Kankakee Valley Post, Volume 2, Number 27, DeMotte, Jasper County, 26 January 1933 — The Everlasting Whisper [ARTICLE+ILLUSTRATION]

The Everlasting Whisper

By Jackson Gregory

CHAPTER XII--Continued --21--Gloria saw that Jarrold, though he sent a black scowling look at the bigger man, was afraid. And yet they must fight--they must be driven to blows--she must somehow set them at each other’s throats. She turned to Jarrold. She gathered herself for the final supreme effort. She made her eyes grow bright through sheer force of will; she made her lips cease trembling and curve to a smile at the man; she even concealed her loathing and put a ringing note, almost of laughter, into her voice as she said softly: “I know you are not afraid--and I think--yes, I am sure, that you could whip him!” Steve Jarrold’s eyes flashed. Then they left hers lingeringly; Brodie was stamping impatiently, calling to him. “Take her!” snapped Jarrold. “H--l take both of you.” The laughter and challenge went out of Swen Brodie’s bloodshot eyes; a new red surged all of a sudden into them. He turned and came slowly about the fire, his arms still uplifted, the crooking fingers toward Gloria. Scream after scream burst from Gloria's lips; taut nerves seemed to snap all through her body like overstressed violin strings. She ran, ran anywhere, ran blindly back toward the darker end of the cave. Brodie’s hands were almost on her. Gloria whipped aside and ran again. He came on. She prayed for sudden death, death before those horrid, crooked fingers touched her. But while she prayed to God it was of Mark King that she thought. At last she was at the end. The end of the passageway, the end of hope. Brodie came on, his arms out. He made the last step; she felt his hand on her arm, closing, drawing her forward; the last agonized, shriek burst from her. . . . “Oh, God--oh, dear God--” She did not hear and Brodie did not hearken to a sudden new sound in the cave grown suddenly still; the sound of a cascade of loose stones. They came with a rush, they piled up near the middle of the open cave, dropping from the shadowy rock roof above. But Benny, always on nerve edge, shrilled: “Look out! A cave-in--” She heard--God had heard--Better crushed under a falling mountain than in those brute arms. And then she saw. From ten feet above, straight down dropped something else. Taut nerves of those who saw fancied it a great boulder falling. But no boulder this, which, striking the little pile of rocks, became animated, rose, whirled, and--“Mark!” screamed Gloria. “Mark!" Turned to stone, incredulous of their eyes, bewildered beyond the power to move, were those who saw. It was Brail who first understood, Brail the one man with a gun in his hands. He whipped it up and began firing, nervous and excited. It was after the second shot that King’s rifle answered him; it roared out like the crash of doom in Gloria's ears; she saw the stabbing spurt of fire. Brail sagged where he stood, crumpled and pitched forward, his rifle clattering against the rocks. But by now the brief stuper that had locked the other men in staring inaction was gone. Gloria saw figures leaping forward; she knew that Brodie’s hands had relinquished her; she saw Brodie bearing down on King, roaring inarticularly as he went; she saw Benny and Jarrold and the Italian bearing down upon him; King was in the midst of all that. They were upon him before Brail’s head had struck the ground. They gave him no time, no space for another shot. He swept his clubbed rifle high over his head; she heard the blow when he struck, the hideous sound of a crushing skull. A man went down, she did not know which one. Only it was not Mark--thank God it was not Mark King! And now King had a little room and an instant of his own as two other men swerved widely about the falling figure. He fired again, not putting the rifle to his shoulder. Another man fell, lay screaming, rolled aside--was forgotten. “Where’s my rifle?" Brodie was yelling. He couldn’t find it in the dark; he couldn’t stop to grope for it. But Gloria knew; she remembered. She ran for it, found it, straightened up with it in her shaking hands. Again King was using his weapon as a club, since they pressed him so closely. Again came that terrible sound; Steve Jarrold it was who went down. And with it another sound, that of hard wood splintering. The rifle was broken over his head, the stock whirled close to Gloria, King had only the short heavy steel barrel in his hands. Benny had circled to the far side; Brodie had caught up a great thick limb of wood. They were coming at King from two sides at once. . . . Gloria tried to aim, pulled the trigger, tugging frantically. Only then she remembered to draw the hammer back; it was Brodie’s ancient rifle and she struggled to get it cocked. She shuddered at the report. The bullet sang in front of Benny, and he stopped dead in his tracks. He was near the cave’s mouth. Gloria pointed, forgot the hammer, remembered, got the gun cocked and fired again. Benny plunged

