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Title: The riddle of Three-Way Creek
Author: Ridgwell Cullum
Release date: July 15, 2024 [eBook #74048]
Language: English
Original publication: Toronto: McClelland and Stewart, 1925
Credits: D A Alexander, David E. Brown, and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive)
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE RIDDLE OF THREE-WAY CREEK ***
The Riddle of
Three-Way Creek
Ridgwell Cullum
The Riddle
of
Three-Way Creek
by
Ridgwell Cullum
_Author of “The Saint of the Speedway”_
McClelland and Stewart
Publishers : : Toronto
Copyright, 1925,
By George H. Doran Company
[Illustration]
The Riddle of Three-Way Creek
--Q--
Printed in the United States of America
Contents
CHAPTER PAGE
I Loyalty 9
II The Marton Homestead 18
III A Real Samaritan 26
IV A Stroke of Fate 32
V The Sentence 38
VI The Gateway of Hope 48
VII In New York 59
VIII Two Years Later 66
IX Suspicion 73
X The “Throw-Out” 82
XI Lightning Operates his Plan 97
XII Dan Quinlan 105
XIII Silver-Thatch 112
XIV The Heart of the Hills 124
XV Brother and Sister 136
XVI Two Women 142
XVII A Golden Moment 159
XVIII The Spy 169
XIX The Moment 177
XX The Home-Coming 190
XXI Out of the Past 197
XXII The Awakening 206
XXIII Blanche Learns the Truth 212
XXIV At Haying Time 220
XXV The Beginning of the Harvest 228
XXVI The Climax 238
XXVII Blanche’s News 245
XXVIII By the Wayside 250
XXIX Lightning’s Despair 259
XXX Lightning Passes the Barrier 263
XXXI Lightning Becomes a Friend 272
XXXII Lightning Borrows a Horse 280
XXXIII Night in the Valley 289
XXXIV A Burdened Heart 297
XXXV Molly Comes Back 304
XXXVI Nemesis 311
XXXVII By the Light of the Aurora 318
XXXVIII Lightning’s Triumph 328
The Riddle of
Three-Way Creek
The Riddle of Three-Way Creek
CHAPTER I
Loyalty
The trail fell away to the heart of a valley, which nursed in its bosom
a watercourse that was frozen solid to its bed. The hummocks of the
foothills rose up in every direction. Many of the hills were sheer
slopes of tawny, sun-scorched grass that had lost the last of its
summer hue. Some were barren crags; others, again, were covered with
woodland bluffs of spruce, and pine, and the generous poplar, whose
dead foliage lay thick upon the ground, stripped from parent boughs by
the wintry breath of the late season.
It was a grim enough prospect. No snow had as yet fallen, but the air
was cold and crisp; the grey sky was heavily charged with snow-clouds;
and the stark arms of deciduous trees were sharply outlined against the
skyline.
Two horsemen were moving down the frozen trail. They were riding at
that distance-devouring lope which is native to the Canadian broncho.
Both were clad in sheepskin coats and fur caps. And through the fog of
steam that rose from the bodies of the sweating horses, on the head of
one of them the yellow flash of a mounted policeman’s cap badge stood
out strikingly. Corporal Andrew McFardell was escorting a prisoner to
his headquarters at Calford, which lay some fifty odd miles to the
south.
The policeman was in a hurry. Ten miles farther on lay Rock Point, a
small farming settlement, which was to afford him a camping-ground for
the night. There was little more than an hour of daylight left, and the
banking snow-clouds left him anxious. It was a bad region in which to
get snowbound.
McFardell was taking a chance. He had abandoned the old fur trail which
was the highway from Greenwood to Calford for a short cut through
the wilderness of the foothills. He knew every inch of the territory
through which he was riding, but he also knew the peril of a blinding
snowstorm in that confusion of hills.
They reached the depths of the valley in silence. They urged their
horses to greater efforts along the level bank of the frozen stream.
