The Secret of the Reef

They were, however, making a stubborn fight, and the conflict grew fiercer. Yells of rage and pain now broke through the sound of scuffling feet, stertorous breathing, and shock of blows; orders and threats were shouted, and Clay’s face grew stern when one or two pistols flashed. He had found a big iron bar and was satisfied with it, but if forced to shoot he would not miss, as he thought the rioters did.

A red glow leaped up from the end of a shed. The blaze spread quickly; there was a sharp crackling, louder than the turmoil it broke in upon, and a cloud of pungent smoke hung above the struggling men. Clay could see their faces now: Japs and white men bunched together, but slowly giving ground, with his son in the midst of the surging, swaying cluster that bore the brunt of the attack.

It struck Clay, as he paused for a moment, that the little, sallow-faced aliens were remarkably cool, though it must be obvious to them that they were not holding their own. He wondered whether they had some plan in reserve. There was, however, no time to ponder this, for a pistol flashed among the rioters. The group that Aynsley led gave back and then drove forward again with a savage rush, while hoarse shouts went up.

“Stand them off while we take him out! Sock the fellow with the pistol; he’s plugged the boss!”

Clay suddenly was filled with murderous fury. There was a good deal of the barbarian in him and he had led a hard, adventurous life. His son was shot. The brutes who had brought him down would suffer!

“I’m his father, boys!” he cried. “Follow me and drive the damned hogs into the river!”

The boldest closed in about him, a knot of determined men, small ranchers and prospectors who had long fought with flood and frost in the lonely hills. They were of sterner stuff than the city millhands, and, led by one who would go on until he dropped, they cleft the front of the mob like a wedge. The man with the pistol fired almost in their leader’s face, and missed; but Clay did not miss with the bar, and he trod on the fellow’s body as he urged on the furious charge.

It was a forlorn hope. Though for a time the men could not be stopped, the rioters closed in behind them, cutting off support. They could not keep up the rush, and presently they gained only a foot or two by desperate struggling. Clay knew their position was now dangerous. The strikers’ passions were unloosed and no mercy would be shown; but this did not matter so long as he could leave his mark on some of his foes before they got him down. He fought with a cold fury that helped him to place his blows, and the long bar made havoc among the strikers; but soon he was hemmed in, with his back to a lumber pile, and he knew the end was near. Bruised, dazed, and bleeding, he stood wielding his weapon and sternly watching for a chance to strike.

Suddenly the crowd which pressed upon him gave back and he heard a rush of feet and alarmed shouts. There was a yell that was not made by white men; short, active figures, lithe and fierce as cats, fell with resistless fury upon the retreating foe. The retreat turned into a rout: the strikers were running for their lives, with a swarm of aliens in savage pursuit.

Clay saw that they outnumbered all the Japanese at the mill; but where they came from was not a matter of much consequence. He must rouse himself to take part in the chase, and exact full vengeance from the fugitives. The rioters fled along the bank, scrambled across the log booms, and took to the water; and Clay laughed harshly as he drove some of the laggards in. Whether they could swim or not was their own affair.

He went back to the office with an anxious heart, and a few minutes later he stood beside a camp bed in his son’s quarters. He had lost his hat, his city coat was torn to rags, and his white shirt was stained with blood from the gash in his cheek; but he was unconscious of all this. Aynsley lay there, breathing feebly, with a drawn, white face and a small blue mark on his uncovered breast, while an ominous red froth gathered about his lips.

Clay placed his hand on the damp forehead, and the boy half opened his eyes.

“Do you know who I am?” his father asked.

“Sure!” Aynsley smiled feebly. “You said you wouldn’t fail me. I suppose you whipped them?”

He turned his head and coughed, and Clay beckoned Jevons.

“Help me raise his shoulders a bit, and then I guess we’d better put some wet bandages on him. As they’ve cut the ’phone wires, send somebody to the nearest ranch for a horse to bring a doctor from Vancouver.”

“I’ve done so,” Jevons told him.

“Then send another man to Westminster, and we’ll take the first doctor who gets through or keep them both.”

They placed Aynsley in a position in which he could breathe more easily, and Clay gently wrapped him round with wetted rags.

“I don’t know if this is the right thing, but it’s all I can think of,” he said. “We want to keep down any internal bleeding.”

