CHAPTER XIII
A GENTLEMAN OF FRANCE
AT THE sound of the harsh voices so close upon her Barbara
Harding was galvanized into instant action. Springing to
Byrne's side she whipped Theriere's revolver from his belt,
where it reposed about the fallen mucker's hips, and with it
turned like a tigress upon the youth.
"Quick!" she cried. "Tell them to go back--that I shall kill
you if they come closer."
The boy shrank back in terror before the fiery eyes and
menacing attitude of the white girl, and then with the terror
that animated him ringing plainly in his voice he screamed to
his henchmen to halt.
Relieved for a moment at least from immediate danger
Barbara Harding turned her attention toward the two unconscious
men at her feet. From appearances it seemed that either
might breathe his last at any moment, and as she looked at
Theriere a wave of compassion swept over her, and the tears
welled to her eyes; yet it was to the mucker that she first
ministered--why, she could not for the life of her have explained.
She dashed cold water from the spring upon his face. She
bathed his wrists, and washed his wounds, tearing strips from
her skirt to bandage the horrid gash upon his breast in an
effort to stanch the flow of lifeblood that welled forth with the
man's every breath.
And at last she was rewarded by seeing the flow of blood
quelled and signs of returning consciousness appear. The
mucker opened his eyes. Close above him bent the radiant
vision of Barbara Harding's face. Upon his fevered forehead
he felt the soothing strokes of her cool, soft hand. He closed
his eyes again to battle with the effeminate realization that he
enjoyed this strange, new sensation--the sensation of being
ministered to by a gentle woman--and, perish the thought, by
a gentlewoman!
With an effort he raised himself to one elbow, scowling at
her.
"Gwan," he said; "I ain't no boob dude. Cut out de mush.
Lemme be. Beat it!"
Hurt, more than she would have cared to admit, Barbara
Harding turned away from her ungrateful and ungracious
patient, to repeat her ministrations to the Frenchman. The
mucker read in her expression something of the wound his
words had inflicted, and he lay thinking upon the matter for
some time, watching her deft, white fingers as they worked
over the scarce breathing Theriere.
He saw her wash the blood and dirt from the ghastly
wound in the man's chest, and as he watched he realized what
a world of courage it must require for a woman of her stamp
to do gruesome work of this sort. Never before would such a
thought have occurred to him. Neither would he have cared at
all for the pain his recent words to the girl might have
inflicted. Instead he would have felt keen enjoyment of her
discomfiture.
And now another strange new emotion took possession of
him. It was none other than a desire to atone in some way for
his words. What wonderful transformation was taking place in
the heart of the Kelly gangster?
"Say!" he blurted out suddenly.
Barbara Harding turned questioning eyes toward him. In
them was the cold, haughty aloofness again that had marked
her cognizance of him upon the Halfmoon--the look that had
made his hate of her burn most fiercely. It took the mucker's
breath away to witness it, and it made the speech he had
contemplated more difficult than ever--nay, almost impossible.
He coughed nervously, and the old dark, lowering scowl
returned to his brow.
"Did you speak?" asked Miss Harding, icily.
Billy Byrne cleared his throat, and then there blurted from
his lips not the speech that he had intended, but a sudden,
hateful rush of words which seemed to emanate from another
personality, from one whom Billy Byrne once had been.
"Ain't dat boob croaked yet?" he growled.
The shock of that brutal question brought Barbara Harding
to her feet. In horror she looked down at the man who had
spoken thus of a brave and noble comrade in the face of
death itself. Her eyes blazed angrily as hot, bitter words
rushed to her lips, and then of a sudden she thought of
Byrne's self-sacrificing heroism in returning to Theriere's side
in the face of the advancing samurai--of the cool courage he
had displayed as be carried the unconscious man back to the
jungle--of the devotion, almost superhuman, that had sustained
him as he struggled, uncomplaining, up the steep
mountain path with the burden of the Frenchman's body the
while his own lifeblood left a crimson trail behind him.
Such deeds and these words were incompatible in the same
individual. There could be but one explanation--Byrne must
be two men, with as totally different characters as though they
had possessed separate bodies. And who may say that her
hypothesis was not correct--at least it seemed that Billy Byrne
was undergoing a metamorphosis, and at the instant there was
still a question as to which personality should eventually
dominate.
