The hut of the Nihilist
Portnoff stood in a thick bluff about
midway between Wakota and the mine, but lying off the direct line
about two miles nearer the ranch. It was a poor enough shack, made
of logs plastered over with mud, roofed with poplar poles, sod, and
earth. The floor was of earth, the walls were whitewashed, and
with certain adornments that spoke of some degree of culture. Near
one side of the shack stood the clay oven stove, which served the
double purpose of heating the room and of cooking Portnoff's food.
Like many of the Galician cabins, Portnoff's stood in the midst of
a garden, in which bloomed a great variety of brilliant and old-
fashioned flowers and shrubs, while upon the walls and climbing
over the roof, a honeysuckle softened the uncouthness of the clay
plaster.
It was toward the end
of the third week which followed French's
return that Portnoff and Malkarski were sitting late over their
pipes and beer. The shack was illumined with half a dozen candles
placed here and there on shelves attached to the walls. The two
men were deep in earnest conversation. At length Portnoff rose and
began to pace the little room.
"Malkarski," he cried,
"you are asking too much. This delay is
becoming impossible to me."
"My brother," said
Malkarski, "you have waited long. There must be
no mistake in this matter. The work must be thoroughly done, so
let us be patient. And meantime," he continued with a laugh, "he
is having suffering enough. The loss of this mine is like a knife
thrust in his heart. It is pleasant to see him squirm like a
reptile pierced by a stick. He is seeking large compensation for
the work he has done, three thousand dollars, I believe. It is
worth about one."
Portnoff continued
pacing up and down the room.
"Curse him! Curse him!
Curse him!" he cried, lifting his clenched
hands above his head.
"Be patient, brother."
"Patient!" cried
Portnoff. "I see blood. I hear cries of women
and children. I fall asleep and feel my fingers in his throat. I
wake and find them empty!"
"Aha! I too," growled
Malkarski. "But patience, patience, brother!"
"Malkarski," cried
Portnoff, pausing in his walk, "I have suffered
through this man in my country, in my people, in my family, in my
heart!"
"Aha!" ejaculated old
Malkarski with fierce emphasis, "have you?
Do you know what suffering is? But--yes, Portnoff, we must be
patient yet." As he spoke he took on a dignity of manner and
assumed an attitude of authority that Portnoff was quick to
recognize.
"You speak truly,"
replied the latter gravely. "I heard a good
thing to-day," he continued with a change of tone. "It seems that
Sprink--"
"Sprink!" muttered
Malkarski with infinite contempt, "a rat, a pig!
Why speak of him?"
"It is a good story,"
replied Portnoff with a laugh, "but not
pleasant for Sprink to tell. It appears he was negotiating with
Mr. French, suggesting a partnership in the mine, but Mr. French
kicked him out. It was amusing to hear Sprink tell the tale with
many oaths and curses. He loves not French any more."
"Bah!" said Malkarski,
"the rest of the tale I heard. He had the
impudence to propose--the dog!--alliance with the young lady Irma.
Bah!" he spat upon the ground. "And French very properly kicked
him out of his house and gave him one minute to remove himself out
of gun range. There was quick running," added old Malkarski with a
grim smile. "But he is a cur. I wipe him out of my mind."
"We must keep close
watch these days," said Portnoff. "They are
both like mad dogs, and they will bite."
"Ha!" cried Malkarski
with sudden vehemence, "if we could strike at
once, now! To-night!" his voice rose in a cry, "Ah, if it were to-
night! But patience," he muttered. "Ah, God! how long?"
"Not long, my brother,
surely," said Portnoff.
"No, not long,"
answered Malkarski. "Let them go away from the
mine, away from these people. On the railroad line many accidents
occur. Let us not spoil all by undue haste."
"It is your day to
watch to-morrow, Malkarski," said Portnoff.