After this they waited anxiously for the doctor. Jevons presently crept out to restore order and to see that the fire had been extinguished; and Clay was left alone with his boy. There was no sound in the room where he sat, sternly watching over the unconscious form that lay so still on the bed.

After what seemed an interminable time Jevons opened the door softly.

“Has the doctor come?” Clay asked eagerly.

“Not yet. Any change?”

“None,” said Clay. “He can’t hear – I wish he could. Who were those fellows who came to the rescue?”

“City Japs, so far as I can learn. It seems they’re pretty well organized, and suspecting a raid would be made on their partners here their committee sent a body out. I’ve been round the mill, and it looks as if a thousand dollars would cover – ”

“Get out of here!” Clay exclaimed roughly. “I can’t talk about the damage now. Watch for those doctors and bring them in right off!”

Jevons was glad to get away, but it was nearly daybreak when he returned with a surgeon from Vancouver. Shortly afterward the Westminster surgeon arrived, and the two doctors turned Clay out of the room. He paced up and down the corridor, tensely anxious. His own weakness, the ugly gash on his face – everything was forgotten except the danger in which his boy lay. After a while his head reeled, and he stopped and leaned on the rude banister, unconscious of the dizziness.

The first streaks of daylight were sifting into the room when Clay was permitted to enter. Aynsley lay in a stupor, but the doctors seemed satisfied.

“We got the bullet,” one of them reported; “but there’s still some cause for anxiety. However, we’ll do our best to pull him through. Now you’d better let me dress your face: it needs attention.”

Clay submitted to his treatment and then sat down wearily in a room below to wait for news.

CHAPTER XIV – FIGHTING FOR A LIFE

Aynsley lay in danger for a long time; and Clay never left the mill. At last, however, the boy began to recover slowly, but when he grew well enough to notice things the scream of the saws and the throb of the engines disturbed him. The light wooden building vibrated with the roar of the machinery; and when the machinery stopped the sound of the river gurgling about the log booms broke his sleep. He grumbled continually.

“How long does the doctor mean to keep me here?” he asked his father one day.

“I can’t say, but I understand that you can’t be moved just yet,” Clay answered. “Aren’t you comfortable?”

“Can you expect me to be, with the whole place jingling and shaking? If I’m to get better it must be away from the mill.”

“I’ll see what the doctor thinks; but there’s the difficulty that I don’t know where to take you. You wouldn’t be much quieter in Seattle. It’s curious, now I think of it, that I haven’t had a home for a good many years, though I didn’t seem to miss it until this thing happened.”

Aynsley made a sign of languid agreement. He could not remember his mother, and his father had not kept house within his recollection. For the last few years he had rented luxurious rooms in a big hotel which Aynsley shared with him when not away visiting or on some sporting trip; but Aynsley now shrank from the lack of privacy and the bustle that went on all day and most of the night. There was not a restful nook in the huge, ornate building, which echoed with footsteps and voices, the clang of the street-cars, and the harsh grinding of electric elevators.

“I want to go somewhere where it’s quiet,” he said.

“Then I guess I’ll have to hire a bushman’s shack or take you to sea in the yacht. It never struck me before, but quietness is mighty hard to find in this country. We’re not a tranquil people.”

“I couldn’t stand for a voyage,” Aynsley grumbled. “She’s a wet boat under sail if there’s any breeze, and I don’t want to crawl about dodging the water. Then the fool man who designed her put the only comfortable rooms where the propeller shakes you to pieces when the engines are going.”

On the whole, Clay felt relieved, particularly as Aynsley’s hardness to please implied that he was getting better. He had spent some time at the mill and had a number of irons in the fire. It would damage his business if they got overheated or perhaps cooled down before they could be used.

“Well,” he suggested, “perhaps Osborne would take us in.”

Aynsley’s eyes brightened. Osborne’s house was the nearest approach to a home he had ever known. It was seldom packed with noisy guests like other houses he visited, and one was not always expected to take part in some strenuous amusement. The place was quiet and beautiful and all its appointments were in artistic taste. He thought of it with longing as a haven of rest where he could gather strength from the pine-scented breezes and bask in Ruth’s kindly sympathy.

“That would be just the thing! I feel that I could get better there. Will you write to him?”

