The Rivers End | Page 4

The
first blow almost broke my shoulder. In the scuffle I wrenched it from
his hand, and then I found it was a long, rectangular bar of copper made
for a paper-weight. In that same instant I saw the son snatch up a
similar object from the table, and in the act he smashed the table light.
In darkness we fought. I did not feel that I was fighting men. They were
monsters and gave me the horrible sensation of being in darkness with
crawling serpents. Yes, I struck hard. And the son was striking, and
neither of us could see. I felt my weapon hit, and it was then that
Kirkstone crumpled down with a blubbery wheeze. You know what
happened after that. The next morning only one copper weight was
found in that room. The son had done away with the other. And the one
that was left was covered with Kirkstone's blood and hair. There was
no chance for me. So I got away. Six months later my father died in
prison, and for three years I've been hunted as a fox is hunted by the
hounds. That's all, Conniston. Did I kill Judge Kirkstone? And, if I
killed him, do you think I'm sorry for it, even though I hang?"
"Sit down!"
The Englishman's voice was commanding. Keith dropped back to his
seat, breathing hard. He saw a strange light in the steely blue eyes of

Conniston.
"Keith, when a man knows he's going to live, he is blind to a lot of
things. But when he knows he's going to die, it's different. If you had
told me that story a month ago, I'd have taken you down to the
hangman just the same. It would have been my duty, you know, and I
might have argued you were lying. But you can't lie to me--now.
Kirkstone deserved to die. And so I've made up my mind what you're
going to do. You're not going back to Coronation Gulf. You're going
south. You're going back into God's country again. And you're not
going as John Keith, the murderer, but as Derwent Conniston of His
Majesty's Royal Northwest Mounted Police! Do you get me, Keith? Do
you understand?"
Keith simply stared. The Englishman twisted a mustache, a
half-humorous gleam in his eyes. He had been thinking of this plan of
his for some time, and he had foreseen just how it would take Keith off
his feet.
"Quite a scheme, don't you think, old chap? I like you. I don't mind
saying I think a lot of you, and there isn't any reason on earth why you
shouldn't go on living in my shoes. There's no moral objection. No one
will miss me. I was the black sheep back in England--younger brother
and all that--and when I had to choose between Africa and Canada, I
chose Canada. An Englishman's pride is the biggest fool thing on earth,
Keith, and I suppose all of them over there think I'm dead. They haven't
heard from me in six or seven years. I'm forgotten. And the beautiful
thing about this scheme is that we look so deucedly alike, you know.
Trim that mustache and beard of yours a little, add a bit of a scar over
your right eye, and you can walk in on old McDowell himself, and I'll
wager he'll jump up and say, 'Bless my heart, if it isn't Conniston!'
That's all I've got to leave you, Keith, a dead man's clothes and name.
But you're welcome. They'll be of no more use to me after tomorrow."
"Impossible!" gasped Keith. "Conniston, do you know what you are
saying?"
"Positively, old chap. I count every word, because it hurts when I talk.

So you won't argue with me, please. It's the biggest sporting thing that's
ever come my way. I'll be dead. You can bury me under this floor,
where the foxes can't get at me. But my name will go on living and
you'll wear my clothes back to civilization and tell McDowell how you
got your man and how he died up here with a frosted lung. As proof of
it you'll lug your own clothes down in a bundle along with any other
little identifying things you may have, and there's a sergeancy waiting.
McDowell promised it to you--if you got your man. Understand? And
McDowell hasn't seen me for two years and three months, so if I
MIGHT look a bit different to him, it would be natural, for you and I
have been on the rough edge of the world all that time. The jolly good
part of it all is that we look so much alike. I say the idea is splendid!"
Conniston rose above the presence of death in the thrill of