An Oregon Girl: A Tale of American Life in the New West

“Ha, ha, ha, ha,” laughed Jack, as he put a match to the cigar. “Her penitent mood makes her an easy mark. The price of her atonement’ll be twenty thousand dollars.”

Again Rutley chuckled, chuckled convivially, for evidently the softening influence of the liquor relaxed his tensely attuned nerves. “Ha, my boy, she shall not enjoy the bliss of restoring the child to her mother. I shall be the hero in this case,” and he lowered his voice. “After Virginia has paid the ransom, I shall take the child to her father.” Then he looked at Jack significantly and laughed – laughed in a singularly sinister, yet highly pitched suppressed key.

Jack penetrated Rutley’s purpose at once and the prodigious nerve of the fellow caused him likewise to laugh. But Jack’s laugh was different from Rutley’s, in so much that it conveyed, though suppressed and soft, an air of rollicking abandon.

“And get the reward of ten thousand dollars offered for the child’s recovery.”

“Precisely,” laughed Rutley.

His laugh seemed infectious, for Jack joined him with a “Ha, ha, ha, ha. And borrow ten thousand more from old Harris for being a Good Samaritan to his nephew, Sam, eh! Have another, Phil,” and again he laughed as he offered the glass.

Rutley took the glass and filled it. “A forty thousand cleanup, Jack, just for a bit of judicious nerve! He, he, he, he,” and then his laughter ceased, for the simple reason that his lips could not perform the act of drinking and laughing at the same time.

“Ha, ha, ha, ha,” laughed Jack, in response. “A damned good thing, eh, Phil?” and he took the glass, filled it, and drank. “Has anybody heard from Corway?”

“Shanghaied,” laconically replied Rutley.

“He’s off on the British bark Lochlobin. No fear of any trouble from him for several months.”

“How, in the name of God, did you do it?” asked Jack, fairly enthralled with Rutley’s nerve.

“Oh, it was easy. Fixed it up with some sailor boarding-house toughs, but I only got $50 out of it all told, including his watch. But, my dear boy, that is not all I have planned in this plunge. You know I am desperately in love with the orphan?”

“Hazel!” exclaimed Jack. “Ho, that was plain long ago,” and he laughed again.

“She’s the sweetest little girl in the world, Jack, and the best part of it is, she has a cool hundred thousand in her own right.”

“Marry her,” promptly advised Jack.

“That is my intention, Jack, and the day after tomorrow I visit Rosemont to persuade her to elope with me. Quite a society thrill – don’t you know?”

“Thrill!” replied Jack, astonished. “You mean sensation. Hazel eloped with me Lord Beauchamp, Knight of the Garter. Have one on that, Phil.”

“Oh, she’s a darling, Jack, and now that Corway is out of the way – I think she’d like – to wear the garter,” and he grinned jovially.

“A garter is fetching, Phil.”

“Success to the garter! May Lady Hazel never let it fall; ha, ha,” and Jack laughed merrily as he filled the glass.

“Evil be to him who evil thinks. My garter, Jack! He, he, he, he.” There was no mistaking the fact that the two men were verging on the hilarious, and though fully aware of the importance of conversing in low tones, they continued, because they felt satisfied the critical period of their operations had passed and success was assured.

Again Rutley laughed. “Jack, I’ve had an itching palm today.”

“So have I. See how red it is with scratching, and the sole of my left foot has been tickled to fits.”

“The signs are right, Jack. I congratulate you on your luck, and if it is as good as your judgment of liquor – it is a damned good thing.” He laughed as he seized the glass. “This is the proof,” and he forthwith tossed it off, and handed the glass to Jack.

Jack’s convivial spirits were quite willing. He took the glass, filled it, and laughingly said: “What is good for the devil, applies to his imp.” Then he drained the glass and again laughed.

Rutley joined in. “You make me blush! Did you say your left foot tickled?”

“Yes!”

“You will change domiciles. What do you say to secretary-treasurer of the Securities Investment Association?”

“What? Resurrect the old S. I. A.?” Jack replied, and he stared at Rutley with amazement.

“Yes! Thorpe and Harris put us out of business. Why not use their ‘simoleons’ to start up again?” And he chuckled with evident satisfaction.

“Agreed, Phil! Start her up with a full page ad in a Sunday paper, eh? Ha, ha, ha, ha – a damned good thing.”

“Precisely! Ahem,” coughed Rutley. “We are pleased to announce that our former fellow townsmen, Mr. Philip Rutley and Mr. Jack Shore have returned very wealthy.”

