun, and setting it against the log
wall. Then he took the lamp down from the shelf, and held it so the
feeble light fell upon the upturned face. He stared down at the
features thus revealed, unable for the moment to find expression for
his bewilderment.

"Can you come here, dear?" he called.

She stood beside him, gazing from his face into those features on which
the rays of the lamp fell.

"What is it?" she questioned breathlessly. "Is he dead?"

"I do not know; but that man is not Cavendish."

"Not Cavendish! Why he told me that was his name; he even described
being thrown from the back platform of a train by that Ned Beaton; who
can he be, then?"

"That is more than I can guess; only he is not Fred Cavendish. Will
you hold the lamp until I learn if he is alive?"

She took it in trembling hands, supporting herself against the wall,
while he crossed the room, and knelt beside the motionless figure. A
careful examination revealed the man's wound to be painful though not
particularly serious, Westcott carefully redressed the wound as best he
could, then with one hand he lifted the man's head and the motion
caused the eyelids to flutter. Slowly the eyes opened, and stared up
into the face bending over him. The wounded man breathed heavily, the
dull stare in his eyes changing to a look of bewildered intelligence.

"Where am I?" he asked thickly. "Oh, yes, I remember; I was shot. Who
are you?"

"I am Jim Westcott; do you remember me?"

The searching eyes evidenced no sense of recollection.

"No," he said, struggling to make the words clear. "I never heard that
name before."

Miss Donovan came forward, the lamp in her hand, the light shining full
in her face.

"But you told me you were Mr. Cavendish," she exclaimed, "and Mr.
Westcott was an old friend of his--surely you must remember?"

He looked up at her, and endeavoured to smile, yet for the moment did
not answer. He seemed fascinated by the picture she made, as though
some vision had suddenly appeared before him.

"I--I remember you," he said at last. "You--you are Miss Donovan; I'll
never forget you; but I never saw this man before--I'm sure of that."

"And I am equally convinced as to the truth of that remark," returned
Westcott, "but why did you call yourself Cavendish?"

"Because that is my name--why shouldn't I?"

"Why, see here, man," and Westcott's voice no longer concealed his
indignation, "you no more resemble Fred Cavendish than I do; there is
not a feature in common between you."

"Fred Cavendish?"

"Certainly; of New York; who do you think we were talking about?"

"I've had no chance to think; you jump on me here, and insist I'm a
liar, without even explaining what the trouble is all about. I claim
my name is Cavendish, and it is; but I've never once said I was Fred
Cavendish of New York. If you must know, I am Ferdinand Cavendish of
Los Angeles."

Westcott permitted the man's head to rest back on the floor, and he
arose to his feet. He felt dazed, stunned, as though stricken a sudden
blow. His gaze wandered from the startled face of the motionless girl
to the figure of the man outstretched on the floor at his feet.

"Good God!" he exclaimed. "What can all this mean? You came from New
York City?"

"Yes; I had been there a month attending to some business."

"And when you left for the coast, you took the midnight train on the
New York Central?"

"Yes. I had intended taking an earlier one, but was delayed."

"You bought return tickets at the station?"

"No; I had return tickets; they had to be validated."

"Then your name was signed to them; what is your usual signature?"

"F. Cavendish."

"I thought so. Stella, this has all been a strange blunder, but it is
perfectly clear how it happened. That man Beaton evidently had never
seen Frederick Cavendish. He was simply informed that he would leave
New York on that train. He met this Cavendish on board, perhaps even
saw his signature on the ticket, and cultivated his acquaintance. The
fellow never doubted but what he had the right man."

The wounded man managed to lift himself upon one elbow.

"What's that?" he asked anxiously. "You think he knocked me overboard,
believing I was some one else? That all this has happened on account
of my name?"

"No doubt of it. You have been the victim of mistaken identity. So
have we, for the matter of that."

He paused suddenly, overwhelmed by a swift thought. "But what about
Fred?" he asked breathless.

Stella's hand touched his arm.

"He--he must have been the dead man in the Waldron Apartments," she
faltered. "There is no other theory possible now."

The marshal of Haskell came out of the bunk-house, and closed the door
carefully behind him. He was rather proud of his night's work, and
felt quite confident that the disarmed Mexicans locked within those
strong log walls, and guarded by Moore, with a loaded rifle across his
knee, would remain quiet until daylight. The valley before him was
black and silent. A blaze of light shone out through the broken door
and window of the smaller cabin, and he chuckled at remembrance of the
last scene he had witnessed there--the fainting girl lying in
Westcott's arms. Naturally, and ordinarily, Mr. Brennan was
considerable of a cynic, but just now he felt in a far more genial and
sympathetic mood.

"Jim's some man," he confided to himself, unconsciously speaking aloud.
"An' the girl's a nervy little thing--almighty good lookin', too. I
reckon it'll cost me a month's salary fer a weddin' present, so maybe
the joke's on me." His mind reverted to Mendez. "Five thousand on the
old cuss," he muttered gloomily, "an' somebody else got the chance to
pot him. Well, by hooky, whoever it was sure did a good job--it was
thet shotgun cooked his goose, judgin' from the way his face was
peppered. Five thousand dollars--oh, hell!"