Byrne turned away from the reproach which replaced the
horror in the girl's eyes, and with a tired sigh let his head fall
upon his outstretched arm. The girl watched him for a moment,
a puzzled expression upon her face, and then returned
to work above Theriere.
The Frenchman's respiration was scarcely appreciable, yet
after a time he opened his eyes and looked up wearily. At
sight of the girl he smiled wanly, and tried to speak, but a fit
of coughing flecked his lips with bloody foam, and again he
closed his eyes. Fainter and fainter came his breathing, until it
was with difficulty that the girl detected any movement of his
breast whatever. She thought that he was dying, and she was
afraid. Wistfully she looked toward the mucker. The man still
lay with his head buried in his arm, but whether he were
wrapped in thought, in slumber, or in death the girl could not
tell. At the final thought she went white with terror.
Slowly she approached the man, and leaning over placed
her hand upon his shoulder.
"Mr. Byrne!" she whispered.
The mucker turned his face toward her. It looked tired and
haggard.
"Wot is it?" he asked, and his tone was softer than she had
ever heard it.
"I think Mr. Theriere is dying," she said, "and I--I-- Oh, I
am so afraid."
The man flushed to the roots of his hair. All that he could
think of were the ugly words he had spoken a short time
before--and now Theriere was dying! Byrne would have
laughed had anyone suggested that he entertained any other
sentiment than hatred toward the second officer of the
Halfmoon--that is he would have twenty-four hours before;
but now, quite unexpectedly, he realized that he didn't want
Theriere to die, and then it dawned upon him that a new
sentiment had been born within him--a sentiment to which he
had been a stranger all his hard life--friendship.
He felt friendship for Theriere! It was unthinkable, and yet
the mucker knew that it was so. Painfully he crawled over to
the Frenchman's side.
"Theriere!" he whispered in the man's ear.
The officer turned his head wearily.
"Do youse know me, old pal?" asked the mucker, and
Barbara Harding knew from the man's voice that there were
tears in his eyes; but what she did not know was that they
welled there in response to the words the mucker had just
spoken--the nearest approach to words of endearment that
ever had passed his lips.
Theriere reached up and took Byrne's hand. It was evident
that he too had noted the unusual quality of the mucker's
voice.
"Yes, old man," he said very faintly, and then "water,
please."
Barbara Harding brought him a drink, holding his head
against her knee while he drank. The cool liquid seemed to
give him new strength for presently he spoke, quite strongly.
"I'm going, Byrne," he said; "but before I go I want to tell
you that of all the brave men I ever have known I have
learned within the past few days to believe that you are the
bravest. A week ago I thought you were a coward--I ask
your forgiveness."
"Ferget it," whispered Byrne, "fer a week ago I guess I
was a coward. Dere seems to be more'n one kind o' nerve--
I'm jest a-learnin' of the right kind, I guess."
"And, Byrne," continued Theriere, "don't forget what I
asked of you before we tossed up to see which should enter
Oda Yorimoto's house."
"I'll not ferget," said Billy.
"Good-bye, Byrne," whispered Theriere. "Take good care
of Miss Harding."
"Good-bye, old pal," said the mucker. His voice broke, and
two big tears rolled down the cheeks of "de toughest guy on
de Wes' Side."
Barbara Harding stepped to Theriere's side.
"Good-bye, my friend," she said. "God will reward you for
your friendship, your bravery, and your devotion. There must
be a special honor roll in heaven for such noble men as you."
Theriere smiled sadly.
"Byrne will tell you all," he said, "except who I am--he
does not know that"
"Is there any message, my friend," asked the girl, "that you
would like to have me deliver?"
Theriere remained silent for a moment as though thinking.
"My name," he said, "is Henri Theriere. I am the Count de
Cadenet of France. There is no message, Miss Harding, other
than you see fit to deliver to my relatives. They lived in Paris
the last I heard of them--my brother, Jacques, was a deputy."
His voice had become so low and weak that the girl could
scarce distinguish his words. He gasped once or twice, and
then tried to speak again. Barbara leaned closer, her ear
almost against his lips.
"Good-bye--dear." The words were almost inaudible, and
then the body stiffened with a little convulsive tremor, and
Henri Theriere, Count de Cadenet, passed over into the keeping
of his noble ancestors.