“And were received with open arms,” added Jack, and he laughed. “Damned good joke, Phil; damned good joke. Have one on that!” And he turned and picked up bottle and glass from the table and offered them to his colleague.

Rutley always maintained a dignified bearing, yet his manners were quite unconventional, and suave, and easy, and it must be understood that neither of them on this occasion became boisterous. He took the proffered bottle and glass, poured liquor in the glass, and after setting the bottle on the table, said: “Thirty days later, a-hem! We congratulate the stockholders of the reorganized Securities Investment Association on the able and efficient management of your officers, Manager Philip Rutley and Secretary-Treasurer Jack Shore.” He then drained the glass and handed it to Jack.

“Ha, ha, ha, ha,” laughed Jack, as he took the glass and poured the liquor in it, and pointedly added: “Addenda! It affords us much pleasure to apologize for our former charge of wilful dishonesty against the gentlemen above mentioned. Signed: John Thorpe, James Harris, committee.” And Jack drained the glass.

“He, he, he, he,” softly laughed Rutley. “Very proper, my boy; quite so!”

“It only needs the measly ‘yellow goods’ to make it practical,” suggested Jack.

“My dear, ahem, Mr. Secretary, don’t let that trifle worry you. The ‘yellow goods’ are coming as sure as day follows night.”

“I hope the day will not again plunge us into night,” laughed Jack.

“Oh, don’t put it that way,” testily rejoined Rutley. “Disagreeably suggestive, you know – damned bad taste.”

Rutley’s supersensitiveness, in their present situation, was greeted by Jack with a burst of suppressed laughter. “When Eve tempted and Adam bit, he took his medicine without a fit. Have another, Phil.”

Without accepting the bottle, and seemingly without heeding the remark, Rutley inquired, a bit seriously: “Is the dog on guard?”

“Yes,” replied Jack, standing stock still, with the bottle in one hand and the tumbler in the other. “Tied to a stick of driftwood on shore. No interlopers while Snooks is on watch. Why?” The question was asked rather soberly.

“I received a tip that you are shadowed and trouble may come before dawn. When it comes the little one must not be here.”

“I agree with you,” responded Jack. “I’ve lost that medal somewhere, too.”

“Ye Gods!” gravely replied Rutley, with an alarmed look. “If it falls into the hands of a detective, it may serve as a clue. Curious, too. I recall now that the dog didn’t bark or growl when I approached the cabin.”

“I wonder!” exclaimed Jack. “Maybe Snooks has got loose and is wandering about the island. We had better make sure.”

Setting the bottle and tumbler on the table, he opened the cabin door and stepped somewhat unsteadily on the platform. Closing the door, he peered shoreward, then softly whistled. After listening intently, and hearing nothing, he called, in a low voice:

“Snooks! Snooks!” Receiving no response, and being unable to identify shapeless objects on the shore, through the darkness, he re-entered the cabin, quietly as possible, and with a concerned look on his face.

“I believe the dog has got away. I’ll go ashore and investigate.”

“I’ll go with you,” assured Rutley. “Jack, better see that the child’s asleep.”

Jack took the lamp from the bracket, opened the partition door, looked in at the sleeping child, and closed the door as gently as he had opened it. “Sound asleep,” he whispered. Then he replaced the lamp, blew out the light, and made his way out onto the platform, accompanied by Rutley.

Quietly they stepped into a small boat, fastened to the logs, and pushed off towards the shore.

It was then Jack remembered that he had not locked the door, and wanted to return for that purpose, but Rutley demurred.

“Time is precious,” he murmured, rather thickly. “Besides we shall be gone only a few minutes, and it is unlikely that the child will stir in the darkness.”

CHAPTER XV

They had scarcely reached the shore when another small boat came gliding noiselessly along down toward the cabin. The boat contained Virginia and Constance. As they approached near, propulsion ceased, and the boat drifted along. Virginia turned half around on her seat, listened intently, and looked at the dark cabin, with eyes that fairly sparkled, in her effort to penetrate its interior. Slowly the boat drew along the platform. Quietly and cautiously they stepped out, and after fastening the line which held the boat to an iron ring which had been driven into one of the logs for that purpose, Virginia took Constance by the hand, which she felt tremble, and caused her to whisper: “Courage, dear.” Then she tapped gently on the door.

Receiving no response, she tapped again, then tried the knob, and, to her amazement, the door opened.

