The Mucker

there were few men of her own station in life with whom she would have felt safe to spend a fortnight alone upon a savage, uncivilized island! She glanced at the man where he lay stretched in deep slumber. What a huge fellow he was! How helpless would she be were he to turn against her! Yet his very size; yes, and the brutality she feared, were her only salvation against every other danger than he himself. The man was physically a natural protector, for he was able to cope with odds and dangers to which an ordinary man would long since have succumbed. So she found that she was both safer and less safe because the mucker was her companion.

As she pondered the question her eyes roved toward the slope beyond the opening to the amphitheater. With a start she came to her feet, shading her eyes with her hand and peering intently at something that she could have sworn moved among the trees far below. No, she could not be mistaken⁠—it was the figure of a man.

Swiftly she ran to Byrne, shaking him roughly by the shoulder.

“Someone is coming,” she cried, in response to his sleepy query.

XIV

The Mucker Sees a New Light

Together the girl and the mucker approached the entrance to the amphitheater. From behind a shoulder of rock they peered down into the forest below them. For several minutes neither saw any cause for alarm.

“I guess youse must o’ been seein’ things,” said Byrne, drily.

“Yes,” said the girl, “and I see them again. Look! Quick! Down there⁠—to the right.”

Byrne looked in the direction she indicated.

“Chinks,” he commented. “Gee! Look at ’em comin’. Dere must be a hundred of ’em.”

He turned a rueful glance back into the amphitheater.

“I dunno as dis place looks as good to me as it did,” he remarked. “Dose yaps wid de toad stabbers could hike up on top o’ dese cliffs an’ make it a case o’ ’thence by carriages to Calvary’ for ours in about two shakes.”

“Yes,” said the girl, “I’m afraid it’s a regular cul-de-sac.”

“I dunno nothin’ about dat,” replied the mucker; “but I do know dat if we wants to get out o’ here we gotta get a hump on ourselves good an’ lively. Come ahead,” and with his words he ran quickly through the entrance, and turning squarely toward the right skirted the perpendicular cliffs that extended as far as they could see to be lost to view in the forest that ran up to meet them from below.

The trees and underbrush hid them from the headhunters. There had been danger of detection but for the brief instant that they passed through the entrance of the hollow, but at the time they had chosen the enemy had been hidden in a clump of thick brush far down the slope.

For hours the two fugitives continued their flight, passing over the crest of a ridge and downward toward another valley, until by a small brook they paused to rest, hopeful that they had entirely eluded their pursuers.

Again Byrne fished, and again they sat together at a one-course meal. As they ate the man found himself looking at the girl more and more often. For several days the wonder of her beauty had been growing upon him, until now he found it difficult to take his eyes from her. Thrice she surprised him in the act of staring intently at her, and each time he had dropped his eyes guiltily. At length the girl became nervous, and then terribly frightened⁠—was it coming so soon?

The man had talked but little during this meal, and for the life of her Barbara Harding could not think of any topic with which to distract his attention from his thoughts.

“Hadn’t we better be moving on?” she asked at last.

Byrne gave a little start as though surprised in some questionable act.

“I suppose so,” he said; “this ain’t no place to spend the night⁠—it’s too open. We gotta find a sort o’ hiding place if we can, dat a fellow kin barricade wit something.”

Again they took up their seemingly hopeless march⁠—an aimless wandering in search of they knew not what. Away from one danger to possible dangers many fold more terrible. Barbara’s heart was very heavy, for again she feared and mistrusted the mucker.

They followed down the little brook now to where it emptied into a river and then down the valley beside the river which grew wider and more turbulent with every mile. Well past mid-afternoon they came opposite a small, rocky island, and as Byrne’s eyes fell upon it an exclamation of gratification burst from his lips.

“Jest de place!” he cried. “We orter be able to hide dere forever.”

“But how are we to get there?” asked the girl, looking fearfully at the turbulent river.

“It ain’t deep,” Byrne assured her. “Come ahead; I’ll carry yeh acrost,” and without waiting for a reply he gathered her in his arms and started down the bank.

What with the thoughts that had occupied his mind off and on during the afternoon the sudden and close contact of the girl’s warm young body close to his took Billy Byrne’s breath away, and sent the hot blood coursing through his veins. It was with the utmost difficulty that he restrained a mad desire to crush her to him and cover her face with kisses.

And then the fatal thought came to him⁠—why should he restrain himself? What was this girl to him? Had he not always hated her and her kind? Did she not look with loathing and contempt upon him? And to whom did her life belong anyway but to him⁠—had he not saved it twice? What difference would it make? They’d never come out of this savage world alive, and if he didn’t take her some monkey-faced Chink would get her.

They were in the middle of the stream now. Byrne’s arms already had commenced to tighten upon the girl. With a sudden tug he strove to pull her