"He's gone!" whispered the girl, dry-eyed but suffering. She
had not loved this man, she realized, but she had learned to
think of him as her one true friend in their little world of
scoundrels and murderers. She had cared for him very
much--it was entirely possible that some day she might
have come to return his evident affection for her. She knew
nothing of the seamy side of his hard life. She had guessed
nothing of the scoundrelly duplicity that had marked his first
advances toward her. She thought of him only as a true,
brave gentleman, and in that she was right, for whatever
Henri Theriere might have been in the past the last few days
of his life had revealed him in the true colors that birth and
nature had intended him to wear through a brilliant career. In
his death he had atoned for many sins.
And in those last few days he had transferred, all unknown
to himself or the other man, a measure of the gentility and
chivalry that were his birthright, for, unrealizing, Billy Byrne
was patterning himself after the man he had hated and had
come to love.
After the girl's announcement the mucker had continued to
sit with bowed head staring at the ground. Afternoon had
deepened into evening, and now the brief twilight of the
tropics was upon them--in a few moments it would be dark.
Presently Byrne looked up. His eyes wandered about the
tiny clearing. Suddenly he staggered to his feet. Barbara Harding
sprang up, startled by the evident alarm in the man's
attitude.
"What is it?" she whispered. "What is the matter?"
"De Chink!" he cried. "Where is de Chink?"
And, sure enough, Oda Iseka had disappeared!
The youthful daimio had taken advantage of the preoccupation
of his captors during the last moments of Theriere to
gnaw in two the grass rope which bound him to the mucker,
and with hands still fast bound behind him had slunk into the
jungle path that led toward his village.
"They will be upon us again now at any moment," whispered
the girl. "What can we do?"
"We better duck," replied the mucker. "I hates to run away
from a bunch of Chinks, but I guess it's up to us to beat it."
"But poor Mr. Theriere?" asked the girl.
"I'll have to bury him close by," replied the mucker. "I
don't tink I could pack him very fer tonight--I don't feel jest
quite fit agin yet. You wouldn't mind much if I buried him
here, would you?"
"There is no other way, Mr. Byrne," replied the girl. "You
mustn't think of trying to carry him far. We have done all we
can for poor Mr. Theriere--you have almost given your life
for him already--and it wouldn't do any good to carry his
dead body with us."
"I hates to tink o' dem head-huntin' Chinks gettin' him,'
replied Byrne; "but maybe I kin hide his grave so's dey won't
tumble to it."
"You are in no condition to carry him at all," said the girl.
"I doubt if you can go far even without any burden."
The mucker grinned.
"Youse don't know me, miss," he said, and stooping he
lifted the body of the Frenchman to his broad shoulder, and
started up the hillside through the trackless underbrush.
It would have been an impossible feat for an ordinary man
in the pink of condition, but the mucker, weak from pain and
loss of blood, strode sturdily upward while the marveling girl
followed close behind him. A hundred yards above the spring
they came upon a little level spot, and here with the two
swords of Oda Yorimoto which they still carried they scooped
a shallow grave in which they placed all that was mortal of
the Count de Cadenet.
Barbara Harding whispered a short prayer above the newmade
grave, while the mucker stood with bowed head beside
her. Then they turned to their flight again up the wild face of
the savage mountain. The moon came up at last to lighten the
way for them, but it was a rough and dangerous climb at
best. In many places they were forced to walk hand in hand
for considerable distances, and twice the mucker had lifted the
girl bodily in his arms to bear her across particularly dangerous
or difficult stretches.
Shortly after midnight they struck a small mountain stream
up which they followed until in a natural cul-de-sac they came
upon its source and found their farther progress barred by
precipitous cliffs which rose above them, sheer and unscalable.
They had entered the little amphitheater through a narrow,
rocky pass in the bottom of which the tiny stream flowed, and
now, weak and tired, the mucker was forced to admit that he
could go no farther.
"Who'd o' t'ought dat I was such a sissy?" he exclaimed
disgustedly.
"I think that you are very wonderful, Mr. Byrne," replied
the girl. "Few men could have gone through what you have
today and been alive now."
The mucker made a deprecatory gesture.
"I suppose we gotta make de best of it," he said. "Anyhow,
dis ought to make a swell joint to defend."
Weak as he was he searched about for some soft grasses
which he threw in a pile beneath a stunted tree that grew well
back in the hollow.
"Here's yer downy," he said, with an attempt at jocularity.
"Now you'd better hit de hay, fer youse must be dead
fagged."
"Thanks!" replied the girl. "I AM nearly dead."
