The Valley of Fear Page 8

  Chapter 1

  The Man

  It was the fourth of February in the year 1875. It had been a severewinter, and the snow lay deep in the gorges of the Gilmerton Mountains.The steam ploughs had, however, kept the railroad open, and the eveningtrain which connects the long line of coal-mining and iron-workingsettlements was slowly groaning its way up the steep gradients whichlead from Stagville on the plain to Vermissa, the central townshipwhich lies at the head of Vermissa Valley. From this point the tracksweeps downward to Bartons Crossing, Helmdale, and the purelyagricultural county of Merton. It was a single-track railroad; but atevery siding--and they were numerous--long lines of trucks piled withcoal and iron ore told of the hidden wealth which had brought a rudepopulation and a bustling life to this most desolate corner of theUnited States of America.

  For desolate it was! Little could the first pioneer who had traversedit have ever imagined that the fairest prairies and the most lush waterpastures were valueless compared to this gloomy land of black crag andtangled forest. Above the dark and often scarcely penetrable woods upontheir flanks, the high, bare crowns of the mountains, white snow, andjagged rock towered upon each flank, leaving a long, winding, tortuousvalley in the centre. Up this the little train was slowly crawling.

  The oil lamps had just been lit in the leading passenger car, a long,bare carriage in which some twenty or thirty people were seated. Thegreater number of these were workmen returning from their day's toil inthe lower part of the valley. At least a dozen, by their grimed facesand the safety lanterns which they carried, proclaimed themselvesminers. These sat smoking in a group and conversed in low voices,glancing occasionally at two men on the opposite side of the car, whoseuniforms and badges showed them to be policemen.

  Several women of the labouring class and one or two travellers whomight have been small local storekeepers made up the rest of thecompany, with the exception of one young man in a corner by himself. Itis with this man that we are concerned. Take a good look at him, for heis worth it.

  He is a fresh-complexioned, middle-sized young man, not far, one wouldguess, from his thirtieth year. He has large, shrewd, humorous grayeyes which twinkle inquiringly from time to time as he looks roundthrough his spectacles at the people about him. It is easy to see thathe is of a sociable and possibly simple disposition, anxious to befriendly to all men. Anyone could pick him at once as gregarious in hishabits and communicative in his nature, with a quick wit and a readysmile. And yet the man who studied him more closely might discern acertain firmness of jaw and grim tightness about the lips which wouldwarn him that there were depths beyond, and that this pleasant,brown-haired young Irishman might conceivably leave his mark for goodor evil upon any society to which he was introduced.

  Having made one or two tentative remarks to the nearest miner, andreceiving only short, gruff replies, the traveller resigned himself touncongenial silence, staring moodily out of the window at the fadinglandscape.

  It was not a cheering prospect. Through the growing gloom there pulsedthe red glow of the furnaces on the sides of the hills. Great heaps ofslag and dumps of cinders loomed up on each side, with the high shaftsof the collieries towering above them. Huddled groups of mean, woodenhouses, the windows of which were beginning to outline themselves inlight, were scattered here and there along the line, and the frequenthalting places were crowded with their swarthy inhabitants.

  The iron and coal valleys of the Vermissa district were no resorts forthe leisured or the cultured. Everywhere there were stern signs of thecrudest battle of life, the rude work to be done, and the rude, strongworkers who did it.

  The young traveller gazed out into this dismal country with a face ofmingled repulsion and interest, which showed that the scene was new tohim. At intervals he drew from his pocket a bulky letter to which hereferred, and on the margins of which he scribbled some notes. Oncefrom the back of his waist he produced something which one would hardlyhave expected to find in the possession of so mild-mannered a man. Itwas a navy revolver of the largest size. As he turned it slantwise tothe light, the glint upon the rims of the copper shells within the drumshowed that it was fully loaded. He quickly restored it to his secretpocket, but not before it had been observed by a working man who hadseated himself upon the adjoining bench.

  "Hullo, mate!" said he. "You seem heeled and ready."

  The young man smiled with an air of embarrassment.

  "Yes," said he, "we need them sometimes in the place I come from."

  "And where may that be?"

  "I'm last from Chicago."

  "A stranger in these parts?"

  "Yes."

  "You may find you need it here," said the workman.

  "Ah! is that so?" The young man seemed interested.

  "Have you heard nothing of doings hereabouts?"

  "Nothing out of the way."

  "Why, I thought the country was full of it. You'll hear quick enough.What made you come here?"

  "I heard there was always work for a willing man."

  "Are you a member of the union?"

  "Sure."

  "Then you'll get your job, I guess. Have you any friends?"

  "Not yet; but I have the means of making them."

  "How's that, then?"

  "I am one of the Eminent Order of Freemen. There's no town without alodge, and where there is a lodge I'll find my friends."

