Page:Weird Tales v02n04 (1923-11).djvu/62

Rh She had a vague vision of the doctor breaking from her husband's grasp; he lurched toward the door. But Timothy was behind him, pulling him back. The doctor's fist rose; thudded against a resounding chest without effect. An answering blow-a scuffle-and the struggle began.

Two huge men they were. Timothy Cruze and Dr. Philemon, and they battled like giants. But the physician was soft of body, while the farmer was solid and muscular. Their fists flew; they collided with the table, threw it over upset chairs. They crashed against the walls, fell, rose again, pounded each other.

And on the bed the fiery-eyed boy sat up and cheered frantically:

"Hit him, Pop! Hit himOh, that was a good one! Give another—in the face-break his face! Another one, Pop Kill him That's the way-oh, that was fine! Right on the mouth! Oh!"

Agatha watched. There was nothing she could do-she, a woman. Nothing? Yes, there was something. On the floor she saw the brooch and the wrist-watch and the money. She picked them up and dropped them into the pocket of her skirt.

She had no doubt about the outcome of the fight. Her Tim would win. He always won in physical contests.

The doctor was gasping, staggering unsteadily; and still his fists answered the blows of Timothy. From his mouth a stream of blood, hideous in the yellow light, trickled over his chin. And Tim Cruze hissed between breaths:

"You ain't going to tell! I ain't going to jail! I ain't!"

And then he did a brutal thing: he poised his fist, waited, and sent it smashing with all his strength against the jaw of the doctor. That was the final blow.

Dr. Philemon uttered a choked cry. He toppled back, fell, and his head was battered against the corner of the fallen table

Very quietly he lay on the floor, while Timothy panted over him like a victorious dog, his mouth open, his chest heaving.

He waited for the doctor to stir; but the doctor did not stir. Around the head on the floor a small pool of crimson was forming, little streams groping out like the tentacles of a tiny octopus. And into the red smudge dripped the physician's hair.

Agatha stared at the appalling sight. Her eyes were dilated. The breath was imprisoned in her throat. For as she looked, a terrible dread swept over her. She wanted to scream, but could not.

Impulsively she darted forward, fell to the floor at the doctor's side. Her hands groped over his chest; they tried to find his heart, to feel its beating. She gazed at the ugly gash at the back of the head. She gazed—and suddenly started back with a little cry.

"Tim!" she gasped. "Tim—he—he's dead! You've killed him—murdered him!"

And like a fiendish echo came the voice of the sick, delirious boy:

"You killed him, Pop! You murdered the doctor! You killed him!"

HE knowledge of the horrible thing he had done left Timothy Cruze dumbstruck. Stupidly he stared from the motionless body to his wife. His mouth, smarting and swollen from the blows which had been stormed upon it, formed the word:

"Dead?"

She nodded, her expression of terror as fixed as the leer of a gargoyle. She was still kneeling beside the inanimate form, but her hand had sprung away from the silent heart.

Timothy glanced around uncertainly. His fists opened and closed. He was conscious of the bleakness of the chamber, of the incessant rain pattering on the window, of the weird light on his son's face. He shuddered, and his hands smoothed his ruffled hair.

"Dead," he repeated, as though he were endeavoring to convince himself that such a thing was possible. "He's dead—"

Slowly he moved away. He found himself beside Gilbert's bed, and he sat limply upon the chair.

The boy was watching him with curious intensity; something akin to pride covered Gilbert's countenance. Very softly he said again:

"You killed him, Pop. You did it."

Timothy's two huge hands were clasped in his lap. He murmured:

"If only you hadn't babbled, son; if only you hadn't babbled—"

"He ain't responsible, Tim," stammered Agatha, rising to her gaunt height. She stepped away from the body, meanwhile speaking. "He ain't meaning to do anything wrong. The boy's delirious out of his head."

"I—know—" whispered Timothy Cruze. And a strange tenderness stole into his tones. "It ain't your fault, son. It's—the fever—" He did an unusual thing; he leaned forward awkwardly and kissed the burning cheeks of his son.

There were times, rare, perhaps, when Cruze forgot his swaggering bravado; then sentiment mastered him for an instant, as it was doing now. But the spell always disappeared at once. After it his love for Gilbert or for Agatha was displayed by gruffness.

Impetuously he rose, glaring at the body of Dr. Philemon.

"What are we going to do with that?" he rasped.

Agatha stood beside him; and strangely it was she who assumed control of the situation; she who had become calm and who was scheming; she who gave orders. Her tone admirably steady, she said:

"I've just been thinking of it, Tim. They'll be around in the morning—everybody—to look for him. I suppose his wife knows he came here."

"Yes, yes! What are we going to do?" A spasm of fear gripped him. His great figure shook visibly as he chattered: "They'll take me and—and then I'm done for. Murder! D'you realize what I've done, Agatha? Murder! If they get me—"

"They ain't going to get you," said his wife, with imperturbable assurance.

"They ain't?" The words quivered. "Wh-what can I do?"

"You'll do what I say, and we'll be safe."

His features shone with the inspiration of new hope. He caught her arms and whispered with terrible tenseness:

"I'll get out—away from here! It's only a little after two. Before they come in the morning I can be pretty far away a long start. Then—"

"Tim!" She interrupted his suggestion with a sharpness that cut into him. Her lips curled back in an ugly sneer, and she pulled her arms from his grasp. "What are you saying?" she hissed. "Run away? Leave me here alone with Gil—and Gil sick? Alone with—with that thing on the floor? What are you saying, Tim?"

He gulped helplessly, understanding the cowardice of the suggestion. Avoiding her accusing gaze, he muttered:

"What else can I do? You don't want 'em to get me, do you?"

"No. I told you they ain't going to get you—if you listen to me. Are you quiet enough to listen now?"

He nodded, like a schoolboy being chided.

"Nobody," she said decisively, "is going to hear about this!"

"But how—"

"Listen to me, you fool! When I say nobody will know what you did, I mean it!"