“First mail,” Clay promised with a twinkle; “but I’m not sure that Ruth’s at home. Anyway, I’ve a number of letters to write now.”

“I expect I’ve been pretty selfish in claiming all your time; but, if Osborne will have me, it will give you a chance of going up to town and looking after things.”

“That’s so,” Clay replied. “As a matter of fact, some of them need it.”

The doctor rather dubiously consented to his patient’s being moved, and Clay neglected no precaution that might soften the journey. As he feared that the jolting of the railroad cars might prove injurious, a special room was booked on a big Sound steamer, and it was only Aynsley’s uncompromising refusal to enter it that prevented his bringing out an ambulance-van to convey him to the wharf. He reached the vessel safely in an automobile, and as she steamed up the Sound he insisted on throwing off his wraps and trying to walk about. The attempt fatigued him, and he leaned on the rail at the top of a stairway from a lower deck when the steamer approached a pine-shrouded island.

A tide-race swirled past the point, flashing in the sunshine a luminous white and green, and Aynsley took his hand from the rail and stood unsupported watching the shore glide by. As he was facing, he could not see an ugly half-tide rock that rose out of the surging flood not far ahead, and he was taken off his guard when the helm was pulled hard over. The fast vessel listed with a sudden slant as she swung across the stream, and Aynsley, losing his balance, fell down a few stairs and struck a stanchion with his side. He clung to it, gasping and white in face, and when Clay ran down to him there was blood on his lips.

“I’m afraid the confounded thing has broken out again,” he said.

They carried him into the saloon, and Clay summoned the captain, who came docilely at his bidding. It appeared that there was no doctor among the passengers, and the boat was billed to call at several places before she reached Seattle. None of these stops could be cut out, and the captain suggested that it would be better to land the injured man as intended, and send for assistance by fast automobile. Aynsley nodded feebly when he heard this.

“Put me ashore,” he murmured. “I’ll be all right there.”

An hour later the call of the whistle rang among the pines that rolled down to the beach, and as the side-wheels beat more slowly a launch came off across the clear, green water. Aynsley, choking back a cough, feebly raised himself.

“If Ruth’s on board that boat, she mustn’t be scared,” he said. “I’m going down as if there was nothing wrong.”

“You’re going down in the arms of the two biggest seamen I can get,” Clay replied. “If that doesn’t please you, we’ll lower you in a slung chair.”

Aynsley submitted when he found that he could not get up; and Ruth, sitting with her father in the stern of the launch, started as she saw him carried down the gangway. His face was gray and haggard when they laid him on a cushioned locker, and the girl was moved to pity. But the shock resolved some doubts that had long troubled her. She was startled and sorry for Aynsley, but that was all; she did not feel the fear and the suspense which she thought might have been expected.

Ansley saw her grave face, and looked up with a faint smile.

“I feel horribly ashamed,” he said. “If I’d known I’d make a fool of myself – ”

“Hush!” Ruth laid her hand on him with a gentle, restraining touch as she saw the effort it cost him to speak. “You must be quiet. We are going to make you better.”

“Yes,” he said disjointedly. “I’ve been longing – knew I’d get all right here – but I didn’t expect – to turn up like this – ”

A choking cough kept him still, and he hurriedly wiped his lips with a reddened handkerchief.

“I am afraid it may be very bad,” Clay whispered to Osborne. “Some miles to the nearest ‘phone call, isn’t it?”

Osborne nodded affirmatively, and as they neared the beach he waved his hand to a man on the lawn.

“Car!” he shouted. “Get her out! I’ll tie up the boat.”

With some trouble Aynsley was carried into the house, and the doctor who arrived some hours later looked grave when he saw him. The next morning he brought two nurses, and for several days his patient hovered between life and death. He was delirious most of the time, but there were intervals when his fevered brain partly recovered its balance and he asked for Ruth. It was seldom that he spoke to her sensibly when she came, but it was obvious that her presence had a soothing effect, for his eyes followed her with dull satisfaction, and a few quiet words from her would sometimes lull him to the sleep he needed.

Ruth felt her power, and used it for his benefit without hesitation and without much thought about its cause. She was filled with pity and with a curious, protective tenderness for the man, and there was satisfaction in feeling that he needed her. It was her duty and pleasure to assist as far as possible in his recovery. Clay watched her with growing admiration, and sometimes she became disturbed under his searching glance. She felt that he was curious about the motive which sustained her in her task, and this caused her some uneasiness, for she suspected that she might presently have to make it clear to herself and to others. But the time for this had not come. Aynsley was still in danger, and all concerned must concentrate their attention on the fight for his life.