"I shall keep watch
to-morrow," said Malkarski. "After all, it is
joy to look on his face and think how it will appear when we have
done our work." He rose and paced the floor, his deep-set eyes
gleaming like live coals in his haggard old face. "Ah," he
continued in his deep undertone, "that will be joy."
Ever since the arrival
of Rosenblatt in the country he had been
under surveillance of one of these two old Nihilists, walking,
though he knew it not, side by side with death. To Malkarski fell
the task of keeping within sight and sound of Rosenblatt during the
following day.
The negotiations in
connection with the transfer of the mine
property were practically completed. The money for the improvements
effected had been paid. There remained only a few minor matters to
be settled, and for that a meeting was arranged at the mine on the
evening of the following day. At this meeting Kalman had with great
reluctance agreed to be present. The place of meeting was the
original cave, which had been enlarged to form a somewhat spacious
room, from which there had been run back into the hill a tunnel. At
the entrance to this tunnel a short cross-tunnel had been cut, with
an exit on the side of the hill and at right angles to the mouth.
Across the ravine from the cave stood a small log building which
Messrs. Rosenblatt and Sprink had used as an office during the month
of their regime. Further down the ravine were scattered the
workmen's cabins, now deserted.
In the preparing of
plans for this last meeting Rosenblatt and
Sprink spent long hours that day. Indeed, it was late in the
afternoon when their conference broke up.
An hour later found
Malkarski, pale and breathless, at the door of
Portnoff's cabin, unable to recover his speech till Portnoff had
primed him with a mug of Sprink's best whiskey.
"What is it, my
brother?" cried Portnoff, alarmed at his condition.
"What is it?"
"A plot!" gasped
Malkarski, "a most damnable plot! Give me another
drink."
Under the stimulus of
the potent liquid, Malkarski was able in a
few minutes between his gasps to tell his story. Concealed by a
lumber pile behind Rosenblatt's shack, with his ear close to a
crack between the logs, he had heard the details of the plot. In
the cross tunnel at the back of the cave bags of gunpowder and
dynamite were to be hidden. To this mass a train was to be laid
through the cross tunnel to a convenient distance. At a certain
point during the conference Rosenblatt would leave the cave on the
pretext of securing a paper left in his cabin. A pile of brushwood
at some distance from the cave would be burning. On his way to his
cabin Rosenblatt would fire the train and wait the explosion in his
own shack, the accidental nature of which could easily be explained
under the circumstances. In order to remove suspicion from him,
Rosenblatt was to appear during the early evening in a railway camp
some distance away. The plot was so conceived and the details so
arranged that no suspicion could attach to the guilty parties.
"And now," said
Malkarski, "rush to Wakota, where I know Mr. French
and Kalman are to be today. I shall go back to the mine to warn
them if by any chance you should miss them."
Old Portnoff was long
past his best. Not for many years had he
quickened his pace beyond a slow dog trot. The air was heavy with
an impending storm, the blazed trail through the woods was rough,
and at times difficult to find, so that it was late in the evening
when the old man stumbled into the missionary's house and poured
out his tale between his sobbing gasps to Brown and a Sergeant of
the Mounted Police, who was present on the Queen's business.
Before the tale was done the Sergeant was on his feet.
"Where are French and
Kalman?" he said sharply.
"Gone hours ago," cried
Brown. "They must be at the mine by now."
"Can this man be relied
upon?" enquired the Sergeant.
"Absolutely," said
Brown. "Fly! I'll follow."
Without further word
the Sergeant was out of the house and on his
horse.
"What trail?" he
shouted.
"It is best by the
river," cried Brown. "The cross trail you might
lose. Go! Go, in God's name!" he added, rushing toward his
stable, followed by Portnoff and his wife. "Where is Paulina?" he
cried.
"Paulina," said his
wife, "is gone. She is acting strangely these
days,--goes and comes, I don't know where."
"Get a boy, then," said
her husband, "and send him to the ranch.
