Read Online Darkness and Dawn by George England - Free Book Online

you
spare me for a while, now?"
    "I'd
rather
go along, too," she answered wistfully, from the
window-sill where she sat resting.
    "No, not this time, please!" he entreated. "First I've got to go 'way
to the top of the tower and bring down my chemicals and all the other
things up there.
    "Then I'm going out on a hunt for dishes, a lamp, some oil and no end
of things. You save your strength for a while; stay here and keep
house and be a good girl!"
    "All right," she acceded, smiling a little sadly. "But really, I feel
quite able to go."
    "This afternoon, perhaps; not now. Good-by!" And he started for the
door. Then a thought struck him. He turned and came back.
    "By the way," said he, "if we can fix up some kind of a holster, I'll
take one of those revolvers. With the best of this leather here,"
nodding at the Gladstone bag, "I should imagine we could manufacture
something serviceable."
    They planned the holster together, and he cut it out with his knife,
while she slit leather thongs to lash it with. Presently it was done,
and a strap to tie it round his waist with—a crude, rough thing, but
just as useful as though finished with the utmost skill.
    "We'll make another for you when I get home this noon," he remarked
picking up the automatic and a handful of cartridges. Quickly he
filled the magazine. The shells were green with verdigris, and many a
rust-spot disfigured the one-time brightness of the arm.
    As he stepped over to the window, aimed and pulled the trigger, a
sharp and welcome report burst from the weapon. And a few leaves,
clipped from an oak in the forest, zigzagged down in the bright, warm
sunlight.
    "I guess she'll do all right!" he laughed, sliding the ugly weapon
into his new holster. "You see, the powder and fulminate, sealed up in
the cartridges, are practically imperishable. Here, let me load yours,
too.
    "If you want something to do, you can practice on that dead limb out
there, see? And don't be afraid of wasting ammunition. There must be
millions of cartridges in this old burg—millions—all ours!"
    Again he laughed, and handing her the other pistol, now fully loaded,
took his leave. Before he had climbed a hundred feet up the tower
stair, he heard a slow, uneven pop—pop—popping, and with
satisfaction knew that Beatrice was already perfecting herself in the
use of the revolver.
    "And she may need it, too—we both may, badly—before we know it!"
thought he, frowning, as he kept upon his way.
    This reflection weighed in so heavily upon him, all due to the flint
assegai-point, that he made still another excuse that afternoon and so
got out of taking the girl into the forest with him on his exploring
trip.
    The excuse was all the more plausible inasmuch as he left her enough
work at home to do, making some real clothing and some sandals for
them both. This task, now that the girl had scissors to use, was not
too hard.
    Stern brought her great armfuls of the furs from the shop in the
arcade, and left her busily and happily employed.
    He spent the afternoon in scouting through the entire neighborhood
from Sixth Avenue as far east as Third and from Twenty-Seventh Street
down through Union Square.
    Revolver in his left hand, knife in his right to cut away troublesome
bush or brambles, or to slit impeding vine-masses, he progressed
slowly and observantly.
    He kept his eyes open for big game, but—though he found moose-tracks
at the corner of Broadway and Nineteenth—he ran into nothing more
formidable than a lynx which snarled at him from a tree overhanging
the mournful ruins of the Farragut monument.
    One shot sent it bounding and screaming with pain, out of view. Stern
noted with satisfaction that blood followed its trail.
    "Guess I haven't forgotten how to shoot in all these
x
years!" he
commented, stooping to examine the spoor. "That may come in handy
later!"
    Then, still wary and watchful, he continued his exploration.
    He found that the city, as such, had entirely ceased to be.
    "Nothing but lines