CHAPTER XIX

With the Kidnapers

Sam stared at her, and there was something like real amazement in his

eyes.

"Yer mother or father?" he repeated interrogatively. "Wha--what the

devil can they have to do with this affair? I guess they're askin' a lot

of questions themselves about this time."

"Mr. and Mrs. Crow are not my parents," she said; and then shrewdly

added, "and you know it, sir."

"I've heard that sayin' 'bout a child never knowin' its own father, but

this business of both the father and mother is a new one on me. I guess

it's the chloroform. Give us that booze, Bill. She's dippy yet."

He tried to induce her to swallow some of the whiskey, but steadfastly

she refused, until finally, with an evil snarl, Sam commanded the

giantess to hold her while he forced the burning liquor down her throat.

There was a brief struggle, but Rosalie was no match for the huge woman,

whose enormous arms encircled her; and as the liquid trickled in upon

her tongue she heard above the brutal laughter of the would-be doctors

the hoarse voice of Bill crying:

"Don't hurt her, Sam! Let 'er alone!"

"Close yer face! Don't you monkey in this thing, Bill Briggs.

I'll--well, you know. Drink this, damn you!"

Sputtering and choking, her heart beating wildly with fear and rage,

Rosalie was thrown back upon the straw by the woman. Her throat was

burning from the effects of the whiskey and her eyes were blinded by the

tears of anger and helplessness.

"Don't come any of your highfalutin' airs with me, you little cat,"

shrieked the old woman, rubbing a knee that Rosalie had kicked in her

struggles.

"Lay still there," added Sam. "We don't want to hurt you, but you got to

do as I tell you. Understand? Not a word, now! Gimme that coffee-pot,

Davy. Go an' see that everything's locked up an' we'll turn in fer the

night. Maude, you set up an' keep watch. If she makes a crack, soak her

one."

"You bet I will. She'll find she ain't attendin' no Sunday-school

picnic."

"No boozin'!" was Sam's order as he told out small portions of whiskey.

Then the gang ate ravenously of the bacon and beans and drank cup after

cup of coffee. Later the men threw themselves upon the piles of straw

and soon all were snoring. The big woman refilled the lantern and hung

it on a peg in the wall of the cave; then she took up her post near the

square door leading to the underground passage, her throne an upturned

whiskey barrel, her back against the wall of the cave. She glared at

Rosalie through the semi-darkness, frequently addressing her with the

vilest invectives cautiously uttered--and all because her victim had

beautiful eyes and was unable to close them in sleep.

[Illustration: "Rosalie was no match for the huge woman"]

Rosalie's heart sank as she surveyed the surroundings with her mind

once more clear and composed. After her recovery from the shock of

contact with the old woman and Sam she shrank into a state of mental

lassitude that foretold the despair which was to come later on. She did

not sleep that night. Her brain was full of whirling thoughts of escape,

speculations as to what was to become of her, miserable fears that the

end would not be what the first impressions had made it, and, over all,

a most intense horror of the old woman, who dozed, but guarded her as no

dragon ever watched in the days of long ago.

The cave in which they were housed was thirty or forty feet from side to

side, almost circular in shape, a low roof slanting to the rocky floor.

Here and there were niches in the walls, and in the side opposite to the

entrance to the passageway 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 passageway. 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 nobody 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

gratitude 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 scrap. 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 passage

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 passage.

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.