There is a bare chance we may stop them there. Portnoff, there is
another pony here; saddle and follow me. We'll take the cross
trail. And pray God," he added, "we may be in time!"
Great masses of liver-coloured
clouds were piling up in the west,
blotting out the light from the setting sun. Over all a heavy
silence had settled down, so that in all the woods there was no
sound of living thing. Lashing his pony into a gallop, heedless of
the obstacles on the trail, or of the trees overhead, Brown crashed
through scrub and sleugh, with old Portnoff following as best he
could. Mile after mile they rode, now and then in the gathering
darkness losing the trail, and with frantic furious haste searching
it again, till at length, with their ponies foaming and trembling,
and their own faces torn and bleeding with the brush, they emerged
into the clearing above the ravine.
Meantime, the ghastly
tragedy was being enacted. Impatiently at
the cave mouth French and Kalman waited the coming of those they
were to meet. At length, in the gathering gloom, Rosenblatt
appeared, coming up the ravine. He was pale and distraught.
"I have ridden hard,"
he said, "and I am shaken with my ride. My
papers are in my cabin. I shall get them."
In a few moments he
returned, bringing with him a bottle and two
cups.
"Drink!" he said. "No?
Then I will." He poured out a cup full of
raw whiskey and drank it off. "My partner is late," he said. "He
will be here in a few moments. Meantime, we can look over the
papers."
"It is too dark here,"
said French. "We can't see to read. You
have in your cabin a light, let us go there."
"Oh," cried Rosenblatt
hastily, "it is more comfortable here. I
have a lantern."
He rummaged in the
sides of the cave and produced a lantern.
"Here is a light," said
French, striking a match.
Rosenblatt snatched the
match from his hand, crushed it in his
fingers and hurried out of the cave.
"Ah," he exclaimed, "I
am shaking with my hurried ride."
With great care he
lighted his lantern outside of the cave and set
it upon a table that had been placed near the cave's mouth. French
drew out his pipe, slowly filled it and proceeded to light it, when
Rosenblatt in a horror-stricken voice arrested him.
"Don't smoke!" he
cried. "I mean--it makes me very ill--when I am--
in this--condition--the smell of tobacco smoke."
French looked at him
with cool contempt.
"I am sorry for you,"
he said, lighting his pipe and throwing the
match down.
Rosenblatt sprang to
the cave mouth, came back again, furtively
treading upon the match. The perspiration was standing out upon
his forehead.
"It is a terrible
night," he said. "Let us proceed. We can't wait
for my partner. Read, read."
With fingers that
trembled so that he could hardly hold the papers,
he thrust the documents into Kalman's hand.
"Read," he cried, "I
cannot see."
Opening the papers,
Kalman proceeded to read them carefully, by the
light of the lantern, French smoking calmly the while.
"Have you no better
light than this, Rosenblatt?" said French at
length. "Surely there are candles about here." He walked toward
the back of the cave.
"Ah, my God!" cried
Rosenblatt, seizing him and drawing him toward
the table again. "Sit down, sit down. If you want candles, let me
get them. I know where they are. But we need no candles here.
Yes," he cried with a laugh, "young eyes are better than old eyes.
The young man reads well. Read, read."
"There is another
paper," said French after Kalman had finished.
"There is a further agreement."
"Yes, truly," said
Rosenblatt. "Is it not there? It must be
there. No, I must have left it at my cabin. I will bring it."
"Well, hurry then,"
said French. "Meantime, my pipe is out."
He drew a match, struck
it on the sole of his boot, lighted his
pipe and threw the blazing remnant toward the back of the cave.
"Ah, my God!" cried
Rosenblatt, his voice rising almost to a
shriek. Both men looked curiously at him. "Ah," he said, with his
hand over his heart, "I have pain here. But I will get the paper."
His face was livid, and
the sweat was running down his beard. As
he spoke he ran out and disappeared, leaving the two men poring
over the papers together. Beside the burning heap of brushwood he
stood a moment, torn in an agony of uncertainty and fear.