For a moment they stood on the threshold, irresolute. A whiff of tobacco smoke brushed their nostrils.

Virginia timidly stepped within, followed closely by Constance. The darkness was intense, the stillness profound. “Whew!” Virginia ejaculated, in a whisper. “The den reeks with tobacco smoke. He must be asleep.”

She softly closed the door and lighted one of the matches which she had been careful to provide herself with.

“There is no one here,” whispered Constance, in tones of terrifying disappointment.

Up to that time she had religiously kept her promise to observe the strictest silence, but when in the dim light produced by the match, her eyes swiftly took in the untenanted room, her heart sank in chilly numbness.

Virginia noted the famished, haunted look that had crept into her eyes, and as she turned away with a fresh pang in her heart, discovered the bottle and tumbler on the table.

It suggested a clue, and she replied, in low tones, and in the most matter-of-fact manner, that, surprised herself, “He must be intoxicated, the beast.”

The coolness of the utterance had the effect, in a measure, of reassuring Constance, who then, discovering a closed door directly in front, breathlessly exclaimed: “That door must open to another room.”

It was at that moment that the light died out. Virginia stood stock still and listened. She pressed her left hand tight against her heart to still the terrible throbbing.

She heard Constance grope her way to the partition door. She heard the nervous fingers on the framework. She heard the latch click.

“Be careful, dear. Oh, be careful, dear!” admonished Virginia, in a whisper of frenzied anxiety – and then she heard the door pushed open.

A moment of profound silence and then followed the sound of a step within. Constance stood beside Dorothy – with only the deep darkness and two feet of empty space separating them.

Who shall say that the subtle power which impelled the mother on in the dense darkness, first to the door, then to open it, and then to step within beside her child, was not magnetic intuition?

Virginia softly followed her to the door, produced a match and rubbed it against the casing.

At that moment Constance was standing inside the threshold, her right hand still on the open door latch; her back to Virginia. She was looking straight ahead into the darkness.

The scraping of the match caused her to turn her head.

“Oh, Dorothy, darling!” was all that the poor heart-broken mother could utter.

So sudden and great was the transport called forth by the discovery of Dorothy quietly sleeping near her elbow, that her senses grew dizzy, and as she sank to the floor on her trembling knees, convulsively outstretched her hands to clasp the face of her child.

It was a favor of fate that placed them at that moment alone with the child, for whom Virginia was prepared to sacrifice her life to rescue. A decree that paid homage to the act of a heroine.

True, the unhappy cause that impelled her to act was indirectly of her own making, and a sense of justice and remorse urged her to remedy it. Nevertheless the act itself, for daring the rescue, was most heroic.

When Constance threw her hands out to clasp Dorothy, the child awakened with a start, and at the same time the match light became extinguished.

After her prayer, Dorothy laid down on the bunk without undressing, as had been her custom, since in the custody of Jack, and almost immediately fell asleep.

Her guileless little heart, cherishing confidence in his promise, provoked a smile of spiritual beauty that settled on her sweet young face – unflect by earthly misgivings. As she slept there came into her dream a vision of terraces, grown over with lovely flowers, and there were green, grassy plots and gorgeous colored butterflies darting in and out among the flowers and golden sunshine. And out from somewhere, in the serene hazy distance, came the silvery song of her own canary bird. Where? And as she looked and listened, a butterfly, oh, so large and beautiful, with semi-transparent rose, pearl wings dotted and fringed with emerald gems, hovered tantalizingly near her. She was tempted to catch it, but each time, though perilously near, it evaded her tiny clutch, and so drew her on over velvety lawns and grassy slopes to a babbling brook.

The prismatic winged thing fluttered over some pebbles and alighted on a slender willow twig. She stood on a stone, reached out to clutch the beauty, and just as her little fingers were about to close on it, the voice of her mother rang out in frantic warning – “Dorothy! Dorothy!”

And then her foot slipped, and as she was falling she felt herself suddenly clasped in strong arms, and borne upward, to awake with the cry of “Dorothy” ringing in her ears.

For a moment or two the child lay perfectly still, then gradually to her returning senses, the room smelled of tobacco smoke, and supposing that it was her captor’s hand that clasped her face, said: “Oh, Mr. Golda, the room is full of smoke!”

“Hush, dear,” cautioned Virginia. “Your mother and Aunt Virginia are here.”

