Chapter XXXII: Copperhead

Before the disconcerting discovery that he was trapped on the island, Dexter had already framed his tentative plans for the future. The capture of the Chicago outlaw at such a time had left him in a rather embarrassing situation. The man was too important a prisoner to take any chance on his escape. But to keep him in custody meant constant danger. Stark was not a person to let a belt full of gold slip through his fingers, and he undoubtedly would scour the woods to find its wearer.

Dexter had decided to play safe. It would be suicidal to push on northward where he was almost certain to encounter members of Stark's crowd; so he had made up his mind to turn back through the valley he had just quitted, make his way out through the southern gateway, and escort his two prisoners to Fort Dauntless. It was entirely possible that he might meet a party of re-enforcing police somewhere on the way. In any event he had discovered the route through the north pass, and after he had delivered Alison and Crill into safekeeping he could have returned with comrades to renew the hunt. Stark probably would continue his operations, and in some way or another the old trail could have been picked up.

But it was too late now to adopt the wiser course. There was nothing to be done but to sit still to wait until the stream might be forded again. And if Crill's companions put in their expected appearance, the corporal must fight them single-handed, with a thousand to one chance against his winning.

Dexter's face was an unreadable mask as he surveyed the turbulent waters, but Crill evidently understood the situation as well as he did. The outlaw exhibited his yellow teeth in a grin of saturnine gloating.

"Got yourself in a hole that you won't get out of alive," he remarked. "My gang'll be here after me, you bet, and when they come there'll be one less cop on the royal police force."

"The cops of the mounted do drop out at intervals," admitted the corporal calmly. "But there's always a new one to fill up the ranks. So that's all right." He smiled almost genially. "Meanwhile I advise you to step very carefully. Come on. We'll go back."

The three island castaways spent a long and tedious day in the cabin between the thundering rapids. Dexter found a few old dog-eared magazines that helped him beguile the dragging hours, but he was forced to do his reading in broken snatches, with one eye watching Crill or shifting restlessly towards the open door, through which he could see along the farther bank of the water-course.

The outlaw for his part did everything he could to keep his captor's nerves on edge. He had opened a window shutter, and found himself a seat on a bench under the sill. Part of the time he stared off downstream with an air of grim expectancy, as though he were confident that his friends would soon appear. At other moments he would swing around to fix Dexter with venomous, unwinking eyes. At intervals he would spring up from his stool and peer out the window, pretending that he had caught sight of some one approaching through the forest; only to sit down again with a mocking, throaty laugh when the corporal also lifted his head to look. Twice he lurched to his feet and started truculently across the room, moved apparently by a sudden savage impulse to hurl himself upon his captor. On one such occasion he advanced so near that the officer dropped the magazine he was reading and reached for his revolver. Whereupon Crill's face relaxed in an evil smirk, and he swaggered back to the bench to renew his vigil at the window.

Dexter would have liked to put an end to the man's antics by tying him hand and foot; but he could not hope to accomplish the job with only one serviceable arm. If Crill once laid hands on him he unquestionably would be crushed and beaten down by sheer bulk and weight of flesh. His only dependence were the three cartridges left in Alison Rayne's revolver, and the outlaw well knew that he would not fire, except in an extreme emergency.

The officer could have called on Alison to help him, and because of her fear of the murderer she probably would have consented; but the girl was also his prisoner, and it was a matter of pride and honor with him not to seek favors where duty forbade him to grant favors in return. So he made the best of matters by keeping his temper and patience, and maintaining unceasing vigilance.

For Alison the day passed with less monotony. The mere fact of being under a roof again served to awaken feminine instincts of orderliness, and she spent the entire afternoon cleaning the dirty and untidy cabin. She swept the floor, dusted the larder shelves, and scrubbed and scoured all the cooking utensils she could find about the place. Later she baked a pan of biscuits, and contrived an amazingly appetizing pudding, made of corn meal and dried apples and molasses, with bear fat for shortening.