"Oh!" he said, wringing
his hands, "I dare not do it! I dare not
do it!"
He rushed past the
blazing heap, paused. "Fool!" he said, "what is
there to fear?"
He crept back to the
pile of burning brush, seized a blazing ember,
ran with it to the train he had prepared of rags soaked in
kerosene, leading toward the mouth of the cross tunnel, dropped the
blazing stick upon it, and fled. Looking back, he saw that in his
haste he had dashed out the flame and that besides the saturated
rags the stick lay smoking. With a curse he ran once more to the
blazing brush heap, selected a blazing ember, carried it carefully
to the train, and set the saturated rags on fire, waiting until
they were fully alight. Then like a man pursued by demons, he fled
down the ravine, splashed through the Creek and up the other side,
not pausing to look behind until he had shut the door of his cabin.
As he closed the door,
a dark figure appeared, slipped up to the
door, there was a click, a second, and a third, and the door stood
securely fastened with three stout padlocks. In another moment
Rosenblatt's livid face appeared at the little square window which
overlooked the ravine.
At the same instant,
upon the opposite side of the ravine, appeared
Brown, riding down the slope like a madman, and shouting at the top
of his voice, "French! French! Kalman! For God's sake, come
here!"
Out of the cave rushed
the two men. As they appeared Brown stood
waving his hands wildly. "Come here! Come, for God's sake!
Come!" His eyes fell upon the blazing train. "Run! run!" he
shouted, "for your lives! Run!"
He dashed toward the
blazing rags and trampled them under his feet.
But the fire had reached the powder. There was a quick hissing
sound of a burning fuse, and then a great puff. Brown threw
himself on his face and waited, but there was nothing more. His
two friends rushed to him and lifted him up.
"What, in Heaven's
name, is it, Brown?" cried French.
"Come away!" gasped
Brown, stumbling down the ravine and dragging
them with him.
Meantime, the whole
hillside was in flames. In the clear light of
the blazing trees the Sergeant was seen riding his splendid horse
at a hard gallop. Soon after his appearing came Portnoff.
"What does all this
mean?" said French, looking around from one to
the other with a dazed face.
Before they could
answer, a voice clear and sonorous drew their
eyes across the ravine towards Rosenblatt's cabin. At a little
distance from the cabin they could distinguish the figure of a man
outlined in the lurid light of the leaping flames. He was speaking
to Rosenblatt, whose head could be seen thrust far out of the
window.
"Who is that man?"
cried the Sergeant.
"Mother of God!" said
old Portnoff in a low voice. "It is
Malkarski. Listen."
"Rosenblatt," cried the
old man in the Russian tongue, "I have
something to say to you. Those bags of gunpowder, that dynamite
with which you were to destroy two innocent men, are now piled
under your cabin, and this train at my feet will fire them."
With a shriek
Rosenblatt disappeared, and they could hear him
battering at the door. Old Malkarski laughed a wild, unearthly
laugh.
"Rosenblatt," he cried
again, "the door is securely fastened!
Three stout locks will hold it closed."
The wretched man thrust
his head far out of the window, shrieking,
"Help! Help! Murder! Help!"
"Listen, you dog!"
cried Malkarski, his voice ringing down through
the ravine, "your doom has come at last. All your crimes, your
treacheries, your bloody cruelties are now to be visited upon you.
Ha! scream! pray! but no power in earth can save you. Aha! for
this joy I have waited long! See, I now light this train. In one
moment you will he in hell."
He deliberately struck
a match. A slight puff of wind blew it out.
Once more he struck a match. A cry broke forth from Kalman.
"Stop! stop! Malkarski,
do not commit this crime!"
"What is he doing?"
said the Sergeant, pulling his pistol.
"He is going to blow
the man up!" groaned Kalman.
The Sergeant levelled
his pistol.
"Here, you man," he
cried, "stir in your tracks and you are dead!"