“Oh, Mamma and Aunty!” joyfully exclaimed Dorothy, for she recognized Virginia’s well-known voice, and sitting up, said:

“You’ve come to take me home, haven’t you?”

Again the match light faded out.

The voice of Dorothy seemed to thrill Constance with new energy, for, with a frantic effort, she partially recovered her composure. She struggled to her feet, and in a rapture of thanksgiving, folded the child to her heart.

“Oh, my darling, my darling, please God, they shall never take you from me again. No, never again.” And she kissed her with a passionate joy, such as only a fond mother can feel for her helpless infant.

“Oh, mamma, I am so glad,” responded Dorothy, clasping her little arms about her mother’s neck.

“Dorothy, dear, where is he?” questioned Virginia, in a whisper.

“He was in the room when I came to bed, Auntie.”

“He is not there now. He must be away.” And a prospect of getting the child away without a struggle nerved her to instant action.

“Come,” she exclaimed, “we must go at once. Don’t speak, sweetheart. Silence; come, Constance, quick!”

“Yes, yes; go on,” was Constance’s almost hysterical reply.

And so, with the child in her arms and Virginia pulling at her sleeves to guide and hasten her, they groped as cautiously as possible in the darkness, towards the cabin door.

They had proceeded a few paces when Virginia, in her eagerness, rubbed against the table; she stepped aside to clear it, and in doing so, jolted Constance.

It was then, under the strain of the stiffled emotions of the past few days, and the great excitement attendant on the present enterprise, together with the sudden reactionary joy of again clasping her child, that the first symptom of the mother’s mental breakdown occurred.

“Oh,” she faintly screamed, “the boat rocks,” and she would have fallen to the floor had not a chair, the only one in the cabin, luckily stood nearby. She stumbled against it and sank upon the seat, with Dorothy tightly clasped in her arms.

Unable in the darkness to comprehend the pause, Virginia tugged urgently at Constance’s sleeve.

“Come along, dear, we must be quick.”

“Very well! Why don’t you use the paddles?” replied Constance, in an altered tone, a strange metallic ring in her voice, and with less agitation than she had recently displayed.

Still unable, or rather refusing herself to think anything was wrong, and with a panicky impatience to be gone from the den, Virginia again urged Constance to hasten.

“Don’t sit there, dear! Come along! We have not a moment to lose. Shall I carry Dorothy?”

The answer startled her; a new terror had appeared.

“Don’t you see that I am holding my heart tight. I cannot let go to help you. Make the boat go faster. Why don’t you paddle.”

Virginia’s heart leaped to her throat. “Her mind is giving away,” she exclaimed, with a gasp.

There, then, the typhoid aftermath, which had been predicted would develop in time in Constance some strange and serious ailment, had found a lodgement, and now, bursting into life, lay siege to nature’s most wonderful creation, the human brain. A moment of terrifying consternation followed.

“What shall I do now?” Virginia distractedly exclaimed.

“Paddle, paddle, paddle,” feebly responded Constance.

Unmindful of the reply, Virginia stood as if transfixed with despair. She racked her brain for a way out. The situation was fast verging on the tragic.

“I will barricade the door!” she determined. “No, he may smash in the roof or sink us; I must get them away somehow.”

“Oh, Constance, dear, try to be strong. Fight down this weakness. The boat is waiting. We must escape. Help me! Oh, God, help! Help!”

Her voice began in a subdued, frantic appeal, and ended in a sob of heart-rending despair for succor.

Like a shaft of sunshine bursting through a rift in the dark, lowering clouds of dismay, came the answer from Constance:

“I will! I will! Let me think! Oh, yes, we had better go now. Lead on! Hasten!” And she arose from the seat.

“Thank Heaven. The dark spot has gone,” Virginia fervently exclaimed. “Her brain has cleared again.”

How joyfully she struck another match further to accelerate their passage.

“Keep close to me, dear. Are you tired? Let me help you.” And she placed her right arm about the waist of Constance, the match held forward in her left hand lighting the way. They had proceeded a few steps when the door opened. She drew back with a slight, terrified exclamation: “Oh!”

Jack Shore stood in the doorway.

CHAPTER XVI

The men had been ashore, had found the rope cut in several places, and the dog gone. The circumstances were so suspicious and frought with so much danger to them, that they decided upon the immediate removal of the child. On their return toward the cabin, Rutley discovered a faint glimmer of light within, and in a whisper, called Jack’s attention to it.

“I am sure I blew it out,” Jack whispered, alarmed.