Then, as they faced the ascent beyond, the animals were permitted to
drop back to a walk. McFardell transferred the leading-rein of his
prisoner’s horse to the horn of his saddle and began to fill his pipe.
His companion observed him with eyes that smiled good-humouredly,
in spite of the frigid bite of the steel shackles set fast upon his
wrists. Then, as his custodian struck a match and lit his pipe, he
turned his gaze alertly to the frowning sky.
“Here she comes.”
The prisoner spoke without a shadow of apprehension. It was the voice
and accent of an educated man. His smiling eyes were regarding the
lolling snowflakes with which the air had suddenly filled.
“We’ll get it plenty in a while,” he went on a moment later, with a
pleasant, deep-throated chuckle. “You reckon it’s ten miles this way to
Rock Point? It’s going to shorten our trail by five and more?” He shook
his head. “Well, if this storm is going to be the thing it looks, why,
I guess it might just as well be fifty miles to Rock Point. We shan’t
make it this night--through these hills.”
The policeman was regarding the skyline. He, too, shook his head, but
in denial.
“You think that?” he said sharply, with a quick, scornful flash of his
jet-black eyes. “You’re wrong. Guess this is my territory. There’s not
a hill, or bush, or creek to it I don’t know better than my prayers.
There’s a top stretch up there of a mile and a half,” he went on,
indicating the hill they were ascending. “Then we drop right down to
Clearwater River, and pass by Joe Lark’s horse ranch. After that we
pick up the old fur trail again, which you couldn’t lose in the worst
blizzard that ever blew. I’m not worried a thing.”
The prisoner laughed.
“It’s good not to get worried when you’re in the hills, with the snow
falling and night getting around. She’s coming thicker, so there’s no
need for argument,” he added drily. “You police boys are bright on the
trail. I’ve mostly had five years of Alaska, where they know a deal
about snow. I claim fifty-fifty with you on that subject.”
The man’s laugh was good to hear. It was a laugh of reckless
indifference, of a heart devoid of fear.
Andy McFardell made no reply. He stared straight out into the falling
snow. He was a good-looking, black-haired, black-eyed man of about
twenty-eight years. But his good looks had nothing of the frank
openness and smiling good-nature of his prisoner. The two men were in
sharp contrast. The whole cast of Andy McFardell’s face had something
of the narrow sleekness of a fox, with a mouth hidden under a carefully
trimmed black moustache that was heavy-lipped and ugly. It was a face
to inspire confidence in the work that was his. But the best tribute
his associates in the Police cared to pay him was an unanimous opinion
that he was surely marked out for promotion.
His prisoner was a larger man in every sense. His furs only left
visible a strong face, and the light of philosophical good-humour that
looked out of his eyes. And this for all he was on his way to Calford
to serve five years’ hard labour in the penitentiary.
As they reached the top of the hill, Andy McFardell turned to his
companion again.
“You know I can’t get a boy like you, anyway,” he said, in a tone of
frank impatience. “What in hell! Five years’ hard pan up in Alaska.
Five years’ sweating blood to collect a bunch of dust that’s to hand
you all the things you’ve ever dreamed about. Five years of a climate
that’s calculated to freeze the vitals of a brass image. Then you pull
out. And the first thing you do is to pitch everything to the devil
by hitting up against the law. You’ve done worse than five years’
penitentiary up there in Alaska, and collected a big fortune; and now
you’ve got five years’ real penitentiary ahead of you while your gold
rots. Why? For the fool notion of helping a boy who didn’t need your
help. Say, there’s times I reckon human nature’s the darnedest fool
thing God A’mighty ever created.”
“Is it?”
Jim Pryse’s reply came with perfect good-temper. He was one of those
blessed creatures who can always contrive to find a smile lurking in
the worst tragedy with which they are beset.