Malkarski laughed
scornfully at him and proceeded to strike his
third match. Before the Sergeant could fire, old Portnoff sprang
upon him with the cry, "Would you murder the man?"
Meantime, under the
third match, the train was blazing, and slowly
creeping toward the cabin. Shriek after shriek from the wretched
victim seemed to pierce the ears of the listeners as with sharp
stabs of pain.
"Rosenblatt," cried old
Malkarski, putting up his hand, "you know
me now?"
"No! no!" shrieked
Rosenblatt. "Mercy! mercy! quick! quick! I
know you not."
The old man drew
himself up to a figure straight and tall. The
years seemed to fall from him. He stepped nearer Rosenblatt and
stood in the full light and in the attitude of a soldier at
attention.
"Behold," he cried,
"Michael Kalmar!"
"Ah-h-h-h!"
Rosenblatt's voice was prolonged into a wail of
despair as from a damned soul.
"My father!" cried
Kalman from across the ravine. "My father!
Don't commit this crime! For my sake, for Christ's dear sake!"
He rushed across the
ravine and up the other slope. His father ran
to meet him and grappled with him. Upon the slope they struggled,
Kalman fighting fiercely to free himself from those encircling
arms, while like a fiery serpent the flame crept slowly toward the
cabin.
With a heavy iron poker
which he found in the cabin, Rosenblatt had
battered off the sash and the frame of the window, enlarging the
hole till he could get his head and one arm free; but there he
stuck fast, watching the creeping flames, shrieking prayers,
entreaties, curses, while down upon the slope swayed the two men
in deadly struggle.
"Let me go! Let me go,
my father!" entreated Kalman, tearing at
his father's arms. "How can I strike you!"
"Never, boy. Rather
would I die!" cried the old man, his arms
wreathed about his son's neck.
At length, with his
hand raised high above his head, Kalman cried,
"Now God pardon me this!" and striking his father a heavy blow, he
flung him off and leaped free. Before he could take a single step,
another figure, that of a woman, glided from the trees, and with a
cry as of a wild cat, threw herself upon him. At the same instant
there was a dull, thick roar; they were hurled stunned to the
ground, and in the silence that followed, through the trees came
hurtling a rain of broken rock and splintered timbers.
Slowly recovering from
the shock, the Sergeant staggered down the
ravine, crying, "Come on!" to the others who followed him one by
one as they recovered their senses. On the other side of the slope
lay Kalman and the woman. It was Paulina. At a little distance
was Malkarski, or Kalmar, as he must be called, and where the cabin
had been a great hole, and at some distance from it a charred and
blackened shape of a man writhing in agony, the clothes still
burning upon him.
Brown rushed down to
the Creek, and with a hatful of water
extinguished the burning clothes.
"Water! water!" gasped
the wretch faintly.
"Bring him some water,
some one," said Brown who was now giving his
attention to Kalman. But no one heeded him.
Old Portnoff found a
can, and filling it at the stream, brought it
to the group on the slope. In a short time they began to revive,
and before long were able to stand. Meantime, the wretched
Rosenblatt was piteously crying for water.
"Oh, give him some
water," said Kalman to Brown, who was anxiously
taking his pulse.
Brown took the can
over, gave the unhappy wretch a drink, pouring
the rest over his burned and mangled limbs. The explosion had
shattered the lower part and one side of Rosenblatt's body, leaving
untouched his face and his right arm.
The Sergeant took
charge of the situation.
"You I arrest," he
said, taking old Kalmar by the shoulder.
"Very well; it matters
not," said the old man, holding up his hands
for the handcuffs.
"Can anything be done
for this man?" asked the Sergeant, pointing
to Rosenblatt.
"Nothing. He can only
live a few minutes."
Rosenblatt looked up
and beckoned the Sergeant toward him.
"I would speak with
you," he said faintly.
The Sergeant
approached, bringing Kalmar along with him.