His eyes followed the outline of the valley, able to distinguish the
darker silhouette of the cliffs outstanding against the sky sprinkled
with stars. Far away toward the northern extremity a dull red glow
indicated the presence of a small fire.

"Herders," Brennan soliloquised, his thought instantly shifting.
"Likely to be two, maybe three ov 'em out there; an' then there's them
two on guard at the head o' the trail. I reckon they're wonderin' what
all this yere shootin' means; but 'tain't probable they'll kick up any
fuss yet awhile. We can handle them all right, if they do--hullo,
there! What's comin' now?"

It was the thud of a horse's hoofs being ridden rapidly. Brennan
dropped to the ground, and skurried out of the light. He could
perceive nothing of the approaching rider, but whoever the fellow was
he made no effort at secrecy. He drove his horse down the bank and
into the stream at a gallop, splashed noisily through the water, and
came loping up the nearer incline. Almost in front of the bunk-house
he seemed suddenly struck by the silence and gleam of lights, for he
pulled his pony up with a jerk, and sat there, staring about. To the
marshal, crouching against the earth, his revolver drawn, horse and man
appeared a grotesque shadow.

"Hullo!" the fellow shouted. "What's up? Did you think this was
Christmas Eve? Hey, there--Mendez; Cateras."

The little marshal straightened up, and took a step forward; the light
from the cabin window glistened wickedly on the blue steel of his gun
barrel.

"Hands up, Bill!" he said quietly, in a voice carrying conviction.
"None of that--don't play with me. Take your left hand an' unbuckle
your belt--I said the left. Now drop it into the dirt."

"Who the hell are you?"

"That doesn't make much difference, does it, as long as I've got the
drop?" asked the other genially. "But, if you must know to be
happy--I'm the marshal o' Haskell. Go easy, boy; you've seen me shoot
afore this, an' I was born back in Texas with a weapon in each hand.
Climb down off'n that hoss."

Lacy did so, his hands above his head, cursing angrily.

"What kind of a low-down trick is this, Brennan?" he snapped, glaring
through the darkness at the face of his captor. "What's become of
Pasqual Mendez? Ain't his outfit yere?"

"His outfit's here all right, dead an' alive," and Brennan chuckled
cheerfully, "but not being no gospel sharp I can't just say whar ol'
Mendez is. What's left ov his body is in thet cabin yonder, so full o'
buckshot it ought ter weigh a ton."

"Dead?"

"As a door nail, if yer ask me. It was some nice ov yer ter come
ridin' long here ter-night, Lacy. It sorter helps me ter make a good,
decent clean-up ov this whole measly outfit. I reckon I'll stow yer
away, along with them others. Mosey up them steps there, an' don't
take no chances lookin' back."

"I'll get you for this, Brennan."

"Not if the Circuit Court ain't gone out o' business, you won't. I've
got yer cinched an' hog tied--here now; get in thar."

He opened the door just wide enough for Lacy to pass, holding it with
one hand, his revolver ready and eager in the other.

A single lamp lit the room dingily, revealing the Mexicans bunched on
the farther side, a number of them lying down. Moore sat on a stool
beside the door, a rifle in the hollow of his arm. He rose up as the
door opened, and grinned at sight of Lacy's face.

"Well, I'll be dinged," he said. "What have we got here?"

Brennan thrust his new prisoner forward.

"Another one of yer ol' pals, Matt. You two ought ter have a lot ter
talk over, an' thar's six hours yet till daylight."

The little marshal drew back, and closed the door. He heard the echo
of an oath, or two, within as he turned the key in the lock. Then he
straightened up and laughed, slapping his knee with his hand.

"Well," he said at last, soberly. "I reckon my place will be about
yere till sun-up; thar might be some more critters like that
gallivantin' round in these parts--I hope Matt's enjoyin' himself."




CHAPTER XXXIII: THE REAL MR. CAVENDISH

It was a hard, slow journey back across the desert. Moore's team and
wagon were requisitioned for the purpose, but Matt himself remained
behind to help Brennan with the prisoners and cattle, until the party
returning to Haskell could send them help.

Westcott drove, with Miss Donovan perched beside him on the
spring-seat, and Cavendish lying on a pile of blankets beneath the
shadow of the canvas top. It became exceedingly hot as the sun mounted
into the sky, and once they encountered a sand storm, which so blinded
horses and driver, they were compelled to halt and turn aside from its
fury for nearly an hour. The wounded man must have suffered, yet made
no complaint. Indeed he seemed almost cheerful, and so deeply
interested in the strange story in which he had unconsciously borne
part, as to constantly question those riding in front for details.

Westcott and Stella, in spite of the drear, dread monotony of those
miles of sand, the desolate barrenness of which extended about in every
direction, and, at last, weighed heavily upon their spirits, found the
ride anything but tedious. They had so much to be thankful for,
hopeful over: so much to say to each other. She described all that had
occurred during her imprisonment, and he, in turn, told the story of
what himself and Brennan had passed through in the search for her
captors. Cavendish listened eagerly to each recital, lifting his head
to interject a question of interest, and then dropping wearily back
again upon his blankets.

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