wildly forward; she did not know if she had hit him. He hurled himself headlong toward the narrow exit and through. She had forgotten Brodie and King! She turned toward them. She did not dare shoot now; King was in the way. He seemed to have grown tired; he moved so slowly. But he did move and toward Brodie; he swung his clubbed rifle barrel and beat at Brodie’s great face with it. Beat and missed and almost fell forward. Again Brodie struck; again King beat at him. They moved up and down, back and forth. King was moving more and more slowly; his left arm swung as if it were useless; Brodie swept up his club in both hands, grunting audibly with every blow. . . .Oh, if she could only shoot. . . . if she only dared shoot! But Brodie kept King always in front of him, between him and Gloria’s rifle. “I’ll get you, King. I’ll get you,” shouted Brodie, his voice, exulting. “I always wanted to get you--right!" There was a crash, the splintering of wood against steel. Both men had struck together; Brodie’s club had broken to splinters. And the rifle-bar-rel in King’s hands flew out of his

grip and across the cave, ringing out as it struck. The two men, their hands empty, stood a moment staring at each other. Then Brodie shouted, a great shout of triumph, and sprang forward. And Mark King, steadying himself, ignoring the hot trickle of blood down his side where Benny’s second bullet had torn his flesh, met him with a cry that was like Brodie’s own. Brodie’s was the greater weight, the greater girth, the greater strength --and Mark King's the greater sheer clean manhood. Gloria ran toward them, the rifle Shaking in her hands. Brodie feared her and strove to turn and twist so that she could not shoot. King saw her and shouted in a terrible voice which was not like Mark King’s voice. “Don’t shoot--let me--” She did not heed; she would shoot --if ever she could be sure that she would not shoot him. But she did not dare--they thrashed about so madly. Brodie had his hands at King’s throat--King’s hands were at Brodie's throat. She saw Brodie’s bestial face gloating. He was so confident now. She saw his great hands shut down, sinking into the flesh. They were breathing terribly; they lay stiller, stiller. They did not thrash about so much. Their eyes were starting out of their sockets; their faces were turning purple--or was it the firelight? Men’s faces could not look like that--not while the men lived. They gasped now; they did hot breathe. One of Brodie’s hands came away hastily. He began battering at King’s face, battering like a steam-piston. The blows sounded loudly; blood broke out under the terrific pounding. King’s grip, did not alter, did not shift. His eyes were shut but he clung on, grim, looking a dead man but a man whose will lasted on after death. Brodie wrenched; they rolled over. They were on their feet, staggering up and down, two men molded together like one man. Brodie struck blow after blow, and with every thud Gloria winced and felt a pain through her own body. And still King held his grip, both hands sunk deep into the thick throat. They were apart, two blind, staggering men. What parted them they did not know and Gloria could not see. Thus they stood for a second only. Brodie lifted his hands--weak hands rising slowly, slowly--uncertainly. King saw him through a gathering mist; Brodie opened his mouth to draw in great sobbing breaths of air. King, the primal rage upon him, saw the great double teeth bared, and thought that his enemy was laughing at him. It was King who gathered himself first and struck first. All of the will he had, all of the endurance left in his battered body, all of the strength God gave him, he put into that blow. He struck Brodie full in the face, between the little battered blue eyes. And Brodie fell. He rose; he got to his knees and sagged up and forward. King’s shout then was to ring through Gloria’s memory for days to come; he bore down on Swen Brodie, caught him about the great body, lifted him clear of the floor and hurled him downward. Brodie struck heavily, his head against the rocks. And where he fell he lay--stunned or dead. “Come,” said King to Gloria. “Come quick.”