“Take a hunch man,” he went on amiably. “The only fool thing God ever
created is the white-livered coyote that wants to snivel its way
through life, instead of getting a grip on the throat of things. I knew
just the thing I was doing. You see, that boy was my brother, and the
best feller I know. The skunk he’d killed was the feller who’d robbed
him of a wife, and done the unholiest thing any low-down bum can do by
any woman, married or single. Well, I was with him, just as though my
two hands had choked the life out of that skunk instead of his. Was I
going to risk seeing that boy the centre of a hanging bee? Not on your
life. I held you boys off while that kid feller got away. And I held
you good. And I’d have shot to kill rather than you should have laid
hands on him. He’s got clear away. And, for all the law doesn’t reckon
to let up once it camps on a feller’s trail, you’ll never get him.
The gold you reckon is going to rot will see to that. That boy was no
murderer. His act was sheer justice. I didn’t butt in. No, boy, it was
better than that.”
“Man, you’re plumb crazy!” McFardell urged his horse on under his
impatience. “No, no. Life’s a pretty tough proposition, anyway. And
it’s only a crazy man sets out to make it tougher, whether it’s for a
brother or anybody else. I s’pose there’s folks would call that sort of
junk ‘loyalty.’ I guess they need to get a fresh focus. ‘Duty’ I know.
Duty’s the thing demanded of us boys in my calling. That’s all right.
It’s always within the law, and if you carry on, and keep an eye well
skinned, it’s going to help you to the sort of things we all worry for.
But the other stuff is a crazy notion, that’s as liable as not to get
you hanged. I tell you you were dead wrong. You were butting in like
some fool kid. That boy would never have hanged if he could have proved
his case. It was the Unwritten Law, and he’d have got clear away with
it. And you--you wouldn’t be riding these darned hills in a snowstorm.”
The policeman’s view only had the effect of deepening his prisoner’s
smile. And the blue eyes watched the officer tolerantly as he brushed
the snow from about his fur collar.
“Maybe he’d have got away with it,” Pryse said quietly, emulating his
companion, wiping the snow from about his eyes with his mitted and
shackled hands. “I don’t know, and I’m not worried. He’s away now,
and I’m feeling good about it. Five years in penitentiary is going
to hand me an elegant spell for quiet reflection, and maybe I’ll be
able to locate where our viewpoints are wrong. Just now it seems to me
that duty’s a sort of human-made notion that mainly has self for its
principal calculation. Loyalty, as you choose to call it, seems to me
to be something we can’t help. Maybe it’s built in us, the same as the
things that set us crazy for the dame that seems good to us. I’m not
yearning to worry it out, anyway. The thing I know is, Eddie boy is
clear beyond the reach of any Mounted Police Patrol, and, that being
so, I feel as good as a skipping lamb in springtime. Alaska handed me
a deal better than a million dollars, and, if necessary, the whole of
that bunch of dust will go to say you boys are nothing to give that boy
a headache. I----Hold up, you!”
Jim Pryse’s final exclamation was flung at his floundering broncho. For
one moment the creature seemed to be about to crash headlong. Then the
lead-rein securing it to the horn of the policeman’s saddle snapped and
released it, and, under the tremendous effort of its rider’s shackled
hands, it recovered itself.
The whole catastrophe was wrought on the instant. At one moment both
horses were loping leisurely over the virgin carpet of snow, with ears
pricked alertly as they peered out into the grey twilight of the storm.
The next the policeman’s horse had gone down like a stone, and its
rider lay inert, still, a huddled fur-coated heap upon the hard-frozen
ground. It was the old story of thawing snow balling in the creature’s
hoofs.
* * * * *
The twilight was deepening. It was no longer merely the sombre grey
of the snowstorm. It was the gradual passing of the last of the day.
The surrounding world was almost blotted out. Here and there were
faint outlines, barely perceptible, to mark some woodland bluff in
the immediate vicinity; but beyond that there was nothing--nothing but
a grey, impenetrable pall of falling snow lolling silently upon the
breathless air.
The horses were standing apart. They had no concern for the thing that
had happened. They had turned away from the drift of the storm, and
stood gently rubbing their frost-rimed muzzles against each other’s
sweating sides.