So tired was she that she was asleep almost as soon as she
had found a comfortable position in the thick mat of grass, so
that she gave no thought to the strange position in which
circumstance had placed her.
The sun was well up the following morning before the girl
awakened, and it was several minutes before she could readjust
herself to her strange surroundings. At first she thought
that she was alone, but finally she discerned a giant figure
standing at the opening which led from their mountain retreat.
It was the mucker, and at sight of him there swept over the
girl the terrible peril of her position--alone in the savage
mountains of a savage island with the murderer of Billy
Mallory--the beast that had kicked the unconscious Theriere
in the face--the mucker who had insulted and threatened to
strike her! She shuddered at the thought. And then she
recalled the man's other side, and for the life of her she could
not tell whether to be afraid of him or not--it all depended
upon what mood governed him. It would be best to propitiate
him. She called a pleasant good morning.
Byrne turned. She was shocked at the pallor of his haggard
face.
"Good morning," he said. "How did yeh sleep?"
"Oh, just splendidly, and you?" she replied.
"So-so," he answered.
She looked at him searchingly as he approached her.
"Why I don't believe that you have slept at all," she cried.
"I didn't feel very sleepy," he replied evasively.
"You sat up all night on guard!" she exclaimed. "You
know you did."
"De Chinks might o' been shadowin' us--it wasn't safe to
sleep," he admitted; "but I'll tear off a few dis mornin' after
we find a feed of some kind."
"What can we find to eat here?" she asked.
"Dis crick is full o' fish," he explained, "an' ef youse got a
pin I guess we kin rig up a scheme to hook a couple."
The girl found a pin that he said would answer very nicely,
and with a shoe lace for a line and a big locust as bait the
mucker set forth to angle in the little mountain torrent. The
fish, unwary, and hungry thus early in the morning proved
easy prey, and two casts brought forth two splendid specimens.
"I could eat a dozen of dem minnows," announced the
mucker, and he cast again and again, until in twenty minutes
he had a goodly mess of plump, shiny trout on the grass
beside him.
With his pocketknife he cleaned and scaled them, and then
between two rocks he built a fire and passing sticks through
the bodies of his catch roasted them all. They had neither salt,
nor pepper, nor butter, nor any other viand than the fish, but
it seemed to the girl that never in her life had she tasted so
palatable a meal, nor had it occurred to her until the odor of
the cooking fish filled her nostrils that no food had passed her
lips since the second day before--no wonder that the two ate
ravenously, enjoying every mouthful of their repast.
"An' now," said Billy Byrne, "I tink I'll poun' my ear fer a
few. You kin keep yer lamps peeled fer de Chinks, an' de
first fony noise youse hears, w'y be sure to wake me up," and
with that he rolled over upon the grass, asleep almost on the
instant.
The girl, to while away the time, explored their rock-bound
haven. She found that it had but a single means of ingress, the
narrow pass through which the brook found outlet. Beyond
the entrance she did not venture, but through it she saw,
beneath, a wooded slope, and twice deer passed quite close to
her, stopping at the brook to drink.
It was an ideal spot, one whose beauties appealed to her
even under the harrowing conditions which had forced her to
seek its precarious safety. In another land and with companions
of her own kind she could well imagine the joy of a
fortnight spent in such a sylvan paradise.
The thought aroused another--how long would the mucker
remain a safe companion? She seemed to be continually falling
from the frying pan into the fire. So far she had not been
burned, but with returning strength, and the knowledge of
their utter isolation could she expect this brutal thug to place
any check upon his natural desires?
Why there were few men of her own station in life with
whom she would have felt safe to spend a fortnight alone
upon a savage, uncivilized island! She glanced at the man
where he lay stretched in deep slumber. What a huge fellow
he was! How helpless would she be were he to turn against
her! Yet his very size; yes, and the brutality she feared, were
her only salvation against every other danger than he himself.
The man was physically a natural protector, for he was able
to cope with odds and dangers to which an ordinary man
would long since have succumbed. So she found that she was
both safer and less safe because the mucker was her companion.
As she pondered the question her eyes roved toward the
slope beyond the opening to the amphitheater. With a start
she came to her feet, shading her eyes with her hand and
peering intently at something that she could have sworn
moved among the trees far below. No, she could not be
mistaken--it was the figure of a man.
Swiftly she ran to Byrne, shaking him roughly by the
shoulder.
"Someone is coming," she cried, in response to his sleepy
query.
