In the Brooding Wild

CHAPTER X.

THE BATTLE IN THE WILD

The woman shrank back. The last trace of levity had vanished from her eyes. Their blue depths gazed out upon the strange scene with horror and dread. In that moment she understood the power she had wielded with these two men, and a thrill of regret shook her frame. She saw in the eyes of both the cruel purpose which was in their hearts. It was death for one of them. Even in that moment of suspense, she found herself speculating which of them it would be.

There was no sentiment in her thoughts. These two were nothing to her. She would regret the death of either as she would regret the death of any strong, healthy man; but that was all. Her horror was a natural revulsion at the prospect of seeing death dealt out in the ruthless manner that these men contemplated.

Just for one instant the desire to stay the combatants rose uppermost in her mind. She stepped forward again and raised a protesting hand.

“Are you brothers or wolves of the forest that you’d kill each other? If you fight for Aim-sa, she’ll have neither of you.”

Her words rang out clear and incisive. In her excitement she had forgotten the halting phrases of the White Squaw, and spoke fluently enough. Nick was ominously silent. Ralph answered her.

“Stand back, an’ remember ye’re the squaw of him as wins ye in fair fight.”

Then he cried out to his brother:

“Are ye ready?”

Nick made no audible reply. His face looked the words his lips did not frame. He was ready, and the passion in him was more than willing. Once, before he closed with his opponent, he glanced round at Aim-sa. It may have been that he sought one look of encouragement, one smile; it may have been. But the beautiful face he looked upon had no smile for either. It was dead white under its tanning, and the blue eyes were widely staring. Ralph did not take his eyes from his brother’s face, and the fierce light in them was as the gleam in the eyes of the timber-wolf prowling at night around a camp-fire in the forest.

For a moment a heavy cloud spread itself over the face of the sun, and the grey daylight of winter again covered the mountains. Instantly the forest lost its look of spring, and the air returned to the chill of the darker months. The bald break in the forest looked more cheerless than a waste ground in a city, and those who stood about to fight for life became savage images that looked something less than human. Nick, larger than his brother, was a tower of thew and muscle. As he stood there, clad in a cotton shirt and trousers belted at the waist, he was the figure of a perfect man. His shaggy head was thrown back, but his handsome face was distorted by its expression of hate. Ralph was the smaller by inches, but his muscles were as fine-tempered steel. There was even more of the wild in his expression than in that of his brother. The ferocity in his face was wolfish, and not good to look upon.

Both had bared their hunting-blades, long knives at once vicious and coldly significant.

There was no further word. The men bent low and moved circling round each other. Their attitudes were much those of wrestlers seeking an advantageous “holt.” By common consent they avoided the tree, keeping to the oozing soil of the open.

Ralph displayed the more activity. His lesser stature inclined to a quickness his brother did not possess. He sought to use art to draw the impetuosity of the other, and kept up a series of feints. But strangely enough Nick displayed a control which was surprising. He had a full appreciation of the life and death struggle. He had faced it too often with the dumb adversaries of the forest. It was Ralph who became incautious. His fury could not long be held in check, and his cunning at the start of the fight soon gave place to a wild and slashing onslaught, while Nick fought on the defensive, reading in his brother’s eyes the warning of every contemplated attack.

But Ralph’s swift movements harassed Nick; they pressed him sorely, and often drove him to extremity in his defence. For long he kept distance, knowing that while the other was wasting strength his own was being carefully husbanded.

Ten minutes passed. Still they had not come together. Ralph charged in with upraised knife; the blow was warded, and he passed on only to swing round on the instant and repeat the attack from the opposite direction. But always Nick faced him, grim, determined, and with deadly purpose. Once the latter slipped; the footing was none too secure. Instantly Ralph hurled himself upon him and his blade scored his brother’s arm, leaving a trail of blood from elbow to wrist. That one touch let loose Nick’s pent-up fury and he allowed himself to be drawn.

The two came together with a terrific impact. Nick slipped again. This time he could not save himself. His feet shot from under him and he went down backwards. In his fall he seized Ralph’s knife-arm at the wrist, and the same time aimed a slashing blow at his face. But Ralph’s agility was as furious as it was full of force. In turn he caught Nick by the wrist, and, with a great wrench, sought to dislocate his shoulder.

As well try to tear a limb from the parent oak. Ralph’s effort died out, and they lay upon the ground fighting to free their weapons. Now the life and death struggle had begun. It was a hideous battle, silent, ominous. But the horror of it lay, not in the deadly intent, the flashing steel, the grim silence. These men were brothers; brothers whose affection had stood them through years of solitary labours, trials, and privations, but which had changed to a monstrous hatred because a woman had come into their lives.

As the moments swept by, the brothers rolled and writhed, with every faculty at terrible tension. Now Ralph was uppermost; now Nick sought to drive the downward blow. Now Ralph strained to twist his knife-arm free from the iron grip that held it; now Nick slashed vainly at the air, seeking to sever the sinewy limb that threatened above his face.