A few yards away Jim Pryse stood with shackled hands, gazing down
at the prone figure of the man who had been conveying him to the
penitentiary at Calford. There was no sign of life in the fallen man.
He lay unmoving, just where he had been hurled from the saddle, and the
flakes of falling snow were rapidly obscuring the black outline of his
fur-clad body.
For some time the convict’s scrutiny continued. Then, of a sudden,
he dropped to his knees and ran his hands over the man’s body. His
movements were clumsy by reason of the shackles that held his wrists,
but he persisted in his task slowly and deliberately. After a while he
stood up. And his hands were grasping the cartridge belt and side-arms
he had removed from about the policeman’s body. With much difficulty he
bestowed the revolver in the pocket of his fur coat and proceeded to
remove the cartridges from the belt. These he stowed away in another
pocket. Then he dropped the belt and holster in the snow.
Again he bent over the fallen man. This time it was for the purpose of
ascertaining the extent of the latter’s injuries.
But he need not have concerned himself. Corporal McFardell raised his
head and looked up at him.
Quick as a flash the convict was on his feet and standing clear.
“It was a bad fall boy,” he said, and for all the twilight hid his
expression there was a smile behind his words. “Guess it knocked you
out. Maybe it found your head softer than the trail. There’s nothing
broken?”
McFardell gazed about him a little dazedly in the failing light. Then
his limbs moved. He drew up his legs and straightened them out. Then he
sought to raise himself on his elbow. It was his reply to the other’s
question.
Jim Pryse nodded quickly.
“That’s all right, boy. You aren’t hurt, and I’m glad. Your head’ll
clear in a while, and you’ll be able to get back into the saddle and
make Rock Point. But don’t do it now. Don’t move a hand or foot. You
see, your gun’s in my hands,” he went on, producing the policeman’s
loaded revolver, “and for they’re all shackled tight I can still pull
a trigger and see straight over the sight. Maybe you’ve a key to these
bracelets. But I’m not going to worry you for it. It might cause
argument and a clinch, and, though I’ve your gun, I’m ready to admit
you’d have the best of it in the circumstances--in a clinch. No. Just
lie there, if you aren’t a fool, while I climb into my saddle. And
you’ll lie there just as long as I’m within gun-range. For, sure as
God, if you don’t I’ll shoot you like a dog. Do you get it? I’m getting
away. Providence has handed me a chance I’m grabbing with both hands.
It’s a tough chance all right, but I haven’t a grouch. Now, lie quite
still till I quit.”
He backed away to the waiting horses. He paused beside his own animal,
and his eyes were steadily observing the policeman who lay watching
him. Then, quite suddenly, the discomfited officer was treated to an
exhibition of horsemanship he was wholly unprepared for. The convict
raised his fettered hands to the horn of his saddle, and, in an
instant, vaulted on to his horse’s back without touching a stirrup.
The threatening gun, supported in both the man’s hands still, held the
prone figure covered.
Jim Pryse chuckled gleefully.
“You’ve got sense, boy,” he cried, as the other made no movement. “You
certainly have. You know your duty, sure--when the drop is on you.
Well, so long. I can’t wait. Now, get up quick and grab your horse. He
won’t stand when mine moves off, and I haven’t a wish to leave you out
here in the snow.”
He moved away, and McFardell leapt to his feet and ran to his horse.
The threatening gun held him covered.
He stood for a moment holding his horse, while the outline of the
moving horseman became more and more indistinct in the twilight of the
storm. Then suddenly his voice sounded harshly in the dead silence of
the world about him.
“You fool! Do you think you can get away? Not on your life! Take your
dog’s chance! Take it! But you’ll serve those five years--and more--if
the coyotes don’t feed your carcase when the storm’s through with you.”