Once when she left his room with an aching head and heavy eyes after a long watch with the nurse, who could not control her fevered patient without the girl’s assistance, Clay met her on the stairs, and as he gave her a swift, inquiring glance, she saw that his face was worn.

“Asleep at last,” she said. “I think he’ll rest for a few hours.”

He looked at her with gratitude and some embarrassment, which was something she had never seen him show.

“And you?” he asked. “How much of this can you stand for?”

Ruth did not think the question was prompted by consideration for her. He would be merciless in his exactions, but she could forgive him this because it was for his son’s sake. Besides, there was subtle flattery in his recognition of her influence.

“I dare say I can hold out as long as I am needed,” she answered with a smile. “After all, the nurses and the doctor are the people on whom the worst strain falls.”

“Bosh!” he exclaimed with rough impatience. “I guess you know you’re more use than all three together. Why that’s so doesn’t matter at present; there the thing is.”

Ruth blushed, though she was angry with herself as she felt her face grow hot, because she had no wish that he should startle her into any display of feeling; but, to her relief, he no longer fixed his eyes on her.

“My dear,” he said, “I want your promise that you’ll pull him through. You can, if you are determined enough; and he’s all I have. Hold him back – he’s been slipping downhill the last few days – and there’s nothing you need hesitate about asking from me.”

“Though it may not be much, I’ll do what I can.” Ruth’s tone was slightly colder. “But one does not expect – ”

“Payment for a kindness?” Clay suggested. “Well, I suppose the best things are given for nothing and can’t be bought, but that has not been my luck. What I couldn’t take by force I’ve had to pay for at full market price. The love of a bargain is in my blood. Pull my son through, and whatever I can do for you won’t make me less your debtor.”

Ruth was silent a moment. She had of late been troubled by a vague uneasiness on her father’s account, and with a sudden flash of insight she realized that it might be well to have the man’s gratitude.

“After all, I may ask you for a favor some day,” she answered, smiling.

“You won’t find me go back on my word,” he promised.

Strolling to a seat by the waterside, he lighted a cigar and tried to analyze his feelings, which were somewhat puzzling. Aynsley longed for the girl, and Clay approved his choice; he had hitherto given the boy all that he desired, but there was now a difference. While he had a freebooter’s conscience, and would willingly have seized by force what would please his son, he felt that Ruth Osborne was safe from his generally unsparing grasp. It was true that Aynsley had demanded a pledge of inaction, but Clay was not sure that this alone would have deterred him. He felt that his hands were tied, and he could not understand the reason. However, Aynsley was young and rich and handsome; he would be a fool if he could not win the girl on his own merits. Then the crushing anxiety Clay had thrown off for a few minutes returned. After all, the boy might not live to prosper in his suit.

It was two or three days later when Clay met the doctor coming downstairs late one evening, and led him into the hall.

“The boy’s not coming round,” he said shortly. “What do you think? Give it to me straight; I’ve no use for professional talk.”

“I’m frankly puzzled. He’s certainly no better, though I’ve seen some hopeful symptoms. It’s no longer what I’ll call the mechanical injury that’s making the trouble; we have patched that up. His feverish restlessness is burning up his strength; and Miss Osborne is the only person who can calm him. In fact, the way he responds to her is rather remarkable.”

“Never mind that!” Clay interrupted. “It isn’t what I asked.”

“Well, I’m inclined to look for a crisis to-night. If he gets through the early morning, things may take a turn; but a good deal depends on his sleeping, and I’ve given him all the sedatives I dare. Miss Osborne has promised to keep watch with the nurse, though she looks badly tired.”

Clay turned away, and the anxious hours that followed left their mark on him. Men called him hard and callous, but he loved his son, and Aynsley was moreover the object of all his ambitions. Social popularity and political influence had no charms for Clay; commercial control and riches were his aim. He knew his ability as a gatherer, but he did not know how to spend, and, when the boy had made good in the business world, he should have the best that society and culture could give. Now, however, a few hours would determine whether all Clay’s hopes must crumble into dust. He trusted the doctor; but, having a strong man’s suspicion of medicine, he trusted Ruth Osborne more.