“Do you think the child awakened and struck a match?” again whispered Rutley.

“No; no matches within her reach. Perhaps Virginia has come. Hello! A strange boat here.”

“The light moves,” continued Rutley, in a whisper.

“I will get out here,” whispered Jack, and he sprang out of the boat quietly onto the platform. “Take the boat to the other end of the cabin.”

As he opened the door, the profile of the women and child appeared, dimly outlined by the match light held in Virginia’s hand.

As she staggered back, surprised and terrified, for the moment, Jack pushed his way in, closed the door, bolted and locked it, and put the key in his pocket. Then he struck a match and lighted the lamp.

After surveying the group, he gruffly laughed.

“Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, Signora make a da bold a break in a da house, eh? Ha, ha, ha, ha. Eesa try tak a Daize from a da nicey home, eh? Ha, ha, ha, ha.”

“Yes,” she replied, without hesitation or a qualm of fear in her voice. “That was my intention, but the devil’s emissary has blocked it.”

Without a trace of fear, quietly and strangely free from agitation, Constance made her way to the door, and laid her hand on the bolt to unfasten it.

Jack took hold of her small, round wrist, turned her about and pushed her back a few paces. “Note a beez in a da hurry, Signora.”

“Who are you?” she timidly asked.

“Ha, ha, ha, hic, Eesa compan-e-on say I beez a da devil,” Jack laughed jeeringly.

“Oh, very well,” she replied, mildly. “The devil is always hungry for someone. Who do you want now?”

“A Daize, a da Daize. Yous a lak a me, eh, a Daize?”

“No, no; the devil shall not have my heart. My precious darling now.” And Constance shrank from him, pressing the little form tighter to her breast.

“But you may have money,” she indifferently added.

Jack smiled and bowed obsequiously.

“Ten-na years eesa sella da banans, turnoppsis, carrottsis, cababbages – mak a da mon, naw! Now eesa steal a da kid, do anyting for a mak a da mon. Da mon, da mon,” he repeated slowly three times, with deep-toned Dago emphasis. “Then eesa-go back a da sunny Italia,” a phrase that escaped his lips as though shot from a rapid firer.

In the meantime Rutley had entered from the other door, locked it, and softly crept to the partition door, where he stood listening and noting, through the small glass panel, the situation within.

Scorning preliminaries, Virginia said:

“I have brought you all that I could get. Take it!” And she laid a package of crisp banknotes on the table. Jack’s eyes bulged and glistened at the sight of so much money within his grasp. He eagerly picked up the package, which was fastened in the middle by a band of paper, flipped the ends of the banknotes back and forth with his finger, then proceeded to count the money. His action was business-like.

Without unfastening the band, he held one end of the package firmly down on the table with the knuckles of his left hand, doubled the other end back, and held it with his fingers and let each note slip back separately to a flat position on the table, until he counted them all.

Meanwhile Virginia had gently pushed Constance to the seat, and as she watched him she muttered, as though speaking to herself: “I could get no more than ten thousand dollars. If that will not satisfy him, then let fate come to the rescue, for a life hangs on the issue tonight.”

“Turnoppsis, Carrottsis, Ca-babbages, Ta-rah-rah. Eesa fat a da pack,” said Jack, as he thrust the package of money inside his vest. “Saw da ood, hic” – But it appearing loose and risky to keep it there, he took it out, rolled it up and forced it in his trousers’ back pocket. “Black a da boots, hic.” Still feeling dissatisfied with the security of either pocket he at last put it in the inside pocket of his coat, hanging near the lamp over the table. And then he turned to Virginia.

“Eesa part a da mon? Hic. Much a beez a da tanks, Signora.”

“You will now liberate the child?” she pleaded, in faltering speech.

“Ta-rah-rah! You sa fetch a me only a da half!” exclaimed Jack, feigning surprise at her request.

“Yousa da rich. Gotta da mon a plent. Go, Signora, get a moores a da mon. Leave a Daize a da here.”

“Mr. Golda, I’ll not stay. I am going home with mamma!” and Dorothy pouted indignantly.

Seeing him obdurate, and fearing the effect of a forcible separation from her mother now so fondly clasped in her arms, Virginia resolved to try persuasion once more, before putting into execution the plans she had matured as a last and desperate resort. With blanched face, its very seriousness compelling attention, she said, in a faltering voice:

“If your heart is human you cannot look upon that stricken mother without feeling that in the last great day the Judge of all will judge you as you now deal with her.”