CHAPTER II
The Marton Homestead
Molly Marton was standing in the storm doorway of her home. She was
gazing out at the magnificence of the winter sunset blazing on the
crystal peaks of the far-off mountains. The hour of the evening meal
was approaching, and the savoury odours of simple cooking pervaded the
warm interior behind her. In less than an hour the glory of the sunset
would have passed, and the purpling twilight would reduce the snowbound
world to the bleak prospect of the reality of the season.
The girl was awaiting her father’s return from his day’s work in the
timber belt. It was the time of the early winter labours, when the
haulage of cordwood for the fuel store was the chief consideration.
He would be along soon now, and everything was in readiness for his
comfort.
Molly’s devotion to her father was almost a passion. Her mother had
been dead for many years, and in all her eighteen years the girl had
never known a moment when her sturdy father had not been the whole of
everything to her.
The Marton homestead was far enough beyond such civilisation as city or
township afforded. It was set in the heart of the lesser foothills of
the Rockies. Its nearest human neighbour was an Irishman of ill-repute,
Dan Quinlan, who boasted some sort of a mixed ranch about twenty-five
miles farther up in the hills, and the nearest township was that of
Hartspool, some twenty-odd miles to the east, where the hills came down
to the prairie lands, and the waters of Whale River flooded its banks
every time the spring freshet broke.
Molly loved her home, and the hard, free life of it. She knew every
trick and turn of Nature’s whim in the progress of the seasons. She
asked nothing better; she knew nothing better. The sturdy life of
it was hers. She had been born, and bred, and deeply inured to its
hardships, and she would not have changed one moment of it for the
narrower delights of city life.
Of hardships there were plenty, of privations none. The fierce winters
of the hill country were no easy thing to face. But every coming of the
perfect summers saw an increasing yield of the abundant fruitfulness of
the earth which the thrifty mind of her French-Canadian father taught
him so well how to foster.
The homestead was a whole section of land, with practically unlimited
grazing rights. It consisted of a log-built and thatched home, with
barns and out-buildings similarly constructed. There were corrals
rudely but strongly set up, and nearly one hundred acres lay under the
plough. There was a water-front on a nameless mountain creek, and a
stretch of prairie feed that was pretty well inexhaustible. In short,
there was everything a good farmer could need to make life reasonably
prosperous and endurable in a climate that knew little of moderation.
The delight died out of Molly’s grey eyes with the passing of the
sunset. And she turned her gaze in the direction where the snow-trail
vanished round a bluff of woodland. It was from that direction her
father would come, and she looked for him now.
She was pretty and attractive in her neat, home-made clothing, that was
more calculated to resist the onslaught of the elements than add charm
to the delightful figure it concealed. She was dark, in an essentially
French-Canadian fashion, but her eyes were merry, and her strong young
body was tall and vigorous, after the manner of the Anglo-Saxon mother
she scarcely remembered. She was full of an easy patience that robbed
her not one whit of a wholesome joy of life. Animal spirits were
always surging in her, and helped her to discover happiness in the
unlikeliest moments of the life that was hers.
Movement down at the barn distracted her watch on the distant trail.
It was the hired man bearing a bucket of fresh milk, steaming in the
wintry air. He was a tall, lean creature of an age he would have been
reluctant to admit. He wore a chin-whisker that was almost as white as
the snow that overlaid the world. And he came up to the house at a gait
the vigor of which suggested a youth he could never hope to see again.
“She’s runnin’ slack,” he said, in a tone that jarred harshly on the
still air. “But I ’low she’s a swell beast, and she’s made a good
winter feed for herself. There’s a good haf-gallon of juice that’ll be
solid cream by morning.”
“Jessie’s surely a good cow, Lightning,” Molly smiled. Then her smile
broadened into a laugh. “Say, it’s queer how our feelings bubble over
when we get the thing we want. Jessie hands us gallons more milk in the
year than any of the others. So she’s a swell beast, and we pat her,
and make a fuss of her, and give her an extra dope of feed. If she gave
us less, why, she’d just be any ordinary old thing, from a fool cow to
something worse. It’s the way of things, eh? When folks hand us all we
ask we purr over them like a bunch of cats when you stroke them right.”
