The Gun-Brand by James B. Hendryx (thriller book recommendations .TXT) 📕
- Author: James B. Hendryx
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A thin trickle of blood followed slowly along the groove. The gun-sight was almost between the man's eyes, when, with a scream, Chloe sprang forward and clutched MacNair's arm in both her hands.
"You brute!" she cried. "You inhuman brute! I hate you!"
MacNair answered never a word. With a sweep of his arm he flung her from him. She spun dizzily and fell in a heap on the snow. Once more the gun-sight rested deep against the bone at the point of its interruption. Once more it began its inexorable advance, creeping down between the eyes and along the bridge of the nose. Cartilage split wide, the upper lip was cleft, and the steel clicked sharply against blood-dripping teeth.
Then MacNair stood erect and gazed with approval upon his handiwork. His glance swept the lake, and suddenly his shoulders stiffened as he scrutinized several moving figures that approached across the level surface of the snow. Striding swiftly to the edge of the plateau, he shaded his eyes with his hand and gazed long and earnestly toward the approaching figures. Then he returned to Lapierre. The man had stood the terrible ordeal without losing consciousness. Reaching down, MacNair seized him by the collar, and jerking him to his feet, half dragged him to the rim of the plateau.
"Look!" he cried savagely. "Yonder, comes LeFroy—and with him are the men of the Mounted."
Lapierre stared dumbly. His thin hand twitched nervously, and his fists clasped and unclasped as the palms grew wet with sweat.
MacNair gripped his shoulder and twisted him about his tracks. Slow seconds passed as the two men stood facing each other there in the snow, and then, slowly, MacNair raised his hand and pointed toward the forest—toward the depths of the black spruce swamp.
"Go!" he roared. "Damn you! Go hunt your kind! I did not brand you to delight the eyes of prison guards. Go, mingle with free men, that they may see—and be warned!"
With one last glance toward the approaching figures, Pierre Lapierre glided swiftly to the foot of the stockade, mounted the firing ledge, and swung himself over the wall.
Bob MacNair watched the form of the quarter-breed disappear from sight and then, tossing the gun into the snow, turned to Chloe Elliston. Straight toward the girl he advanced with long, swinging strides. There was no hesitancy, no indecision in the free swing of the shoulders, nor did his steps once falter, nor the eyes that bored deep into hers waver for a single instant. And as the girl faced him a sudden sense of helplessness overwhelmed her.
On he came—this big man of the North; this man who trampled rough-shod the conventions, even the laws of men. The man who could fight, and kill, and maim, in defence of his principles. Whose hand was heavy upon the evil-doer. A man whose finer sensibilities, despite their rough environment, could rise to a complete mastery of him. Inherently a fighting man. A man whose great starved heart had never known a woman's love.
Instinctively, she drew back from him and closed her eyes. And then she knew that he was standing still before her—very close—for she could hear distinctly the sound of his breathing. Without seeing she knew that he was looking into her face with those piercing, boring, steel-grey eyes. She waited for what seemed ages for him to speak, but he stood before her—silent.
"He is rough and uncouth and brutal. He hurled you spinning into the snow," whispered an inner voice.
"Yes, strong and brutal and good!" answered her heart.
Chloe opened her eyes. MacNair stood before her in all his bigness. She gazed at him wide-eyed. He was fumbling his Stetson in his hand, and she noticed the long hair was pushed back from his broad brow. The blood rushed into the girl's face. Her fists clenched tight, and she took a swift step forward.
"Bob MacNair! Put on your hat!"
A puzzled look crept into the man's eyes, his face flushed like the face of a schoolboy who had been caught in a foolish prank, and he returned the hat awkwardly to his head.
"I thought—that is—you wrote in the letter, here—" he paused as his fingers groped at the pocket of his shirt.
Chloe interrupted him. "If any man ever takes his Stetson off to me again I'll—I'll hate him!"
Bob MacNair stared down upon the belligerent figure before him. He noticed the clenched fists, the defiant tilt of the shoulders, the unconscious out-thrust of the chin—and then his eyes met squarely the flashing eyes of the girl.
For a long, long time he gazed into the depths of the upturned eyes, and then, either the significance of her words dawned suddenly upon him, or he read in that long glance the wondrous message of her love. With a low, glad cry he sprang to her and gathered her into his great, strong arms and pressed her lithe, pliant body close against his pounding heart, while through his veins swept the wild, fierce joy of a mighty passion. Bob MacNair had come into his own!
There was a lively commotion among the Indians, and MacNair raised his head to meet the gaze of LeFroy and Constable Craig and two others of the men of the Mounted.
"Where is Lapierre?" asked the constable.
Chloe struggled in confusion to release herself from the encircling arms, but the arms closed the tighter, and with a final sigh of surrender the girl ceased her puny struggles.
Constable Craig's lips twitched in a suppressed smile. "Ripley was right," he muttered to himself as he awaited MacNair's reply. "They have found each other at last."
And then the answer came. MacNair stared straight into the officer's eyes, and his words rang with a terrible meaning.
"Lapierre," he said, "has gone away from here. If you see him again you shall never forget him." His eyes returned to the girl, close-held against his heart. Her two arms stole upward until the slender hands closed about his neck. Her lips moved, and he bent to catch the words.
"I love you," she faltered, and glancing shyly, almost timidly into his face, encountered there the look she had come to know so well—the suspicion of a smile upon the lips and just the shadow of a twinkle playing in the deep-set eyes. She repeated, softly, the words that rang through her brain: "I love you—Brute MacNair!"
THE END.
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