  The remark had a singular effect upon his companion. He glanced roundsuspiciously at the others in the car. The miners were still whisperingamong themselves. The two police officers were dozing. He came across,seated himself close to the young traveller, and held out his hand.

  "Put it there," he said.

  A hand-grip passed between the two.

  "I see you speak the truth," said the workman. "But it's well to makecertain." He raised his right hand to his right eyebrow. The travellerat once raised his left hand to his left eyebrow.

  "Dark nights are unpleasant," said the workman.

  "Yes, for strangers to travel," the other answered.

  "That's good enough. I'm Brother Scanlan, Lodge 341, Vermissa Valley.Glad to see you in these parts."

  "Thank you. I'm Brother John McMurdo, Lodge 29, Chicago. Bodymaster J.H. Scott. But I am in luck to meet a brother so early."

  "Well, there are plenty of us about. You won't find the order moreflourishing anywhere in the States than right here in Vermissa Valley.But we could do with some lads like you. I can't understand a spry manof the union finding no work to do in Chicago."

  "I found plenty of work to do," said McMurdo.

  "Then why did you leave?"

  McMurdo nodded towards the policemen and smiled. "I guess those chapswould be glad to know," he said.

  Scanlan groaned sympathetically. "In trouble?" he asked in a whisper.

  "Deep."

  "A penitentiary job?"

  "And the rest."

  "Not a killing!"

  "It's early days to talk of such things," said McMurdo with the air ofa man who had been surprised into saying more than he intended. "I'vemy own good reasons for leaving Chicago, and let that be enough foryou. Who are you that you should take it on yourself to ask suchthings?" His gray eyes gleamed with sudden and dangerous anger frombehind his glasses.

  "All right, mate, no offense meant. The boys will think none the worseof you, whatever you may have done. Where are you bound for now?"

  "Vermissa."

  "That's the third halt down the line. Where are you staying?"

  McMurdo took out an envelope and held it close to the murky oil lamp."Here is the address--Jacob Shafter, Sheridan Street. It's a boardinghouse that was recommended by a man I knew in Chicago."

  "Well, I don't know it; but Vermissa is out of my beat. I live atHobson's Patch, and that's here where we are drawing up. But, say,there's one bit of advice I'll give you before we part: If you're introuble in Vermissa, go straight to the Union House and see BossMcGinty. He is the Bodymaster of Vermissa Lodge, and nothing can happenin
these parts unless Black Jack McGinty wants it. So long, mate! Maybewe'll meet in lodge one of these evenings. But mind my words: If youare in trouble, go to Boss McGinty."

  Scanlan descended, and McMurdo was left once again to his thoughts.Night had now fallen, and the flames of the frequent furnaces wereroaring and leaping in the darkness. Against their lurid backgrounddark figures were bending and straining, twisting and turning, with themotion of winch or of windlass, to the rhythm of an eternal clank androar.

  "I guess hell must look something like that," said a voice.

  McMurdo turned and saw that one of the policemen had shifted in hisseat and was staring out into the fiery waste.

  "For that matter," said the other policeman, "I allow that hell must besomething like that. If there are worse devils down yonder than some wecould name, it's more than I'd expect. I guess you are new to thispart, young man?"

  "Well, what if I am?" McMurdo answered in a surly voice.

  "Just this, mister, that I should advise you to be careful in choosingyour friends. I don't think I'd begin with Mike Scanlan or his gang ifI were you."

  "What the hell is it to you who are my friends?" roared McMurdo in avoice which brought every head in the carriage round to witness thealtercation. "Did I ask you for your advice, or did you think me such asucker that I couldn't move without it? You speak when you are spokento, and by the Lord you'd have to wait a long time if it was me!" Hethrust out his face and grinned at the patrolmen like a snarling dog.

  The two policemen, heavy, good-natured men, were taken aback by theextraordinary vehemence with which their friendly advances had beenrejected.

  "No offense, stranger," said one. "It was a warning for your own good,seeing that you are, by your own showing, new to the place."

  "I'm new to the place; but I'm not new to you and your kind!" criedMcMurdo in cold fury. "I guess you're the same in all places, shovingyour advice in when nobody asks for it."

  "Maybe we'll see more of you before very long," said one of thepatrolmen with a grin. "You're a real hand-picked one, if I am a judge."

  "I was thinking the same," remarked the other. "I guess we may meetagain."

  "I'm not afraid of you, and don't you think it!" cried McMurdo. "Myname's Jack McMurdo--see? If you want me, you'll find me at JacobShafter's on Sheridan Street, Vermissa; so I'm not hiding from you, amI? Day or night I dare to look the like of you in the face--don't makeany mistake about that!"

  There was a murmur of sympathy and admiration from the miners at thedauntless demeanour of the newcomer, while the two policemen shruggedtheir shoulders and renewed a conversation between themselves.