The lean face of Lightning Rogers distorted itself into a grin. He
loved to hear his young mistress “say things.” Often enough he failed
to get the meaning underlying her laughing comments, but his twisted
smile was a never-failing response.
Lightning was a derelict of a strenuous past. He had, like many another
of his kind, passed through a disreputable life, to settle down to an
old age that was completely occupied with the attempt to supply his old
body with sufficient fuel to keep burning the smouldering fires of
such life as remained to him. Maybe the hot spirit of early days had
lost something of its volcanic nature, but there were still flashes
of it to be discovered by those who knew him well enough. He still
prided himself on his skill with his ancient guns, which, in his early
cattle days, had earned him the sobriquet of “Two-gun” Rogers. He still
delighted in the thought that he could take his liquor like a man, and
not want to shoot up more than one town at a time when the red light
of Rye whisky flooded his bemused brain. He still found satisfaction
in a flow of anathema that had never yet failed him. For all his sixty
years, he was still a creature of extraordinary vigor of mind and body.
And nothing on earth could dissuade him from working from sun-up to
sun-down, whether in the height of summer or the depth of winter.
Molly had known him as her father’s hired man nearly as long as
she could remember. And even now there still remained something of
the fascination for his tattered chin-whisker, which, in her early
childhood, had made her love to claw it with both hands whenever she
could find a position of reasonable security on a lap that somehow
never seemed to have been built for the accommodation of any human body.
Lightning went off into a guffaw of laughter.
“Cats! That’s what we are,” he cried. “Full of claw’s an’ meanness if
you don’t stroke us right. That’s how it was, Molly gal, when I shot
the glass of Rye right out of the hand of Jim Cluer when he said my paw
must ha’ bin a Dago ’cos I guessed to the whole saloon I’d a big hunch
for a feed of spaghetti. It sure is a mean thing to rob a boy of his
liquor. I----”
“That’s enough of your bad old past, Lightning,” Molly cried, with
another laugh. “I can stand for your talk of other days till you get
inside the saloons. You see,” she added slily, “the saloons are still
only twenty-odd miles away, and I haven’t heard that twenty-odd miles
worries you a thing with a Rye highball at the other end of it. Are you
through with the chores?”
The man’s grin passed, and a look of uncertainty clouded his snapping
eyes. He was afraid lest the girl was really offended.
“I’m makin’ the crik for a bar’l of water,” he said. “Then I’m through,
I guess.”
Molly nodded and smiled, and the man’s look of doubt passed.
“Good. Food’s mostly ready, and father’s just coming round the bluff.
I’ll take that milk right in.”
She took the pail from the man and passed back into the house. And
Lightning hurried off to the barn to hook up a team to the water sled.
* * * * *
It was still daylight when the farmer’s team drew up at the cordwood
stack. The pile of winter fuel was stored against the log walls of the
corral, which was nearly three parts surrounded by a dense bluff of
spruce. The intervening barns and sheds cut it off from all view of the
house, where Molly was busy with the evening meal.
George Marton climbed down from his seat on the load, and stood beating
warmth into his mitted hands. He stood thus for a moment, his gaze upon
the tuckered flanks of his steaming team. He was a stocky creature
of a year or two over forty, with a keen, dark face that was partly
enveloped in a close-cut, pointed black beard that matched his hair and
eyes.
After a moment he brushed away the icicles accumulated about his mouth
and passed around his team. He examined their fetlocks for abrasures.
He knew the damage that was possible on the snow-trail from the sharp
calks with which the beasts were “roughed.” He was very careful of his
team.
Satisfied with their well-being, he started to unhook the horses. The
sled load would remain where it was for the night, but the team must
be well and carefully tended. The tugs released, he passed on to the
creatures’ heads to lead them to the barn. But he halted half-way, and
a curious, startled rigidity seemed to grip his body. He stood there
quite unmoving and obviously listening, an alert figure of tense-strung
energy in the thick bulk of his heavy clothing.
