the earth, with its mouth at the foot of the bluff on Green River. If he could push through and not get drowned in its treacherous waters, he might eventually expect to live. Otherwise—but he did not think of that now.
From his pocket he drew a packet of cigarettes and matches. A man might as well die with a good smoke in his mouth as any other way. The light of the match would aid him in getting his bearings. But neither cigarettes nor matches were to be wasted! He put the roll of tobacco in his mouth and struck the match with his thumb nail.
The cigarette was never lighted. In the glow of the faint flame something stared at him—the thing that had been following him! Whether flesh or spirit he could not have said. It had the form of a woman; and it stood with folded arms and dead, emotionless eyes, peering at him. It looked through him, beyond him, rather than at him. In his nervousness he neglected to extinguish the match quickly enough, and in the interval the thing measured him—his strength and prowess—and the next instant it was upon him!
The first encounter was swift and
illuminating. It was human, and
it was merciless. He broke the first
clinch with army tactics, sidestepped,
then waited, drawing his breath as silently as possible so as not to betray
his position—an expedient his assailant did not observe, for he could hear
her labored breathing a dozen steps away.
He considered with some rapid mental calculation the disadvantages against which he worked. The other had the advantage of being on familiar ground and accustomed to the blackness of the place. She knew the exits of the place, if any existed, and how to cut off any chance retreat. But he reasoned that there must be an opening, if nothing more than the mouth of Lost River; and he must play for that one fact alone.
He doubted not that this was the inevitable math of the bloody moon. Whether a ghost of the Indian princess whom his ancestor had abused, or a descendant of that child born to transmit the curse, mattered little in the long run. The one thing which he accepted was that the curse was by way of being visited upon him; and in the law of probabilities he had scant chance of escaping the fate that had taken off, in turn, every male head of the house since the days of old Alligator Pearson. He did not know what the others had seen; what his grandfather had seen that night in the roofroom; or his father had encountered on his way home from Bowling Green. Nothing was vouchsafed him that he might defend himself intelligently. All he knew was that he was in for a fight to the bitter finish.
His wind came back to him presently. He reached forth a cautions hand. The floor was smooth. The walls were at the tips of his fingers. He strained his ear for some sound from the enemy. Her breathing, too, had become normal. He was, in fact, uncertain whether or not she was still there. Then with silent deftness he drew himself to his feet. He had hoped to sidestep swiftly upon gaining his equilibrium, duck again, and by a second lateral leap evade the attack his movement would inevitably bring about—unless he miscalculated the venom of his enemy. The plan was perfect, except that he had not taken account of his creaking joints. The snapping of his ankles betrayed his stratagem. The thing was upon him again.
He fought now with deadly earnestness. Nor was he a weakling. The labor in the tobacco fields had tutored his muscles in flex-
(Continued on page 180)
