placed paper and pencil in Eve's hand. Without demurring or hesitation she made ready to write, her mind groping wildly for the reason of it all.
"Write," he said, with his silent laugh which was more like the soundless snarl of a lynx unafraid:
"To Mike Clinch, my fathaire, from his child, Eve… I am hostage, held by José Quintana. Pay what you owe him and I go free.
"For each day delay he sends to you one finger which will be severed from my right hand – "
Eve's slender fingers trembled; she looked up at the masked man, stared steadily into his brilliant eyes.
"Proceed miss, if you are so amiable," he said softly.
She wrote on: " – One finger for every day's delay. The whole hand at the week's end. The other hand then, finger by finger. Then, alas! the right foot – "
Eve trembled.
"Proceed," he said softly.
She wrote: "If you agree you shall pay what you owe to José Quintana in this manner: you shall place a stick at the edge of the Star Pond where the Star rivulet flows out. Upon this stick you shall tie a white rag. At the foot of the stick you shall lay the parcel which contains your indebt to José Quintana.
"Failing this, by to-night one finger at sunset."
The man paused: Eve waited, dumb under the surging confusion in her brain. A sort of incredulous horror benumbed her, through which she still heard and perceived.
"Be kind enough to sign it with your name," said the man pleasantly.
Eve signed.
Then the masked man took the letter, got up, removed his hat.
"I am Quintana," he said. "I keep my word. A thousand thanks and apologies, miss. I trust that your detention may be brief and not too disagreeable. I place at your feet my humble respects."
He bowed, put on his hat, and walked quickly away. And she saw him descend the rocks to the eastward, where the peak slopes.
When Quintana had disappeared behind the summit scrub and rocks, Eve slowly stood up and looked about her at the rocky pulpit so familiar.
There was only one way out. Quintana had gone that way. His men no doubt guarded it. Otherwise, sheer precipices confronted her.
She walked to the western edge where a sheet of slippery reindeer moss clothed the rock. Below the mountain fell away to the valley where she had been made prisoner.
She looked out over the vast panorama of wilderness and mountain, range on range stretching blue to the horizon. She looked down into the depths of the valley where deep under the flaming foliage of October, somewhere, a State Trooper was sitting, cheek on hand, beside a waterfall – or, perhaps, riding slowly through a forest which she might never gaze upon again.
There was a noise on the rocks behind her. A masked man came out of the spruce scrub, laid a blanket on the rocks, placed a loaf of bread, some cheese, and a tin pail full of water upon it, motioned her, and went away through the dwarf spruces.
Eve walked slowly to the blanket. She drank out of the tin pail. Then she set aside the food, lay down, and buried her quivering face in her arms.
The sun was half way between zenith and horizon when she heard somebody coming, and rose to a sitting posture. Her visitor was Quintana.
He came up to her quite close, stood with glittering eyes intent upon her.
After a moment he handed her a letter.
She could scarcely unfold it, she trembled so:
"Girlie, for God's sake give that packet to Quintana and come on home. I'm near crazy with it all. What the hell's anything worth beside you girlie. I don't give a damn for nothing only you, so come on quick. Dad."
After a little while she lifted her eyes to Quintana.
"So," he said quietly, "you are the little she-fox that has learned tricks already."
"What do you mean?"
"Where is that packet?"
"I haven't it."
"Where is it?"
She shook her head slightly.
"You had a packet," he insisted fiercely. "Look here! Regard!" and he spread out a penciled sheet in Clinch's hand:
"José Quintana:
"You win. She's got that stuff with her. Take your damn junk and let my girl go.
"Well," said Quintana, a thin, strident edge to his tone.
"My father is mistaken. I haven't any packet."
The man's visage behind his mask flushed darkly. Without warning or ceremony he caught Eve by the throat and tore open her shirt. Then, hissing and cursing and panting with his own violence, he searched her brutally and without mercy – flung her down and tore off her spiral puttees and even her shoes and stockings, now apparently beside himself with fury, puffing, gasping, always with a fierce, nasal sort of whining undertone like an animal worrying its kill.
"Cowardly beast!" she panted, fighting him with all her strength – "filthy, cowardly beast! – " striking at him, wrenching his grasp away, snatching at the disordered clothing half stripped from her.
His hunting knife fell clattering and she fought to get it, but he struck her with his open hand, knocking her down at his feet, and stood glaring at her with every tooth bared.
"So," he cried, "I give you ten minutes, make up your mind, tell me what you do with that packet."
He wiped the blood from his face where she had struck him.
"You don't know José Quintana. No! You shall make his acquaintance. Yes!"
Eve got up on naked feet, quivering from head to foot, striving to button the grey shirt at her throat.
"Where?" he demanded, beside himself.
Her mute lips only tightened.
"Ver' well, by God!" he cried. "I go make me some fire. You like it, eh? We shall put one toe in the fire until it burn off. Yes? Eh? How you like it? Eh?"
The girl's trembling hands continued busy with her clothing.
"So!" he said, hoarsely, "you remain dumb! Well, then, in ten minutes you shall talk!"
He walked toward her, pushed her savagely aside, and strode on into the spruce thicket.
The instant he disappeared Eve caught up the knife he had dropped, knelt down on the blanket and fell to cutting it into strips.
The hunting knife was like a razor; the feverish business was accomplished in a few moments, the pieces knotted, the cord strained in a desperate test over her knee.
And now she ran to the precipice where, ten feet below, the top of a great pine protruded from the gulf.
On the edge of the abyss