"You need not fear, I
shall not try to escape," said Kalmar. "I
give you my honour."
"Very well," said the
Sergeant, turning from him to Rosenblatt.
"What do you wish?"
"Come nearer," said the
dying man.
The Sergeant kneeled
down and leaned over him to listen. With a
quick movement Rosenblatt jerked the pistol from the Sergeant's
belt and fired straight at old Kalmar, turned the pistol toward
Kalman and fired again. But as he levelled his gun for the second
time, Paulina, with a cry, flung herself upon Kalman, received the
bullet, and fell to the ground. With a wild laugh, Rosenblatt
turned the pistol on himself, but before he could fire the Sergeant
had wrested it from his hand.
"Aha," he gasped, "I
have my revenge!"
"Fool!" said old
Kalmar, who was being supported by his son.
"Fool! You have only done for me what I would have done for
myself."
With a snarl as of a
dog, Rosenblatt sank back upon the ground, and
with a shudder lay still.
"He is dead," said
Brown. "God's mercy meet him!"
"Ah," said old Kalmar,
"I breathe freer now that his breath no
longer taints the air. My work is done."
"Oh, my father," cried
Kalman brokenly, "may God forgive you!"
"Boy," said the old man
sternly, "mean you for the death of yon
dog? You hang the murderer. He is many times a murderer. This
very night he had willed to murder you and your friend. He was
condemned to death by a righteous tribunal. He has met his just
doom. God is just. I meet Him without fear for this. For my
sins, which are many, I trust His mercy."
"My father," said
Kalman, "you are right. I believe you. And God
is merciful. Christ is merciful."
As he spoke, he leaned
over, and wiping from his father's face the
tears that fell upon it, he kissed him on the forehead. The old
man's breath was growing short. He looked towards Brown. At once
Brown came near.
"You are a good man.
Your religion is good. It makes men just and
kind. Ah, religion is a beautiful thing when it makes men just and
kind."
He turned his eyes upon Jack French, who stood looking down sadly
pon him.
"You have been friend
to my son," he said. "You will guide him
still?"
French dropped quickly
on his knee, took him by the hand and said,
"I will be to him a brother."
The old man turned his
face and said, "Paulina."
"She is here," said old
Portnoff, "but she can't move."
At the sound of his
voice, the woman struggled up to her knees,
crawled over to his side, the blood flowing from her wound, and
taking his hand, held it to her lips.
"Paulina," he said,
"you have done well--you are--my wife again--
come near me."
The woman made an
inarticulate moan like some dumb beast, and
lifted her face toward him.
"Kiss me," he said.
"Ah, my lord," she
cried, sobbing wildly, "my dear lord, I dare
not."
"Kiss me," he said
again.
"Now let me die," she
cried, kissing him on the lips, and falling
down in a faint beside him.
Brown lifted her and
laid her in Portnoff's arms. The dying man
lay silent, gathering his strength. He was breathing now with
great difficulty.
"My son! I cannot see
you--"
Brown came and took
Kalman's place.
"Here I am, father,"
said Kalman, kneeling beside him and holding
his two hands.
"Bid--my daughter
Irma--farewell! She will be safe with you."
Then after a pause he whispered, "In my pocket."
Kalman understood,
found a packet, and from it drew the miniature
of his mother.
"I give you this," said
the father, lifting it with difficulty to
his lips. "No curse with it now--only blessing--farewell--you have
brought me joy--let me see her face--ah, dear heart--" he said,
fastening his glazing eyes upon the beautiful face, "I come to you--
ah! freedom!--sweet freedom at last!--and love--all love! My son--
farewell!--my love!"
"Dear God!" cried
Kalman, "Jesu, have pity and save!"
A smile as of an infant
falling asleep played over the rugged face,
while the poor lips whispered, "At last--freedom!--and--love!"
He breathed once, deep
and long, and then no more. The long, long
fight was done, the fight for freedom and for love. |