The Man in the Twilight by Ridgwell Cullum

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"Yes. Well, see you get him. Money? It doesn't matter. Get him! Get
him!" he reiterated fiercely. "You understand me? It doesn't matter how
you get him. I can deal with the rest."

Suddenly he raised a clenched fist, fat, and strong, and white, and
extended his thumb. He turned it downwards and pressed its extremity on
the gold mounted blotting pad before him with a force that bent the
knuckle backwards. "Get him so I can crush him--like that," he cried.
"Get him alive. I want him alive. See?"

"I see. I'll get him--sure. You needn't worry a thing."

And as Walter Idepski rose to take his departure, for all his nerve, he
felt glad that the passion of this Swede's hate was not directed against
him.

PART II

EIGHT YEARS LATER

CHAPTER I

BULL STERNFORD

A great gathering thronged the heart of the clearing. There were men of
every shade of colour, men of well-nigh every type. They stood about in
a wide circle, whose regularity remained definite even under the
stirring of fierce excitement. They had gathered for a fight, a great
fight between two creatures, full human in shape and splendid manhood,
but bestial in the method of the battle demanded. It was a battle with
muscles of iron, and hearts that knew no mercy, and body and mind tuned
only to endure and conquer. It was a battle that belonged to the savage
out-world, acknowledging only the vicious laws of "rough and tough."

The rough creatures stood voiceless and well-nigh breathless. The
combatants were well matched and redoubtable, even in a community whose
only deity was physical might and courage and the skill of the wielded
axe. The lust of it all was burning fiercely in every heart.

The sun poured out its flood of summer upon a world of virgin forest.
The sky was without blemish. A dome of perfect azure roofed in the
length and breadth of Nature's kingdom. Nevertheless the fairness of the
summer day, with its ravishing accompaniment of soft, mystery sounds
from an unseen world and the lavish beauty of shadowed woods were fit
setting for the pulsing of savage emotions. It was far out in the lost
world of Northern Quebec. It was far, far beyond the widest-flung
frontiers of civilisation. It was out there where man soon learns to
forget his birthright, and readily yields to the animal in him.

It was a scene of mighty slaughter amongst the giants of the forest.
Hundreds sprawled in the path of man's gleaming axe. Giants they were,
hoary with age, and gnarled with the sinews built up by Nature to resist
her fiercest storms. They lay there, in every direction, reaching up
with tattered arms outstretched, as though appealing for the light, the
warmth, and the sweetness of life they would know no more.

Amidst this carnage a great camp was growing up. There were huts
completed. There were huts only in the skeleton. They were dotted about
in a fashion apparently without order or purpose. Yet long before the
falling of the first snow, order would reign everywhere and man's
purpose would be achieved.

The bunkhouses, the stores, the offices, the stables, they must all be
ready before the coming of the "freeze-up." Summer is the time of
preparation. Winter is the season when the lumber-jack's work must go
forward without cessation or break of any sort. Not even the excuse of
sickness can be accepted. There is no excuse. The lumber-jack must work,
or sink to the dregs of a life that has already created in him a spirit
of indifference to the laws of God and man. So the life of the forest is
hard and fierce, and the battle of it all is long.

But the men who seek it are more than equal to the task. They are of all
sorts, and all races. They drift to the forest from all ranks of life by
reason of the spirit driving them. They come from the universities of
the world. They come straight from the gates of the penitentiary. They
come from the land, the sea, the office. They come from all countries,
and they come for every reason. The call of the forest is deep with
significance. Its appeal is profound. Its life is free, and shadowed,
and afar.

For long moments the clinch of the fighting men remained unbroken. They
lay there upon the ground locked in a deadly embrace. A spasmodic jolt,
a violent, muscular heave. The result was changed position, while the
clinch remained unrelaxed. There were movements of gripping hands. There
were changes of position in the intertwined legs clad in their hard cord
trousers. The heavily-booted feet stirred and stirred again in response
to the impulse of the searching brains of the fighters, and every slight
movement had deep meaning for the onlookers.

Yet none of these movements revealed the inspiration of passion. They
were calculated and full of purpose. It was devilish purpose driving
towards the objects of the fight. The stirring fingers yearned to reach
the eyes of the adversary to blind him, and leave his organs of vision
gouged from their sockets. The bared, strong teeth were only awaiting
that dire chance to close upon the enemy's flesh, whether ear, or nose,
or throat. Then the knee and foot. They were striving under ardent will
for that inhuman maiming which would leave the victim crippled for life.

