Beth Norvell

Standing before the little mirror, she wondered dimly at those dark

circles beneath her eyes, the unusually sharp lines visible at the

corners of her mouth. She felt hot, feverish, and in hope of thus

relieving the painful throbbing of her temples she buried her face in

the bowl of cool water. Rapidly, almost carelessly, she gathered up

her dishevelled locks, fastening them in some simple, yet secure

fashion back out of the way. From the open trunk standing against the

wall, she caught up a plain, soft hat, one she had used in character

upon the stage, and drew it down firmly over the mass of soft hair,

never noting how coquettishly the wide brim swept up in front, or what

witchery of archness it gave to her dark eyes. She took a quick step

toward the door, and then, her hand already on the latch, she paused in

uncertainty; finally, she drew a small, pearl-handled revolver from the

bottom tray, and placed it carefully in a pocket of her jacket.

"I--I hardly believe I could ever use it," she thought, "but maybe I

might."

Outside, in the narrow, deserted hall, she stood at the head of the

steep flight of stairs and listened. The snoring of the drunken man in

the office below was the only disturbing sound. Out through the open

office door a dull bar of yellow light streamed across the lower steps.

Like a ghost she stole silently down, treading so softly not a stair

creaked beneath her cautious footfalls. The next moment she had opened

the door, and was alone in the dark street.

Dark it was, but neither deserted nor silent. The unleashed evil of

San Juan was now in full control, more madly riotous than ever beneath

the cloak of so late an hour. Nothing short of complete return of

daylight would bring semblance of peace to that carnival of saloons,

gambling dens, and dance halls. Through the shadows stalked unrebuked,

uncontrolled, the votaries of dissipation and recklessness, of "easy

money" and brutal lust. Yellow rays of light streamed from out dirty,

uncurtained windows, leaving the narrow street weirdly illuminated,

with here and there patches of dense shadows. Shifting figures, often

unsteady of step, appeared and disappeared like disembodied spirits,

distorted from all human semblance by that uncertain radiance; on every

side the discordant sounds of violins and pianos commingled in one

hideous din, punctuated by drunken shouts and every species of noise of

which civilized savagery is capable.

Yet this was not what she feared, this saturnalia of unbridled passion,

for the way was comparatively well lighted, and in traversing it she

was reasonably certain to be within call of some one sober enough to

protect her from insult or injury. Even in drink these men remained

courteous to women of the right sort. No, she had travelled that path

alone at night before, again and again, returning from her work. She

shrank, womanlike, from the sights and sounds, but was conscious of no

personal fear. What she dreaded beyond expression was that long, black

stretch of narrow, desolate alley-way leading down toward the creek

bridge and the old fort beyond. She had been over that path once in

broad daylight, and it made her shudder to think she must now feel her

way there alone through the dark. The growing fear of it got upon her

nerves as she stood hesitating; then, almost angry with herself, she

advanced swiftly down toward the distant glowing lights of the Gayety.

It was just beyond there that the alley turned off toward the

foothills, a mere thread of a path wandering amid a maze of unlighted

tents and disreputable shacks; she remembered this, and the single

rotten strip of plank which answered for a sidewalk.