He turned toward the cave’s mouth and with one hand began to drag away the stones so that they could go out. His other hand was pressed to his side. His work done, he picked up the rifle at his feet and went out. Gloria, swaying and stumbling, came after him. Neither spoke a word as they made a slow way through the snow. King went unsteadily with dragging feet. They climbed the cliff laboriously. They were in their cave--it was like home. She dropped down on the firboughs, stumbling to them in the dark. CHAPTER XIII Gloria did not know if she had slept or fainted. When she regained consciousness, though it was pitch dark and dead still, there was no first puzzled moment of uncertainty. That last wonderfully glad thought which had filled brain and heart when she sank down on her fir-boughs had persisted throughout her moments or hours of unconsciousness, pervading her subconscious self gloriously, flowering spontaneously in an awakening mind; Mark King had come back to her in her moment of peril; he had battled for her like the great-hearted hero that he was, he had saved her and had brought her home. Back home! She had prayed to God when utter undoing seemed inevitable, when death had seemed more desirable than life, and He had answered. He had sent Mark King to her! She was saved, and though it was cold and dark and still, she felt her heart singing within her. Having lived through all that she had endured, having been brought safely through it, she was as confident of the future as though never had evil menaced her. She felt new strength coursing through her blood, new hope rising within her, new certainty that all was right with her and Mark King, that all would be right eternally. Terror and anguish and despair that had surged over her in so many great flooding waves now receded and were gone; in their place shone the great flame of life triumphant; she thrilled through with the largeness of life. Never, thank God, would she forget how Mark King, forgetful of self, contemptuous of the frightful odds against him, had hurled himself into the midst of those drunken beasts; never would she forget how godlike he had stood forth in her eyes as those others leaped upon him and he beat them back. Forgetful of self--he had always been forgetful of self! She could not think of him as she had ever thought of any other man she had ever known--for what other man would have come to her as he had done, courting death gladly if only he could stand between her and the hideous thing that attacked her? The rush of great events had swept her mind clear of pettiness and prejudice; they bore her on from familiar viewpoints and to new levels; like roaring winds out of a tempestuous north they cleared away the wretched fogs that had enwrapped a self-centered girl; they made her see a man in the naked glory of his sheer, clean manhood. In glad defiance of a Gloria that had been, she was proud of the manhood of a man who had beaten her! He had been right; he had done that as the last argument with an emptyheaded, selfish girl who deserved no better at his hands, a girl who had been like the Gratton whom she so abhorred and despised--despised even In death. She had been like Gratton the cowardly, contemptible, petty, selfish--dishonorable! All along Mark King had been right and she had been wrong, at every step. He had been gentle and patient after a fashion which now set her wondering and, in the end, lifted him to new heights in her esteem. When, without loving him, she had lied with her eyes and married him, that had been a Gratton sort of trick--like stealing his partners’ food--Without loving him! No, thank God; not that! She had always loved him; she loved him now with her whole heart and with an adoration she had saved for him. “Mark!” she called softly. In the utter dark she could see nothing. She called anxiously: “Mark, where are you?” There was no answer. She sprang up and called to him over and over. When still there was no reply she began a hurried search for a match; there were still some upon the rock shelf. Then it was that she stumbled over something sprawling on the floor. “Mark!” she cried again. “Oh--Mark--” She found a match; she got some dry twigs blazing. In their light she saw him. He lay on his back like a dead man, his arms outflung, his white face turned up toward hers. There was a great smear of blood across his brow, the track of a bloody hand as it had sought to wipe a gathering dimness out of his eyes. The fire burned brighter; she saw it glisten upon a little pool of blood at her side. She knelt and bent over him, scarcely breathing. If he were dead--if, after all this, Mark King were dead--His eyes were closed; his face was deathly white, looking the more ghastly from the dark stain across it. For a little while she sat motionless, her brain reeling. But almost immediately her brain cleared and there stood forth as in a white light the one thought: Mark King was about to die and he must not die! For he was Mark King, valiant and full of vigor and vitality, a man strong and hardy and lusty, a man who would not be beaten! He was the victor, not the vanquished. And, further, she, Gloria King, Mark King’s wife, would not let him die! He was hers, her own; she would hold him back to her. (TO BE CONTINUED.)

The Blows Sounded Loudly--Blood Broke Out Under the Terrific Pounding.