Each movement of the fighters was estimated by the onlookers at its due
worth. They understood it all, the skill, the chance of it. Not one of
them but had fought just such a battle in his time, and not a few
carried the scars of it, and would continue to carry the scars of it for
the rest of their days.

The moments of quiescence yielded to a spasmodic violence. There was a
wild rolling, and the unlocking of mighty, clinging legs. One
dishevelled head was raised threateningly. It remained poised for a
fraction of time over the upturned face of the man lying in a position
of disadvantage. Then it lunged downwards. And as it descended, a sound
like the clipping of teeth came back to the taut strung senses of the
onlookers. A sigh escaped from a hundred throats.

"Bull missed it that time."

Abe Kristin whispered his comment. The two men beside him had nothing to
add at the moment. Their eyes were intent for the next development.

Suddenly the fair-haired giant who had missed his attack seemed to
disengage himself from the under man's desperate hold. It was impossible
to ascertain the means he employed. But he clearly released himself and
one hammer fist swung up. It crashed sickeningly down on the upturned
face, and a whistling breath escaped the emotional Abe.

"Gee! He's takin' a chance! That ain't the play in a 'rough and tough,'"
he muttered.

"Nope. You're right, Abe," Luke Gats agreed without turning. "He's
crazy. Gee! It's a chance. But he's maybe rattled. Bull's been fightin'
over an hour."

"Here get it!" Tug Burke was pointing with a cant-hook in his
excitement. "Get it quick. See? He's--"

The man's excitement found reflection in the whole concourse of
onlookers. There was a furious movement in the human body crushed on the
ground beneath the man they called Bull. Its knees came up under his
adversary's body with a terrific jolt. The purpose of maiming was
obvious.

"Gee! I'm glad."

Tug's relief found an echo in the sigh that escaped his companions. The
intended victim had promptly swung his body clear and the threatened
injury was averted. But his retaliation was instant. His great open hand
spread over the man's face, smothering it; and it seemed the sought-for
goal had been reached.

"Gouge! Gouge!"

The cry roared in hoarse, excited tones from every direction. Unanimity
displayed the general feeling. The man whose face had been smothered was
Arden Laval, the camp boss, the man they hated as only forest-men can
hate. The other was a giant youngster, not long a member of the camp,
the usual object for victimisation by such a man as the French Canadian
boss.

The demand remained unsatisfied. The fingers remained spread out over
the man's eyes, but the foul act was never perpetrated. The younger
man's efforts were directed towards a deeper, more significant purpose,
and perhaps less cruel. He could have blinded in a twinkling. But he
refrained. Instead, he pressed up mightily with a fore-arm crooked under
the back of the man's neck, his smothering hand pressed down with all
his enormous strength.

"The darn fool! Why in hell don't he--?"

Abe was interrupted by the excited voice of the man with the cant-hook.

"God A'mighty!" Tug cried. "Do you get it? Gouge? It ain't good enough
fer Master Bull. He's playin' bigger. He's playin' fer dollars while we
was reck'nin' cents. Look! It'll crack sure! His gorl-darn neck! He
means--!"

"To kill!"

Luke Gat's jubilation was dreadful to witness. His hard, be-whiskered
features were alight with fiendish joy. This youngster had gone beyond
all expectations. No less than the life of the greatest bully in the
lumber world would satisfy him.

"Say, the nerve! He'll break the life out o' the skunk," he exulted.
"The kid means crackin' his neck, sure as God!"

"Ken he do it?" Tug had thrust forward.

"Laval ain't the feller he was," mused Abe. "He shouldn't a let the boy
get that holt. It's goin' back. It certainly is."

The men stood hushed before the terrible significance of what they
beheld. In the abstract, a life-and-death struggle meant little enough
to them. Witnessing it, however, violently stirred their deepest
emotions. They hated the camp boss, the libertine, drunkard, bully,
Arden Laval, who only held his position by reason of his fighting
powers. They would be infinitely pleased to witness his end. All the
more sure was their delight that it should come at the hands of this
pleasant-voiced young giant, who had come amongst them out of the very
lap of civilisation. Later on they would laugh at the thought of the
redoubtable Laval in the hands of this "kid," as they considered him.
But for the moment they were held enthralled by the excitement of it
all.