It required only the smallest slip, the briefest relaxation of the tense-drawn muscles on the part of either, and death awaited the unfortunate. For long neither yielded one iota, but the struggle was too fierce to last. Human strength has but narrow limits of endurance when put forth to its uttermost. Given no slip, no accident, there could be only one conclusion to the battle. Victory must inevitably be with the man of superior muscle. Neither fought with a fine skill; for, used as they both were to the knife, their antagonists of the forest only possessed Nature’s weapons, which left the hunter with the balance of power.

Already the breathing of the combatants had become painfully heavy; but while Ralph struggled with all the fierceness of his passion, and put forth his whole strength, Nick reserved a latent force for the moment when opportunity arrived. And that moment was nearing.

Ralph was under and Nick’s great weight held him down, for the sinuous struggles of the other had lost their vim. Suddenly, with a mighty effort, the younger man wrenched his knife-arm free, and a cry, hoarse, fierce, sounded deep in his throat. But his effort had cost him his hold upon his brother. There was a wicked gleam of steel as both men struck.

Ralph, striking upwards, was at a disadvantage. His blade, aimed at the neck and shoulder, struck Nick’s cheek, laid the flesh open to the lower jaw, glanced, and buried itself in the muscle of the shoulder. Nick’s blade smote with a fearful gash into the side of his brother’s throat.

It was over.

Ralph lay quivering and silent upon the ground. Nick rose staggering and dazed.

He moved away like a man in a dream. His arms hung limply at his sides, and his eyes looked out across the wide woodland valley with an uncomprehending stare. His face was almost unrecognizable under the flow of blood from his wound. Once, as he stood, one hand went up mechanically to his face, then it dropped again without having accomplished its purpose. And all the while his vacant eyes stared out upon–nothing.

Presently he sat down. His actions were almost like collapse, and he remained where he sat, still, silent, like an image. The moments passed. The quiet was intense. A faint murmur of flowing waters came up from the river beyond.

Suddenly he moved. Then in a moment he seemed to break out into passionate life. The stony stare had gone from his eyes. Intelligence looked out; intelligence such as one might find in one whose mind is on the verge of losing its balance; a fearful, anxious, hunted intelligence, face to face with an unending horror.

He moved to where his brother was lying, and stood shaking in every limb; he had realized the work of his hands. He dashed the blood from his face. The vivid stain dyed his fingers and the touch of the warm tide only seemed to add to his terror. He went up to the still form and looked down. Then he backed away, slowly, step by step, but still unable to withdraw his fascinated gaze.

Suddenly a cry broke from his lips. It was bitter, heartrending. Then a quick word followed.

“Wher’s–”

His question remained uncompleted. His head turned swiftly, and he looked stupidly about him. The clearing was empty of all save himself and that other lying upon the ground at his feet, and, beyond, the carcass of the dead grizzly. A dreadful fear leapt to his brain; he moved tottering. His action gained swiftness suddenly. He ran to the forest edge, and, with hungry eyes, gazed in beyond the sparse fringe of scrub. There was nothing there. He moved away to the right and ran in amongst the low-growing bush, only to reappear with more feverish haste, and eyes whose fiery glance seemed to shoot in every direction at once. On he went, round the edge of the entire clearing; in and out, like some madman running purposelessly in search of some phantasy of his brain. There was no one there but himself, and the two still forms upon the ground. Aim-sa was gone!

But he did not pause. His brain was in a tumult, there was no reasoning in it. He searched everywhere. Bush that could conceal nothing bigger than a beetle was examined; to his distorted fancy the lightning-stricken tree presented a hiding-place. Further he penetrated into the woods, but always only to return to his brother’s side, distraught, weary from loss of blood.

Gone! Aim-sa was gone!

At last he stood, an awesome figure, bloodstained, dishevelled. He was at his brother’s side as he had been a dozen times during his mad search. It was as though he returned to the dead for company. But now, at last, he moved away no more. He looked upon the pallid face and staring, sightless eyes, and the red pool in which the body weltered.

There was a long pause, and the quiet set his pulses beating and his ears drumming. Presently he turned away. But as by a magnet drawn, he turned quickly again and his eyes once more rested upon his brother’s body. Then all in a moment a stifled cry broke from his lips, and, throwing himself upon his knees, he thrust his arms about the dead.

Suffering as he was, he raised the body and nursed the almost severed head. He muttered hoarsely, and his face was bent low till his own dripping wound shed its sluggish tide to mingle with the blood of the man he had slain.

Now, in his paroxysm of awful remorse, the woman was forgotten, and he only realized the dread horror he had committed. He had slain his brother! He was a murderer! For what?

At the thought he almost threw the body from him as he sprang to his feet.

“No, no! not murder,” he cried, in a choking voice. “It was fair fight.”

Then, still looking down, he drew his foot back as though to kick the stiffening clay. But the blow did not come, and, instead, he wrung his hands at his sides like a child in distress. Harsh sobs broke tearless from his lips; his breast heaved with inexpressible agony. Then he flung himself face downwards upon the sodden earth, and his fingers dug into the carpet of dead matter, clawing aimlessly.

