The Missourian Part 81

Then he got himself away from there.

"A jolt," he muttered to himself again. "But shucks, it can't--Yes, it can," he decided fervently, "it can be used. We've got to have something terrifying, and poor c.o.c.k-eyed Don Tibby won't care. He'd appreciate it.

And anyhow, I don't seem to be able to stir up inspirations to-day, and this is the only thing."

He was as pallid as the shooting squad he had just left.

"No matter," he reflected, "I'll need just this ghastly state of mind.

But here, goodness gracious, I've got to be in a sweat," with which he began to run, a lank knight in gray dented armor.

"Worse luck," his thought pounded along with him, "this here's the first time I've ever faked. And it's a heap the hottest story I've ever handled, too. Our little Parisienne will get a frisson all right, all right, and such a one she'll not be wanting any of again very soon.

Dixie Land, I mustn't smoke, I'm to be too excited."

He came into the Zocalo, and drew up before Driscoll, who was still there and still ruminating.

"Listen here," Boone panted, "here's your cue.--In ten minutes--to the second--arrive--knock at her door--appear!"

"With violets?" inquired Driscoll.

"Oh shut up!--Quit, don't stop me, I'm getting cooled off!--Only do what I say.--In just ten minutes--that is--if you want the girl."

And Daniel was off again, "with high and haughty steps" towering along.

"That Meagre Shanks, there, isn't a fool," Driscoll mentally recorded, and he took out his watch.

The two girls were stopping at a hotel in Plateros Street, for Jacqueline had returned to find her beautiful residence, salon and all, ruthlessly dismantled, looted, robbed by Marquez while she was in Queretaro, which was a manner of levying contributions not unfamiliar to the Lieutenant of the Empire.

In the balcony room of their hotel suite the two girls strove valiantly.

Crisp gowns and dainty allied mysteries lay spread over the upholstery.

They were vanis.h.i.+ng into cavernous trunks, with crus.h.i.+ng indifference if Jacqueline seized on a garment, but gently when Berthe rescued it, which she always did. Through the double gla.s.s doors of the balcony the street sounds below rose to their ears, clarion notes and vivas, hurrying feet and prancing hoofs, and the National hymn a few blocks away in the Zocalo.

Suddenly a grim apparition loomed before the gla.s.s doors on the balcony.

Berthe half screamed, in dismay clutching at ruffles and laces to hide them, when into the sweet-scented confusion strode Mr. Daniel Boone. He was the grim apparition. Jacqueline withheld her opinion, but she had one. The intruder's spurs were iconoclastic of carpeting, his abrupt presence of feminine sensibilities. But the lean, perspiring face drove away all thought of the conventions. Jacqueline s.n.a.t.c.hed up a fleecy bank of petticoats, making room for him on the sofa. Daniel stared vacantly. The two girls looked very pretty. They were just flurried enough, and they wore white lawn, with sleeves short to the elbow. His fingers groped, and soon they closed over a small, instinctive hand. He kept hold upon that hand for strength, at the same time collapsing on the sofa.

"Now, if you please," said Jacqueline calmly, "what----"

"O Lawd!" Boone gulped, fighting for breath. "It don't matter much--maybe--to you all, but--O Lawd, I got to tell somebody!"

"Tell us, tell us!" cried she of the captured hand.

Daniel had sufficient presence of mind to retain it.

"You know that--that poor devil Tiburcio?" he gasped.

"Yes, yes!" But what anti-climax was here?

"Well, he--he's dead. I saw him.--Lawd!"

"Oh!" It was a little cry of relief.

"But some were--were killed--taking him." Boone noted Jacqueline's intake of breath, her first tremor of alarm. "He fought like a--a wildcat. He had a knife--and a machete--and a pistol--and----"

"_Who_ was killed? Monsieur--Oh, mon Dieu, what _can_ you have to tell me?"

Daniel almost repented, there was that in her gray eyes.

"Among them was my--" He nerved himself to it, some way--"my best friend, that peerless----"

"Who?" Her command was imperious, her white teeth were set.

"Din Driscoll!"

The man blurted it out like a whipped schoolboy. He could not look up.

He could only feel that she stood there, stricken, suffering.

"Where is he?"

He could not believe that this was her voice. It was hardened, tearless, without emotion.

"Monsieur--where is he?"

The girl at his side sprang up with a sharp cry to her who questioned.

Then he raised his eyes. Jacqueline was unaware of the sobbing girl who clung to her. Her face was changed to marble, her body as rigid.

"Take me to him," she spoke again, still with that deathly authority of the grave.

The man stammered before what he had done. The great beads stood out on his forehead. "You would not--you must not--you----"

"He is mine," she said simply. "Wait, I shall be ready, at once." She pa.s.sed into an inner room, the portieres falling after her.

"She's--she's getting on her hat," Boone muttered inanely. "Buh'the, she's got to be stopped! She's--G.o.d, why don't he come? It's shuah ten minutes. It's--What's that?"

Someone had knocked. In the instant Boone had the hall door ajar.

"Round to the balcony window, hurry!" he whispered.

Then he turned, caught Berthe by the hand, and drew her quickly out into the hall. As he closed the door behind him, he heard the portieres rustle, but he dared not look back.

Jacqueline stepped into the room, and her hat was upon her head. It was of straw, with a drooping brim. She had thrown a long cloak over her thin dress. There was ice in her veins on this tropical June day. She paused, for she saw that the room was deserted. But no--there was a shadow between her and the balcony door. She stared at it, and her eyes grew big. The cloak slipped to the floor, and her fingers worked in the tapestry behind her. She fluttered weakly, like a wounded dove on the ground. Her knees trembled under her. And the man there? He was gazing about him in a puzzled way, for the glare outside still blinded him.

Then he saw. He reached her, and caught her as she sank. He felt two soft arms, but icy cold, drop as lead around his neck. The white form he held was rigid, and he thought of shrouds and the chilled death sweat.

With savage despair he crushed her to him. After a time her body slowly began to relax.

"Oh, oh, my lad, my lad!" he heard her crying faintly, in a kind of hysteria.

He touched her hair dazedly, with unutterable tenderness.

"There, there--sweetheart!"

The word came, though he had never used it before.