The moments prolonged. The thrusting hand, and the crushing arm were
forcing, forcing slowly, in their terrible strangle hold. The face of
the camp boss was hidden from the spectators under the smothering hand.
But the perilous angle at which his dark head was thrust back was there
for all to see. His struggles, in that merciless hold, were becoming
less violent. There was despair in their impotence.

The man called Bull was fighting with no less desperation. His youthful,
resilient muscles were extended to the last ounce of their power, and an
active, steely-tempered brain lay behind his every effort. The memory of
months of brutal injustice and bullying, the bitterness of which had
galled beyond endurance, supported this last mighty effort. Yes, for all
he was bred in the gentle life of civilisation, for all ruthless cruelty
had no place in his normal temper, his one desire now was to kill, to
slay this brute-man who had made his life unendurable.

It was an awful moment. It was terrible even to these hardy men of the
forests. The spectacle of a slow, deliberate killing was incomparable
with the blood feuds to which they were used. There were those whose
nerves prompted them to shout for haste. There were some even who
welcomed the prolonged agony of the victim. But none shouted, none
spoke or stirred. Furthermore, not one pair of shining eyes revealed the
quality of mercy. Bull's right was his own. If he demanded death it was
his due. Certainly it was the due of the bully, Laval.

On the far side of the circle a sudden commotion broke up the tense
expectancy of the onlookers. Every eye responded, and the unanimity of
the change of interest suggested the desire for relief. The commotion
continued. There was some sort of struggle going on. Then, in a moment,
it ceased. A tall, lean, dark-clad figure leapt into the arena and flung
itself upon the combatants.

The circle had re-formed. Again were eyes fastened upon the point of
fascination which had held them so long. But now a buzz of talk hummed
on the summer air.

"What in hell!" demanded Luke, in the bitterness of disappointment.

"Here, I'm--"

Tug Burke made a move to break into the arena. But the powerful hand of
Abe was fastened about one of his arms in a grip of iron.

"Say, quit, kid!" he cried hoarsely.

The man's harsh tones were stirred out of their usual quiet.

"Stop right here," he went on. "There's just one feller on this earth
has a right to butt in when Death's flappin' his wings around. That's
Father Adam. Maybe you're feeling sick to think Laval's going to get
clear with his life. Maybe I am. Father Adam ain't buttin' in ordinary.
He's savin' that hothead kid the blood of a killin' on his hands. Guess
I'm glad."

The next moments were abounding with amazing incident. It seemed as
though a flying, priestly figure had been absorbed in the life-and-death
struggle. He seemed to become part of it. Then, with kaleidoscopic
suddenness, the men lay apart, and the death strangle hold of Bull
Sternford was broken. And the magic of it all lay in the fact that the
stranger was standing over the prone combatants, his dark, bearded face,
and wide, shining black eyes turned upon the living fury gazing up out
of the eyes of the man who had been robbed of his prey.

"There's going to be no killing, Bull." Father Adam spoke quietly,
deliberately, but with cold decision.

There was no yielding in his pale, ascetic features. One hand slipped
quickly into a pocket of his short, black, semi-clerical coat, as he
allowed his eyes to glance down at the still prostrate camp boss.

"And you, Laval," he cried, with more urgency, "get out quick. Get right
out to your shanty and stop there. Later I'll come along and fix up your
hurts."

Young Bull Sternford leapt to his feet. His youthful figure towered. His
handsome blue eyes were ablaze with almost demoniac fury. His purpose
was obvious. A voiceless passion surged as he started to rush again upon
his victim.

But the priestly figure, with purpose no less, instantly barred the way.

"Quit," he cried sharply. "What I say, goes."

Bull halted. He halted within a yard of the automatic pistol whose
muzzle was covering him. He stood for a second staring stupidly. And
something of his madness seemed to pass out of his eyes. Then, in a
moment, his voice rang out harshly.

"Get away. Let me get at him. Oh, God, I'll smash him! I'll--!"

"You'll quit right now!" Father Adam still barred the way with the
threatening gun. He raised the muzzle the least shade. "There's this gun
says you're not going to have murder on your hands, boy; and there's a
man behind it knows how to make it stop your mad attempt. That's
better," he went on, as, even in his fury the younger man drew back in
face of the threat. "Say, you've done enough, boy. You've done all you
need. He's deserved everything he's got, the same as most of us deserve
the bad times we get. You've licked him like the good man you are.
You've licked him without any filthy maiming, or unnecessary cruelty.
Now leave him his life. He'll never trouble you again. Let it go at
that."