The afternoon was well advanced when he moved again. He rose to his feet without any warning, and the change in him was staggering. Now a gaunt, grey-faced man looked out upon the world through eyes which burned with the light of fever. His movements were slow, deliberate. Only his eyes betrayed his condition, telling a tale of a strange new life born within him.

He moved off into the woods, striking down the slope towards the river. He was gone some time; and when he returned his face was cleaned, and a bandage was tied about it. The wound in his shoulder was not severe.

He came none too soon, for, as he neared the clearing, he heard a succession of deep-toned wolf-howls. As he broke the forest fringe, he saw two great timber-wolves steal swiftly back to the depths whence they had just emerged.

Nick cursed them under his breath. Then he went to his brother’s side. Here he paused, and, after a moment of mental struggle, stooped and lifted the corpse upon his unwounded shoulder. Then with his gruesome freight he plunged into the forest.

He held the body firmly but tenderly, and walked as rapidly as his burden permitted. He often talked to himself as he went, like a man in deep thought and stirred by violent emotions. Sometimes he slowed his gait, and, at others, he almost ran. His thoughts influenced him strangely.

Once he set his burden down and rested. The forest was getting dark about him, but it suited his mood; it formed a background for his gloomy thoughts. And, while he rested, he fell to talking as though Ralph were living, and merely rested with him. He talked and answered himself, and, later, leaned over his dead, crooning like some woman over her child. The time passed. Again he rose, and once more shouldering the body, now stiff and cold, hastened on.

And as the evening shadows gathered, and the forest gloom deepened, there came the sound of movement about him. At intervals wolfish throats were opened and the dismal forest cries echoed and reëchoed in the hollow shadows.

His burden grew heavier. His mind suffered, and his nerves were tense as the wires of a musical instrument. Every jolt found an echoing note upon them, and each note so struck caused him exquisite pain. And now, too, the wolves grew bolder; the scent of blood was in the air and taunted their hungry bellies till they began to lose their fear of the man.

Nick stopped and looked about him. The evening shadows were fast closing in. In the gloom he saw eyes looking out upon him, eyes in pairs, like coals of fire surrounded by dark, lank, shadowy forms. One shadow stood out more distinctly than the others, and he unslung his rifle and fired pointblank at it. There was a howl of pain. Then followed several fierce yelps, and stealing forms crowded thick and fast upon the creature that had bitten the dust.

With a thrill of strange dread Nick shouldered his burden again and proceeded on his way. His steps were no longer steady, but hurried and uncertain. In his haste he frequently stumbled, but he was strong, and he had a haunting fear of what lay behind him, and so he put forth a great effort.

The twilight deepened; black shadows were everywhere about him. Hills rose before him, and valleys sank away at his feet. His fancy now saw the forest crowded with prying eyes. Every tree-trunk became a figure which stood pointing and whispering words of denunciation. And as he beheld this ghostly army of shadows his heart quailed, and the look in his eyes grew more and more fevered. He lurched on under the cold, clammy body without thought of his way, with nervous dews upon his forehead, and shaking limbs.

The wolves still followed. Their cries, vicious, eager, came to him, and he knew that the meal he had provided was devoured, and they hungered yet, and thirsted for the blood they scented upon the air. He sped on, staggering, and his mind grew dizzy. But he knew that he had entered his valley, and beyond lay the dugout which henceforth was his alone.

His intolerable burden had worn him down. He feared it as he feared the dark shadows of the woods, and the stealing forms which trailed behind him. He longed to throw that which he carried to the ground and run headlong to the shelter of his home. But something held him. It was as if his brother’s corpse were endowed with life, a ghostly life, and that it clung with tenacious grip to the back of the living. And the thought grew in his aching brain that he was no longer free to do as he chose, but was being driven by the Thing he carried. At the river he bent to rid himself of the corpse. He purposed to rest ere he bore it up the last hill, but the stiff arms had somehow embraced his neck and clung to him. With a cry of terror he moved forward at a run. Hard on his heels came the loud-voiced throng of timber-wolves.

At last, ahead, he heard the yelping of his own dogs. The noise brought him a measure of relief, for the speeding shadows behind dropped back into the woods, and their voices faded away into the distance.

But the corpse clung, and its weight dragged him back; to his distorted fancy the arms held his neck as in a vise. He gasped painfully as imagination told him that he was being choked. A cold sweat poured down his face and set him shivering, but, like one doomed to his task, he sped on.

Now the open stretched before him and beyond lay the dugout. He saw his dogs rushing to meet him; his five fierce huskies. They came welcoming; then they paused uncertainly and grouped together in a cluster, and their tone suddenly changed to the short-voiced yapping of fear. As he came on he called them by name, seeking solace in their company and in the sound of his own voice. But the only response the dogs made was to move uneasily. Their bushy tails drooped and hung between their legs and they turned back fearfully. Then they began to creep away, slinking in furtive apprehension; then finally they broke into a headlong flight, racing for home in a perfect madness of terror.