try to prepare a way of getting honourably out of it."
"There is no honour in such a matter."
"Well, well, it's just how you look at it. But if you'll give me six
months, I'll work it so that I can leave without being ashamed to
look others in the face."
The girl laughed with joy. "Six months!" she cried. "Is it a
promise?"
"Well, it may be seven or eight. But within a year at the furthest we
will leave the valley behind us."
It was the most that Ettie could obtain, and yet it was something.
There was this distant light to illuminate the gloom of the immediate
future. She returned to her father's house more light-hearted than
she had ever been since Jack McMurdo had come into her life.
It might be thought that as a member, all the doings of the society
would be told to him; but he was soon to discover that the
organization was wider and more complex than the simple lodge. Even
Boss McGinty was ignorant as to many things; for there was an
official named the County Delegate, living at Hobson's Patch farther
down the line, who had power over several different lodges which he
wielded in a sudden and arbitrary way. Only once did McMurdo see him,
a sly, little gray-haired rat of a man, with a slinking gait and a
sidelong glance which was charged with malice. Evans Pott was his
name, and even the great Boss of Vermissa felt towards him something
of the repulsion and fear which the huge Danton may have felt for the
puny but dangerous Robespierre.
One day Scanlan, who was McMurdo's fellow boarder, received a note
from McGinty inclosing one from Evans Pott, which informed him that
he was sending over two good men, Lawler and Andrews, who had
instructions to act in the neighbourhood; though it was best for the
cause that no particulars as to their objects should be given. Would
the Bodymaster see to it that suitable arrangements be made for their
lodgings and comfort until the time for action should arrive? McGinty
added that it was impossible for anyone to remain secret at the Union
House, and that, therefore, he would be obliged if McMurdo and
Scanlan would put the strangers up for a few days in their boarding
house.
The same evening the two men arrived, each carrying his gripsack.
Lawler was an elderly man, shrewd, silent, and self-contained, clad
in an old black frock coat, which with his soft felt hat and ragged,
grizzled beard gave him a general resemblance to an itinerant
preacher. His companion Andrews was little more than a boy,
frank-faced and cheerful, with the breezy manner of one who is out
for a holiday and means to enjoy every minute of it. Both men were
total abstainers, and behaved in all ways as exemplary members of the
society, with the one simple exception that they were assassins who
had often proved themselves to be most capable instruments for this
association of murder. Lawler had already carried out fourteen
commissions of the kind, and Andrews three.
They were, as McMurdo found, quite ready to converse about their
deeds in the past, which they recounted with the half-bashful pride
of men who had done good and unselfish service for the community.
They were reticent, however, as to the immediate job in hand.
"They chose us because neither I nor the boy here drink," Lawler
explained. "They can count on us saying no more than we should. You
must not take it amiss, but it is the orders of the County Delegate
that we obey."
"Sure, we are all in it together," said Scanlan, McMurdo's mate, as
the four sat together at supper.
"That's true enough, and we'll talk till the cows come home of the
killing of Charlie Williams or of Simon Bird, or any other job in the
past. But till the work is done we say nothing."
"There are half a dozen about here that I have a word to say to,"
said McMurdo, with an oath. "I suppose it isn't Jack Knox of Ironhill
that you are after. I'd go some way to see him get his deserts."
"No, it's not him yet."
"Or Herman Strauss?"
"No, nor him either."
"Well, if you won't tell us we can't make you; but I'd be glad to
know."
Lawler smiled and shook his head. He was not to be drawn.
In spite of the reticence of their guests, Scanlan and McMurdo were
quite determined to be present at what they called "the fun." When,
therefore, at an early hour one morning McMurdo heard them creeping
down the stairs he awakened Scanlan, and the two hurried on their
clothes. When they were dressed they found that the others had stolen
out, leaving the door open behind them. It was not yet dawn, and by
the light of the lamps they could see the two men some distance down
the street. They followed them warily, treading noiselessly in the
deep snow.
The boarding house was near the edge of the town, and soon they were
at the crossroads which is beyond its boundary. Here three men were
waiting, with whom Lawler and Andrews held a short, eager
conversation. Then they all moved on together. It was clearly some
notable job which needed numbers. At this point there are several
trails which lead to various mines. The strangers took that which led
to the Crow Hill, a huge business which was in strong hands which had
been able, thanks to their energetic and fearless New England
manager, Josiah H. Dunn, to keep some order and discipline during the
long reign of terror.
Day was breaking now, and a line of workmen were slowly making their
way, singly and in groups, along the blackened path.
McMurdo and Scanlan strolled on with the others, keeping in sight of
the men whom they followed. A thick mist lay over them, and from the
heart of it there came the sudden scream of a steam whistle. It was
the ten-minute signal before the cages descended and the day's labour
began.
When they reached the open space round the mine shaft there were a
hundred miners waiting, stamping their feet and blowing on their
fingers; for it was bitterly cold. The strangers stood in a little
group under the shadow of the engine house. Scanlan and McMurdo
climbed a heap of slag from which the whole scene lay before them.
They saw the mine engineer, a great bearded Scotchman named Menzies,
come out of the engine house and blow his whistle for the cages to be
lowered.