The calm of the man, the gentleness of his tones were irresistible. The
fury of the youth died hard, but it so lessened in face of the simple
exhortation that it had passed below the point where insanity rules.

Suddenly a great, bleeding hand was raised to his mane of fair hair, and
he smoothed it back off his forehead helplessly.

"Why? Why?" he demanded. Then spasmodically: "Why should--he--get away
with it? He's handed me a dog's life He's--"

He broke off. His emotions were overwhelming.

Father Adam's dark eyes never wavered. They squarely held their grip on
the stormy light shining in the other's. Laval had not stirred. He still
lay sprawled on the ground. Quite abruptly the hand gripping the
automatic pistol was thrust into the pocket of the black coat. When it
was removed it was empty. The man took a quick step towards the
half-dazed Bull.

"Come along, boy," he said persuasively, taking him by the arm. "Come
right over to my shanty," he went on. "You'll feel better in a while.
You'll feel better all ways, and glad you--didn't." Then he paused,
holding the man's unresisting arm. He looked down at Laval who displayed
belated signs of movement. "Get up, Laval," he ordered, returning to a
coldness that displayed his inner feeling. "Get up, and--get out. Get
away right now, and thank God your neck's still whole."

He waited for the obedience he demanded, and waiting he realised by the
quiescence of the man beside him that all danger had passed.

Laval staggered to his feet. He stood up, a giant in the prime of early
manhood, but bowed under the weight of physical hurt, and the knowledge
of his first defeat. He stood for a moment as though uncertain. Then he
moved slowly towards the crowding onlookers, finally passing through
them on his way to his quarters pursued by a hundred contemptuous,
unpitying glances, while busy tongues expressed regret at his escape. It
was the scowl of the wolf pack in its merciless regard for a fallen
leader.

Very different was the general attitude when Father Adam led the victor
away. Hard faces were a-grin. The tongues that cursed the defeated camp
boss hurled jubilant laudations at the unresponsive youth, who towered
even amongst these great creatures. But for the presence of Father Adam,
who seemed to exercise a miraculous restraining influence, these
lumber-jacks would have crowded in and forcibly borne their champion to
the suttler's store for those copious libations, which, in their
estimate, was the only fitting conclusion to the scene they had
witnessed. As it was they made way. They stood aside in spontaneous and
real respect, and the two men passed on in silence leaving the crowd to
disperse to its labours.

CHAPTER II

FATHER ADAM

The hush of the forest was profound. For all the proximity of the busy
lumber camp its calm was unbroken.

It was a break in the endless canopy of foliage, a narrow rift in the
dark breadth of the shadowed woods.

It was one of those infinitesimal veins through which flows the
life-blood of the forest.

A tiny streamlet trickled its way over a bed of decayed vegetation often
meandering through a dense growth of wiry reeds in a channel set well
below the general level. Banks of attenuated grass and rank foliage
lined its course, and the welcome sunlight poured down upon its water in
sharp contrast with the twilight of the forest.

Clear of the crowding trees a rough shanty stood out in the sunlight. It
was a crazy affair constructed of logs laterally laid and held in place
by uprights, with walls that looked to be just able to hold together
while suffering under the constant threat of collapse. The place was
roofed with a thatch of reeds taken from the adjacent stream-bed, and
its doorway was protected by a sheet of tattered sacking. There was also
a window covered with cotton, and a length of iron stove-pipe protruding
through the thatch of the roof seemed to threaten the whole place with
fire at its first use.

Inside there was no attempt to better the impression. There was no
furnishing. A spread of blankets on a waterproof sheet laid on a bed of
reeds formed the bed of its owner, with a canvas kit-bag stuffed with
his limited wardrobe serving as a pillow. There were several upturned
boxes to be used as seats, and a larger box served the purpose of a
table and supported a tiny oil lamp. There was not even the usual wood
stove connected up to the protruding stove-pipe. A smouldering fire was
burning between two large sandstone blocks, which, in turn, supported a
cooking pot. An uncultured Indian of the forests would have demanded
greater comfort for his resting moments.

But Father Adam had no concern for comfort of body. He needed his
blankets and his fire solely to support life against the bitterness of
the night air. For the rest the barest, hardest food kept the fire of
life burning in his lean body.

Squatting on his upturned box he gazed out upon the sunlit stream below
him. His dark eyes were full of a pensive calm. His body was inclining
forward, supported by arms folded across his knees. An unlit pipe thrust
in the corner of his mouth was the one touch that defeated the efforts
of his flowing hair and dark beard to suggest a youthful hermit
meditating in the doorway of his retreat.