  A few minutes later the train ran into the ill-lit station, and therewas a general clearing; for Vermissa was by far the largest town on theline. McMurdo picked up his leather gripsack and was about to start offinto the darkness, when one of the miners accosted him.

  "By Gar, mate! you know how to speak to the cops," he said in a voiceof awe. "It was grand to hear you. Let me carry your grip and show youthe road. I'm passing Shafter's on the way to my own shack."

  There was a chorus of friendly "Good-nights" from the other miners asthey passed from the platform. Before ever he had set foot in it,McMurdo the turbulent had become a character in Vermissa.

  The country had been a place of terror; but the town was in its wayeven more depressing. Down that long valley there was at least acertain gloomy grandeur in the huge fires and the clouds of driftingsmoke, while the strength and industry of man found fitting monumentsin the hills which he had spilled by the side of his monstrousexcavations. But the town showed a dead level of mean ugliness andsqualor. The broad street was churned up by the traffic into a horriblerutted paste of muddy snow. The sidewalks were narrow and uneven. Thenumerous gas-lamps served only to show more clearly a long line ofwooden houses, each with its veranda facing the street, unkempt anddirty.

  As they approached the centre of the town the scene was brightened by arow of well-lit stores, and even more by a cluster of saloons andgaming houses, in which the miners spent their hard-earned but generouswages.

  "That's the Union House," said the guide, pointing to one saloon whichrose almost to the dignity of being a hotel. "Jack McGinty is the bossthere."

  "What sort of a man is he?" McMurdo asked.

  "What! have you never heard of the boss?"

  "How could I have heard of him when you know that I am a stranger inthese parts?"

  "Well, I thought his name was known clear across the country. It's beenin the papers often enough."

  "What for?"

  "Well," the miner lowered his voice--"over the affairs."

  "What affairs?"

  "Good Lord, mister! you are queer, if I must say it without offense.There's only one set of affairs that you'll hear of in these parts, andthat's the affairs of the Scowrers."

  "Why, I seem to have read of the Scowrers in Chicago. A gang ofmurderers, are they not?"

  "Hush, on your life!" cried the miner, standing still in alarm, andgazing in amazement at his companion. "Man, you won't live long inthese parts if you speak in the open street like that. Many a man hashad the life beaten out of him for less."

  "Well, I know nothing about them. It's only what I have read."

  "And I'm not saying that you have not read the truth." The man lookednervously round him as he spoke, peering into the shadows as if hefeared to see some lurking danger. "If killing is murder, then Godknows there is murder and to spare. But don't you dare to breathe thename of Jack McGinty in connection with it, stranger; for every whispergoes back to him, and he is not one that is likely to let it pass. Now,that's the house you're after, that one standing back from the street.You'll find old Jacob Shafter that runs it as honest a man as lives inthis township."

  "I thank you," said McMurdo, and shaking hands with his newacquaintance he plodded, gripsack in hand, up the path which led to thedwelling house, at the door of which he gave a resounding knock.

  It was opened at once by someone very different from what he hadexpected. It was a woman, young and singularly beautiful. She was ofthe German type, blonde and fair-haired, with the piquant contrast of apair of beautiful dark eyes with which she surveyed the stranger withsurprise and a pleasing embarrassment which brought a wave of colourover her pale face. Framed in the bright light of the open doorway, itseemed to McMurdo that he had never seen a more beautiful picture; themore attractive for its contrast with the sordid and gloomysurroundings. A lovely violet growing upon one of those blackslag-heaps of the mines would not have seemed more surprising. Soentranced was he that he stood staring without a word, and it was shewho broke the silence.

  "I thought it was father," said she with a pleasing little touch of aGerman accent. "Did you come to see him? He is downtown. I expect himback every minute."

  McMurdo continued to gaze at her in open admiration until her eyesdropped in confusion before this masterful visitor.

  "No, miss," he said at last, "I'm in no hurry to see him. But yourhouse was recommended to me for board. I thought it might suit me--andnow I know it will."

  "You are quick to make up your mind," said she with a smile.

  "Anyone but a blind man could do as much," the other answered.

  She laughed at the compliment. "Come right in, sir," she said. "I'mMiss Ettie Shafter, Mr. Shafter's daughter. My mother's dead, and I runthe house. You can sit down by the stove in the front room until fathercomes along--Ah, here he is! So you can fix things with him right away."

  A heavy, elderly man came plodding up the path. In a few words McMurdoexplained his business. A man of the name of Murphy had given him theaddress in Chicago. He in turn had had it from someone else. OldShafter was quite ready. The stranger made no bones about terms, agreedat once to every condition, and was apparently fairly flush of money.For seven dollars a week paid in advance he was to have board andlodging.

  So it was that McMurdo, the self-confessed fugitive from justice, tookup his abode under the roof of t
he Shafters, the first step which wasto lead to so long and dark a train of events, ending in a far distantland.