They of the High Trails. Garland Hamlin

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СКАЧАТЬ do much alone. Even if my ore richens I must transport it or build a mill. Sometimes I wonder what I'm living for, stuck away in this hole in the hills. I was born to better things – "

      He checked himself at this moment, as if he were on the edge of self-betrayal, but his listener seemed not vitally interested in these personal details. However, he made some low-voiced remark, and, as if hypnotized, the miner resumed his monologue.

      "The nights are the worst. They are endless – and sometimes when I cannot sleep I feel like surrendering to my fate – " Here again he broke off sharply. "That's nonsense, of course. I mean, it seems as if a life were too much to pay for a crazy act – I mean a mine. You'll ask why I don't sell it, but it's all I have and, besides, no one has any faith in it but myself. I cannot sell, and I can't live down there among men."

      Gabbling, keeping time to his nervous feet and hands, endlessly repeating himself, denying, confessing, the miner raged on, and through it all the dark-browed guest smoked tranquilly, too indifferent to ask a question or make comment; but when, once or twice, he lifted his eyes, the garrulous one shuddered and turned away, a scared look on his haggard face. He seemed unable to endure that steady glance.

      At last, for a little space, he remained silent; then, as if compelled by some increasing magic in his hearer, he burst forth:

      "I'm not here entirely by my own fault – I mean my own choice. A man is a product of his environment, you know that, and mine made me idle, wasteful. Drink got me – drink made me mad – and so – and so – here I am struggling to win back a fortune. Once I gambled – on the wheel; now I am gambling with nature on the green of these mountain slopes; but I'll win – I have already won – and soon I shall sell and go back to the great cities."

      Again his will curbed his treacherous tongue, and, walking to the doorway, he stood for a moment, looking out; then he fiercely snarled:

      "Oh, God, how I hate it all – how I hate myself! I am going mad with this life! The squeak of these shadowy conies, the twitter of these unseen little birds, go on day by day. They'll drive me mad! If you had not come to-night I could not have slept – I would have gone to the mill, and that means drink to me – drink and oblivion. You came and saved me. I feared you – hated you then; now I bless you."

      Once more he seemed to answer an unspoken query:

      "I have no people. My mother is dead, my father has disowned me – he does not even know I am alive. I'm the black devil of the family – but I shall go back – "

      His face was working with passion, and though he took a seat opposite his guest, his hands continued to flutter aimlessly and his head moved restlessly from side to side.

      "I don't know why I am telling all this to you," he went on after a pause. "I reckon it's because of the weakness of the thirst that is coming over me. Some time I'll go down to those hell-holes at the mills and never come back – the stuff they sell to me is destructive as fire – it is poison! You're a man of substance, I can see that – you're no hobo like most of the fellows out here – that's why I'm talking to you. You remind me of some one I know. There's something familiar in your eyes."

      The man with the beard struck the ashes from his pipe and began scraping it. "There is always a woman in these cases," he critically remarked.

      The miner took this simple statement as a challenging question. His excitement visibly increased, but he did not at once reply. He talked on aimlessly, incoherently, struggling like a small animal in a torrent. He rose at last, and as he stood in the doorway, breathing deeply, his face livid in the sunset light, the muscles of his jaw trembled.

      The stranger observed his host's agitation, but put away his pipe with slow and steady hand. He said nothing, and yet an observer would have declared he held the other and weaker man in the grasp of an inexorable hypnotic silence. Finally he fixed a calm, cold glance upon his host, as if summoning him to answer.

      "Yes," the miner confessed, "there is always a woman in the case – another and more fortunate man. The woman is false, the man is treacherous. You trust and they betray. Such beings ruin and madden – they make outlaws such as I am – "

      "Love is above will," asserted the millwright, with decision.

      The other man fiercely turned. "I know what you mean – you mean the woman is not to be condemned – that love goes where it is drawn. That is true, but deceit is not involuntary – it is deliberate – "

      "Sometimes we deceive ourselves."

      "In her case it was deceit," retorted the miner, who was now so deeply engaged with his own story that each general observation on the part of his guest was taken to be specific and personal.

      The room was growing dusky, and the stranger's glance appeared keener, more insistent, as his body melted into the shadow. His shaggy head and black beard all but disappeared; only the faint outlines of his forehead remained, and yet, as his physical self faded into the gloom, his personality, his psychic self, loomed larger. His will enveloped the hermit, drawing upon him with irresistible power. It was as if he were wringing him dry of a confession as the priest closes in upon the culprit.

      "I had my happy days – my days of care-free youth," the unquiet man was saying. "But my time of innocence was short. Evil companions came early and reckless deeds followed… I knew I was losing something, I knew I was being drawn downward, but I could not escape. Day and night I called for help, and then —she came – "

      "Who came?"

      "The one who made me forget all the others, the one who made me ashamed."

      "And then?"

      "And then for a time I was happy in the hope that I might win her and so redeem my life."

      "And she?"

      "She pitied me – at first – and loved me – at least I thought so."

      As his excitement increased his words came slower, burdened with passion. He spoke like a prisoner addressing a judge, his voice but a husky whisper.

      "I told her I was unworthy of her – that was when I believed her to be an angel. I promised to begin a new life for her sake. Then she promised me – helped me – and all the while she was false to me – false as a hell-cat!"

      "How?" queried the almost invisible man, and his voice was charged with stern demand.

      "All the time she was promised to another man – and that man my enemy."

      Here his frenzy flared forth in a torrent of words.

      "Then – then I went mad. My brain was scarred and numb. I lost all sense of pity – all fear of law – all respect for woman. I only knew my wrongs – my despair – my hate. I watched, I waited, I found them together – "

      "And then? What did you do then?" demanded the stranger, rising from his seat with sudden energy, his voice deep, insistent, masterful. "Tell me what you did?"

      The miner's wild voice died to a hesitant whisper. "I – I fled."

      "But before that – before you fled?"

      "What is it to you?" asked the hermit, gazing with scared eyes at the man who towered above him like the demon of retribution. "Who are you?"

      "I am the avenger!" answered the other. "The man you hated was my brother. The woman you killed was his wife."

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