Bull Sternford was seated on another box at the opposite side of the
doorway. He, too, had a pipe thrust between his strong jaws. But he was
smoking. Beyond the dressings applied to a few abrasions he bore no
signs of his recent battle. But there still burned a curiously fierce
light in his handsome blue eyes.

"You shouldn't have butted in, Father," he said, in a tone which
betrayed the emotion under which he was still labouring. "You just
shouldn't." Then with a movement of irritation: "Oh, I'm not a feller
yearning for homicide. No. It's not that. You know Arden Laval," he went
on, his brows depressing. "Of course you do. You must know him a whole
heap better than I do. Well? Say, I guess that feller hasn't a right to
walk this earth. He boasts the boys he's smashed the life clean out of.
He's killed more fool lumber-jacks than you could count on the fingers
of two hands. He wanted my scalp to hang on his belt. That man's a
murderer before God. But he's beyond the recall of law up here. And he
stops around on the fringe looking for the poor fool suckers who don't
know better than to get within his reach. Gee, it was tough! I'd a holt
on him I wouldn't get in a thousand years, and I'd nearly got the life
out of him. I'd stood for all his dirt weeks on end. He made his set at
me because I'm green and college-bred. But he called me a
'son-of-a-bitch!' Think of it! Oh, I can't rest with that hitting my
brain. It's no use. I'll have to break him. God, I'll break him yet. And
I'll see you aren't around when I do it."

The man's voice had risen almost to a shout. His bandaged hands clenched
into fists like limbs of mutton. He held them out at the man opposite,
and in his agony of rage, it gave the impression he was threatening.

Father Adam stirred. He reached down into the box under him and picked
up a pannikin. Then he produced a flask from an inner pocket. He
unscrewed the top and poured out some of its contents. He held it out to
the other.

"Drink it," he said quietly.

The blue eyes searched the dark face before them. In a moment excitement
had begun to pass.

"What is it?" Bull demanded roughly.

"It's brandy, and there's dope in it."

"Dope?"

"Yes. Bromide. You'll feel better after you've swallowed it. You see I
want to make a big talk with you. That's why I brought you here. That's
why I stopped you killing that feller--that, and other reasons. But I
can't talk with you acting like--like I'd guess Arden Laval would act.
Drink that right up. And you needn't be scared of it. It'll just do you
the good you need."

Father Adam watched while the other took the pannikin. He watched him
raise it, and sniff suspiciously at its contents. And a shadowy smile
lit his dark eyes.

"It's as I said," he prompted. Then he added: "I'm not a--Caesar."

The youth glanced across at him, and for the first time since his battle
a smile broke through the angry gleam of his eyes. He put the pannikin
to his lips and gulped down the contents.

Father Adam drew a deep sigh. It was curious how this act of obedience
and faith affected him. The weight of his responsibility seemed suddenly
to have become enormous.

It was always the same. This man accepted him as did every other
lumber-jack throughout the forests of Quebec. He was a father whose
patient affection for his lawless children was never failing, a man of
healing, with something of the gentleness of a woman. An adviser and
spiritual guide who never worried them, and yet contrived, perhaps all
unknown to themselves, to leave them better men for their knowledge of
him. He came, and he departed. Whence he came and whither he went no one
enquired, no one seemed to know. He just moved through the twilight
forests like a ghostly, beneficent shadow, supreme in his command of
their rugged hearts.

Bull set the pannikin on the ground beside him. His smile had deepened.

"You needn't to tell me that, Father," he said, almost humbly. "There
isn't a feller back there in the camp," he added with a jerk of his
head, "that would have hesitated like me when you handed him your dope.
Thanks. Say, that darn stuff's made me feel easier."

"Good."

The missionary removed his empty pipe, and Bull hastily dragged his
pouch from a pocket in his buckskin shirt. He held it out.

"Help yourself," he invited. And the other took it. For a moment Bull
looked on at the thoughtful manner in which Father Adam filled his pipe.
Then a curiosity he could no longer restrain prompted him.

"This big talk," he said. "What's it about?"

The missionary's preoccupation vanished. His eyes lit and he passed back
the pouch.

"Thanks, boy," he said in his amiable way. "Guess I'll need to smoke,
too--you see our talk needs some hard thinking. Pass me a stick from
that fire."

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