At the same instant a tall, loose-framed young man with a
clean-shaved, earnest face advanced eagerly towards the pit head. As
he came forward his eyes fell upon the group, silent and motionless,
under the engine house. The men had drawn down their hats and turned
up their collars to screen their faces. For a moment the presentiment
of Death laid its cold hand upon the manager's heart. At the next he
had shaken it off and saw only his duty towards intrusive strangers.
"Who are you?" he asked as he advanced. "What are you loitering there
for?"
There was no answer; but the lad Andrews stepped forward and shot him
in the stomach. The hundred waiting miners stood as motionless and
helpless as if they were paralyzed. The manager clapped his two hands
to the wound and doubled himself up. Then he staggered away; but
another of the assassins fired, and he went down sidewise, kicking
and clawing among a heap of clinkers. Menzies, the Scotchman, gave a
roar of rage at the sight and rushed with an iron spanner at the
murderers; but was met by two balls in the face which dropped him
dead at their very feet.
There was a surge forward of some of the miners, and an inarticulate
cry of pity and of anger; but a couple of the strangers emptied their
six-shooters over the heads of the crowd, and they broke and
scattered, some of them rushing wildly back to their homes in
Vermissa.
When a few of the bravest had rallied, and there was a return to the
mine, the murderous gang had vanished in the mists of morning,
without a single witness being able to swear to the identity of these
men who in front of a hundred spectators had wrought this double
crime.
Scanlan and McMurdo made their way back; Scanlan somewhat subdued,
for it was the first murder job that he had seen with his own eyes,
and it appeared less funny than he had been led to believe. The
horrible screams of the dead manager's wife pursued them as they
hurried to the town. McMurdo was absorbed and silent; but he showed
no sympathy for the weakening of his companion.
"Sure, it is like a war," he repeated. "What is it but a war between
us and them, and we hit back where we best can."
There was high revel in the lodge room at the Union House that night,
not only over the killing of the manager and engineer of the Crow
Hill mine, which would bring this organization into line with the
other blackmailed and terror-stricken companies of the district, but
also over a distant triumph which had been wrought by the hands of
the lodge itself.
It would appear that when the County Delegate had sent over five good
men to strike a blow in Vermissa, he had demanded that in return
three Vermissa men should be secretly selected and sent across to
kill William Hales of Stake Royal, one of the best known and most
popular mine owners in the Gilmerton district, a man who was believed
not to have an enemy in the world; for he was in all ways a model
employer. He had insisted, however, upon efficiency in the work, and
had, therefore, paid off certain drunken and idle employees who were
members of the all-powerful society. Coffin notices hung outside his
door had not weakened his resolution, and so in a free, civilized
country he found himself condemned to death.
The execution had now been duly carried out. Ted Baldwin, who
sprawled now in the seat of honour beside the Bodymaster, had been
chief of the party. His flushed face and glazed, blood-shot eyes told
of sleeplessness and drink. He and his two comrades had spent the
night before among the mountains. They were unkempt and
weather-stained. But no heroes, returning from a forlorn hope, could
have had a warmer welcome from their comrades.
The story was told and retold amid cries of delight and shouts of
laughter. They had waited for their man as he drove home at
nightfall, taking their station at the top of a steep hill, where his
horse must be at a walk. He was so furred to keep out the cold that
he could not lay his hand on his pistol. They had pulled him out and
shot him again and again. He had screamed for mercy. The screams were
repeated for the amusement of the lodge.
"Let's hear again how he squealed," they cried.
None of them knew the man; but there is eternal drama in a killing,
and they had shown the Scowrers of Gilmerton that the Vermissa men
were to be relied upon.
There had been one contretemps; for a man and his wife had driven up
while they were still emptying their revolvers into the silent body.
It had been suggested that they should shoot them both; but they were
harmless folk who were not connected with the mines, so they were
sternly bidden to drive on and keep silent, lest a worse thing befall
them. And so the blood-mottled figure had been left as a warning to
all such hard-hearted employers, and the three noble avengers had
hurried off into the mountains where unbroken nature comes down to
the very edge of the furnaces and the slag heaps. Here they were,
safe and sound, their work well done, and the plaudits of their
companions in their ears.
It had been a great day for the Scowrers. The shadow had fallen even
darker over the valley. But as the wise general chooses the moment of
victory in which to redouble his efforts, so that his foes may have
no time to steady themselves after disaster, so Boss McGinty, looking
out upon the scene of his operations with his brooding and malicious
eyes, had devised a new attack upon those who opposed him. That very
night, as the half-drunken company broke up, he touched McMurdo on
the arm and led him aside into that inner room where they had their
first interview.
"See here, my lad," said he, "I've got a job that's worthy of you at
last. You'll have the doing of it in your own hands."
"Proud I am to hear it," McMurdo answered.
"You can take two men with you--Manders and Reilly. They have been
warned for service. We'll never be right in this district until
Chester Wilcox has been settled, and you'll have the thanks of every
lodge in the coal fields if you can down him."
"I'll do my best, anyhow. Who is he, and where shall I find him?"
McGinty took his eternal half-chewed, half-smoked cigar from the
corner of his mouth, and proceeded to draw a rough diagram on a page
torn from his notebook.
"He's the chief foreman of the Iron Dike Company. He's a hard
citizen, an old colour sergeant of the war, all scars and grizzle.
We've had two tries at him; but had no luck, and Jim Carnaway lost
his life over it. Now it's for you to take it over. That's the
house--all alone at the Iron Dike crossroad, same as you see here on