That evening Dexter sat down to the first civilized dinner he had tasted in months; and when he finally finished, he got up with a guilty knowledge of having over-eaten. He was a bit alarmed to discover that he had grown very drowsy. To sleep soundly with Crill in the cabin meant to invite death, so he took the precaution of brewing an extra pot of strong coffee to drink before he turned in for the night.

There was only one bunk in the cabin, and this was allotted to Alison. Crill was ordered to spread his blankets before the fireplace, while Dexter made his bed by the opposite wall, where he could guard the front door. Before he retired he took a charred stick from the hearth and drew a half circle around the section of floor assigned to the outlaw.

"Your deadline," he remarked with somber emphasis. "If you stir beyond that mark I'll shoot you down without asking a question. Good night."

Through the long hours of darkness Dexter was permitted but little rest. At times he dozed off, but with every faint creak of sound about the cabin his hand reached automatically towards his revolver and he sat up, wide awake and staring, expecting any moment to see a crouching bulk stealing upon him from the shadow of the hearth. Three times during the night he left the cabin to circle the little island and to gaze up and down the moonlit shore across the way. On each of these occasions he forced Crill to get up and accompany him, and while the man muttered and grumbled over the indignity of being kept awake, he obeyed. Morning arrived at last, and although the outlaw had not yet ventured to make any hostile move, Dexter was fagged by his long vigil, and he knew that flesh and blood could not endure many more such nights.

Except for the fact that time seemed to drag more slowly, the second day was a repetition of the first. The corporal grew heavy-eyed as the hours passed, and by mid-afternoon he would have sold the tunic off his back for a thirty minutes' nap. He drank enormous quantities of coffee, and with Crill as his companion, went outdoors at frequent intervals to tramp doggedly up and down the banks of the rising stream, forcing himself to stay awake.

Alison alone had obtained her full night's rest, and she awakened fresh and clear-eyed, to resume her self-imposed duties about the cabin. She prepared the meals and washed the dishes, and smilingly, but stubbornly, refused to let any one help. When dinner was ready that evening she insisted on her companions sitting down ahead of her, while she waited on table.

"You make me feel like a scoundrel," Dexter protested as she forcibly pushed him to his stool and placed a steaming plate before him. "I don't just see why you're called upon to be the maid of all work."

She laughed pleasantly, and leaned lightly against his shoulder to put his coffee cup on the table. "It saves one from going crazy," she explained--"having something to keep the hands and mind occupied. I'm really glad to do it, and I don't want anybody bothering me."

Before the officer could say anything further, she moved away and bent in seeming absorption over a kettle she had left bubbling in the fireplace. A look of gentleness stole momentarily into Dexter's gray eyes, and without thinking what he was doing, he half turned on his stool to watch the slim, boyish figure bending before the hearth. For the instant he forgot that Crill was seated on the other side of the table, almost within arm's reach. His glance was tracing the graceful curve of the girl's throat and chin, shadowed in the ruddy glow of the fire, when some guarding sentinel of the brain gave him warning.

With a startled breath he whirled about, just in time to see Crill rise from his seat and fling himself across the table.

Dexter caught a glimpse of an evil, bloated face and two slits of eyes, glaring with ugly purpose. The table was overturned with a crash, and Crill lunged forward, reaching with his ponderous hands.

The corporal felt murderous fingers at his throat, but in the fraction of an instant vouchsafed him he twisted away, threw himself backwards and fell from his stool. He caught his weight on his left hand, and then, before his heavier assailant could drop upon him, he sprang to his feet, and a cat-like leap carried him back to the cabin wall.

Even as he dodged across the room, Dexter's hand had gone to his jacket pocket. If the man still came on, he must shoot him down. His fingers started to close upon the butt of his revolver, and found nothing to take hold of. A limp, helpless feeling came over him as he waited at bay, with his shoulders backed against the wall. His weapon was not in his pocket.