Here and there were niches in the walls, and in the side opposite to the entrance to the pa.s.sageway there was a small, black opening, leading without doubt to the outer world. The fact that it was not used at any time during her stay in the cave led her to believe it was not of practical use. Two or three coal-oil stoves were used to heat the cave and for cooking purposes. There were several lanterns, a number of implements (such as spades, axes, crowbars, sledges, and so forth), stool-kegs, a rough table, which was used for all purposes known to the dining-room, kitchen, scullery and even bedchamber. Sam slept on the table. Horse blankets were thrown about the floor in confusion. They served as bedclothes when the gang slept. At other times they might as well have been called doormats. One of the niches in the wall was used as the resting place for such bones or remnants as might strike it when hurled in that direction by the occupants. No one took the trouble to carefully bestow anything in the garbage hole, and no one pretended to clean up after the other. The place was foul smelling, hot and almost suffocating with the fumes from the stoves, for which there seemed no avenue of escape.

Hours afterward, although they seemed drawn out into years, the men began to breathe naturally, and a weird silence reigned in the cave.

They were awake. The venerable Maude emerged from her doze, looked apprehensively at Sam, prodded the corner to see that the prize had not faded away, and then began ponderously to make preparations for a meal, supposedly breakfast. Meagre ablutions, such as they were, were performed in the "living room," a bucket of water serving as a general wash-basin. No one had removed his clothing during the night, not even his shoes. It seemed to her that the gang was in an ever-ready condition to evacuate the place at a moment's notice.

Rosalie would not eat, nor would she bathe her face in the water that had been used by the quartette before her. Bill Briggs, with some sense of delicacy in his nature, brought some fresh water from the far end of the pa.s.sageway. For this act he was reviled by his companions.

"It's no easy job to get water here, Briggs," roared Sam. "We got to be savin' with it."

"Well, don't let it hurt you," retorted Bill. "I'll carry it up from the river to-night. You won't have to do it."

"She ain't any better'n I am," snorted Maude, "and n.o.body goes out to bring me a private bath, I take notice. Get up here and eat something, you rat! Do you want us to force it down you--"

"If she don't want to eat don't coax her," said Sam. "She'll soon get over that. We was only hired to get her here and get her away again, and not to make her eat or even wash. That's nothing to us."

"Well, she's got to eat or she'll die, and you know, Sam Welch, that ain't to be," retorted the old woman.

"She'll eat before she'll die, Maudie; don't worry."

"I'll never eat a mouthful!" cried Rosalie, a brave, stubborn light in her eyes. She was standing in the far corner drying her face with her handkerchief.

"Oho, you can talk again, eh? Hooray! Now we'll hear the story of her life," laughed big Sam, his mouth full of bacon and bread. Rosalie flushed and the tears welled to her eyes.

All day long she suffered taunts and gibes from the gang. She grew to fear Davy's ugly leers more than the brutal words of the others. When he came near she shrank back against the wall; when he spoke she cringed; when he attempted to touch her person she screamed. It was this act that brought Sam's wrath upon Davy's head. He won something like grat.i.tude from the girl by profanely commanding Davy to confine his love to looks and not to acts.

"She ain't to be harmed," was Sam's edict. "That goes, too."

"Aw, you go to--" began Davy belligerently.

"What's that?" snarled Sam, whirling upon him with a glare. Davy slunk behind his mother and glared back. Bill moved over to Sam's side. For a moment the air was heavy with signs of an affray. Rosalie crouched in her corner, her hand over her ears, her eyes closed. There was murder in Davy's face. "I'll break every bone in your body!" added Sam; but Bill laconically stayed him with a word.

"Rats!" It was brief, but it brought the irate Sam to his senses.

Trouble was averted for the time being.

"Davy ain't afraid of him," cried that worthy's mother shrilly.

"You bet I ain't!" added Davy after a long string of oaths. Sam grinned viciously.

"There ain't nothin' to fight about, I guess," he said, although he did not look it. "We'd be fools to sc.r.a.p. Everything to lose and nothin' to gain. All I got to say, Davy, is that you ain't to touch that girl."

"Who's goin' to touch her?" roared Davy, bristling bravely. "An' you ain't to touch her nuther," he added.

The day wore away, although it was always night in the windowless cave, and again the trio of men slept, with Maude as guard. Exhausted and faint, Rosalie fell into a sound sleep. The next morning she ate sparingly of the bacon and bread and drank some steaming coffee, much to the derisive delight of the hag.

"You had to come to it, eh?" she croaked. "Had to feed that purty face, after all. I guess we're all alike. We're all flesh and blood, my lady."

The old woman never openly offered personal violence to the girl. She stood in some fear of the leader--not physical fear, but the strange homage that a brute pays to its master. Secretly she took savage delight in treading on the girl's toes or in pinching her arms and legs, twisting her hair, spilling hot coffee on her hands, cursing her softly and perpetrating all sorts of little indignities that could not be resented, for the simple reason that they could not be proved against her. Her word was as good as Rosalie's.

Hourly the strain grew worse and worse. The girl became ill and feverish with fear, loathing and uncertainty. Her ears rang with the horrors of their lewdness, her eyes came to see but little, for she kept them closed for the very pain of what they were likely to witness. In her heart there grew a constant prayer for deliverance from their clutches.