As a matter of fact he was justified, for Ruth did her part that night. It was hot and still, and the door and the window of the sick room were opened. A small, carefully shaded lamp diffused a dim light, and now and then a passing draught stirred the curtains and brought in a faint coolness and the scent of the pines. The tired girl found it wonderfully refreshing as she sat near the bed in a straight-backed chair: she dare not choose one more comfortable lest drowsiness overpower her.

Aynsley was restless, but she thought rather less so than usual, and now and then he spoke feebly but sensibly.

“You won’t go away,” he begged once in a weak voice, and she smiled reassuringly as she laid a cool hand on his hot, thin arm.

For a while he lay with closed eyes, though he did not seem to sleep, and then, opening them suddenly, he looked round with eagerness as if in search of her.

“That fellow means to get me; he won’t miss next time!” he murmured later, and she supposed his wandering mind was occupied with memories of the affray at the mill. Then he added with difficulty: “You’ll stand him off, won’t you? You can, if you want.”

“Of course,” Ruth said with compassion and half admiring sympathy, for she was young enough to set a high value on physical courage and manly strength, and her patient, though so pitifully helpless now, had bravely held his post. It was daunting to see this fine specimen of virile manhood brought so low.

When the doctor came in some time later he looked down at Aynsley before he turned to Ruth.

“No sleep yet?” he asked softly.

Aynsley heard him and looked up.

“No,” he murmured. “I’m very tired, but I can’t rest. How can I when those brutes are burning the gang-saw shed?”

The doctor gave Ruth a warning glance, whispered to the nurse, and went out, passing Clay, who had crept upstairs without his shoes and stood lurking in the shadow on the landing.

“No change,” he said, and drew the anxious man away.

It was after midnight now and getting colder. There was no sound in the house, and none from outside, except when now and then a faint elfin sighing came from the tops of the pines. A breeze was waking, and Ruth, oppressed by the heat and fatigue, was thankful for it. She looked at her watch, and then wrapped it in a handkerchief because its monotonous ticking had grown loud in the deep silence. She knew that the dreaded time when human strength sinks lowest was near, and she felt with a curious awe that death was hovering over her patient’s bed.

“I can’t see,” he said very faintly, and stretching out a thin hand searched for touch of her.

She took it in a protecting grasp, and Aynsley sighed and lay quiet. After a while the doctor came in again, noiselessly, and, looking down at the motionless figure, nodded as if satisfied, while Ruth sank into the most comfortable pose she could adopt. It was borne in upon her as she felt his fingers burn upon her hand that she was holding Aynsley’s life; and whatever the effort cost her she must not let go. Soon she grew cramped and longed to move, but that was impossible: Aynsley was asleep at last, and it might be fatal to disturb him. Then, though she tried to relax her muscles, the strain of the fixed pose became intolerable; but she called up all her resolution and bore it. After all, the pain was welcome, because it kept her awake, and she was getting very drowsy.

Clay, creeping up again, stopped outside the door. He could not see his son, but he watched the girl with a curious stirring of his heart. The dim light fell on her face, showing the weariness and pity in it, and the man, though neither a sentimentalist nor imaginative, was filled with a deep respect. He could not think it was a woman’s tenderness for her lover he saw. There was no hint of passion in her fixed and gentle eyes; hers was a deep and, in a sense, an impersonal pity, protective and altogether unselfish; and he wondered, half abashed, how she would have looked had she loved his son. Then, encouraged by her attitude and the quietness of the nurse, he softly moved away.

Day was breaking when the doctor came down into the hall, followed by Ruth, and stopped when Clay beckoned him.

“My news is good,” he said. “He’s sound asleep, and I think the worst is past.”

He moved on, and Clay turned to Ruth, feeling strangely limp with the reaction. The girl’s face was white and worn, but it was quiet, and Clay noticed with a pang the absence of exultant excitement.

“It’s you I have to thank,” he said hoarsely. “I want you to remember that my promise holds good.”

“Yes,” Ruth answered with a languid smile. “Still, that doesn’t seem to matter and I’m very tired.”

He moved aside to let her pass, and watched her with a heartfelt gratitude as she went slowly down a corridor.