She was much too strong-minded and healthy to pray for death, but her mind fairly reeled with the thoughts of the vengeance she would exact.

The third day found the gang morose and ugly. The confinement was as irksome to them as it was to her. They fretted and worried, swore and growled. At nightfall of each day Sam ventured forth through the pa.s.sage and out into the night. Each time he was gone for two or three hours, and each succeeding return to the vile cave threw the gang into deeper wrath. The word they were expecting was not forthcoming, the command from the real master was not given. They played cards all day, and at last began to drink more deeply than was wise. Two desperate fights occurred between Davy and Sam on the third day. Bill and the old woman pulled them apart after both had been battered savagely.

"She's sick, Sam," growled Bill, standing over the cowering, white-faced prisoner near the close of the fourth day. Sam had been away nearly all of the previous night, returning gloomily without news from headquarters. "She'll die in this d---- place and so will we if we don't get out soon. Look at her! Why, she's as white as a sheet. Let's give her some fresh air, Sammy. It's safe. Take her up in the cabin for a while. To-night we can take her outside the place. Good Lord, Sammy, I've got a bit of heart! I can't see her die in this hole. Look at her!

Can't you see she's nearly done for?"

After considerable argument, pro and con, it was decided that it would be safe and certainly wise to let the girl breathe the fresh air once in a while. That morning Sam took her into the cabin through the pa.s.sage.

The half hour in the cold, fresh air revived her, strengthened her perceptibly. Her spirits took an upward bound. She began to ask questions, and for some reason he began to take notice of them. It may have been the irksomeness of the situation, his own longing to be away, his anger toward the person who had failed to keep the promise made before the abduction, that led him to talk quite freely.

CHAPTER XX

In the Cave

"It's not my fault that we're still here," he growled in answer to her pathetic appeal. "I've heard you prayin' for Daddy Crow to come and take you away. Well, it's lucky for him that he don't know where you are.

We'd make mincemeat of that old jay in three minutes. Don't do any more prayin'. Prayers are like dreams--you have 'em at night and wonder why the next day. Now, look 'ere, Miss Gray, we didn't do this rotten job for the love of excitement. We're just as anxious to get out of it as you are."

"I only ask why I am held here and what is to become of me?" said Rosalie resignedly. She was standing across the table from where he sat smoking his great, black pipe. The other members of the gang were lounging about, surly and black-browed, chafing inwardly over the delay in getting away from the cave.

"I don't know why you've been held here. I only know it's d---- slow.

I'd chuck the job, if there wasn't so much dust in it for me."

"But what is to become of me? I cannot endure this much longer. It is killing me. Look! I am black and blue from pinches. The old woman never misses an opportunity to hurt me."

"She's jealous of you because you're purty, that's all. Women are all alike, hang 'em! I wouldn't be in this sort of work if it hadn't been for a jealous wife."

He puffed at his pipe moodily for a long time, evidently turning some problem over and over in his mind. At last, heaving a deep sigh, and prefacing his remarks with an oath, he let light in upon the mystery.

"I'll put you next to the job. Can't give any names; it wouldn't be square. You see, it's this way: you ain't wanted in this country. I don't know why, but you ain't."

"Not wanted in this country?" she cried blankly. "I don't stand in any one's way. My life and my love are for the peaceful home that you have taken me from. I don't ask for anything else. Won't you tell your employer as much for me? If I am released, I shall never interfere with the plans of--"

"'Tain't that, I reckon. You must be mighty important to somebody, or all this trouble wouldn't be gone through with. The funny part of it is that we ain't to hurt you. You ain't to be killed, you know. That's the queer part of it, ain't it?"

"I'll admit it has an agreeable sound to me," said Rosalie, with a shadow of a smile on her trembling lips. "It seems ghastly, though."

"Well, anyhow, it's part of somebody's scheme to get you out of this country altogether. You are to be taken away on a ship, across the ocean, I think. Paris or London, mebby, and you are never to come back to the United States. Never, that's what I'm told."

[Ill.u.s.tration: "She shrank back from another blow which seemed impending"]

Rosalie was speechless, stunned. Her eyes grew wide with the misery of doubt and horror, her lips moved as if forming the words which would not come. Before she could bring a sound from the contracted throat the raucous voice of old Maude broke in:

"What are you tellin' her, Sam Welch? Can't you keep your face closed?"

she called, advancing upon him with a menacing look.

"Aw, it's nothin' to you," he retorted, but an uncomfortable expression suddenly crept into his face. A loud, angry discussion ensued, the whole gang engaging. Three to one was the way it stood against the leader, who was forced to admit, secretly if not publicly, that he had no right to talk freely of the matter to the girl. In vain she pleaded and promised.

Her tears were of no avail, once Sam had concluded to hold his tongue.

Angry with himself for having to submit to the demands of the others, furious because she saw his surrender, Sam, without a word of warning, suddenly struck her on the side of the head with the flat of his broad hand, sending her reeling into the corner. Dazed, hurt and half stunned, she dropped to her knees, unable to stand. With a piteous look in her eyes she shrank back from another blow which seemed impending. Bill Briggs grasped his leader's arm and drew him away, cursing and snarling.