It was a sound. It was an unusual sound that broke sharply from within
the adjacent bluff. It came with the snapping of breaking brush. Then,
in a moment, it ceased with the lumping sound of a falling body.
Just for an instant it was in the man’s mind to move out and
investigate. But the thought passed. He remained where he was, and
turning gave a sharp word of command to his patient team, which
promptly moved off in the direction of the barn.
There was no doubt in the farmer’s mind; there was also no undue
concern. But as his horses moved off he removed the fur mitt from his
right hand, and plunged it deeply into the pocket of his capacious
leather coat. It was a movement of instinct. It was a movement that
was the outcome of existence in a territory where survival depended
upon the capacity of the individual in defence. His muscular hand was
gripping the gun that he never failed to carry somewhere secreted about
his person.
The silent moments prolonged. Then the sound broke again.
The next instant George Marton found himself gazing upon the unkempt,
haggard face of a fellow-creature. The face was peering out, framed
by the boughs of snow-laden spruce which had been thrust aside. And
a pair of hungry blue eyes were staring at him out of deep, hollow
sockets.
“Well? What’s the game?” Marton spoke quietly, but there was an
incisive note in his challenge. “You’re covered. Move hand or foot till
I say, an’ you’re surely a dead man.”
The stranger’s reply was a laugh. But he obeyed very literally.
“Well? I’m waiting.”
Marton had not moved a muscle. But the understanding behind the
stranger’s wild eyes was plain enough. The man in the bluff knew the
farmer’s gun was levelled at him in the depths of his pocket.
It was a wofully hoarse voice that replied as the laugh died out.
“I’m lost. I’m starving. Another night in the open without a feed and
I’ll be dead.”
Marton’s reply was instant.
“Put your hands right up over your head and come out of that bluff.
Your hands up first.”
He was obeyed without demur, and the farmer beheld the steel handcuffs
that were set about lacerated wrists.
“Now come right out.”
The farmer’s tone had changed ever so slightly. Maybe the sight of the
lacerated wrists had excited his pity. Perhaps there was relief that
the man was defenceless. At any rate, the tone had less sharpness and
more humanity in it.
* * * * *
They stood face to face, and within two yards of each other. The
stranger was the taller. He was clad in the black sheepskin coat of the
police. His fur cap was pressed low down over his fairish face. There
was a stubble of beard and whisker disfiguring the lower part of his
face; and, on his cheekbones, and on the end of his nose, were great
blisters of frost-bite. But it was the man’s hungry eyes that held the
well-fed farmer.
“What’s your name?” he demanded.
“James Pryse.”
“What are those irons doing there?”
“I made a getaway from the police patrol taking me down to Calford
penitentiary for five years.”
“For cattle?” The question came backed by a fierce light in the black
eyes.
The stranger shook his head.
“No. My brother killed a man who’d robbed him of a wife and seduced
her. I held up the police while he made his getaway.”
“Is that the truth?”
“God’s truth.”
“And the patrol?”
“Guess he’s hunting me right now.”
“He--wasn’t hurt?”
“Not a hair of his head.”
Marton nodded.
“Then come right along. I’ll do what I can.”
CHAPTER III
A Real Samaritan
It was the dim-lit interior of a lean-to built against the big barn.
It was the farmer’s workshop, littered with the tools that served his
simple needs. Marton was propped against a sturdy, home-made table
that also served the purposes of a bench. He was gazing down in the
yellow lamplight at the famished creature squatting beside the small
wood-stove on an up-turned box.
It was a painful spectacle. He had realised from his brief catechism
that the man was educated. Yet he sat there devouring a great platter
of hot stew at a speed and in a fashion such as he had never before
witnessed in any human creature. The wolfishness of it was terrible.
The man was literally starving.
Marton was a man of swift decision. And his decision had long since
been taken. The stranger had spoken truth when he said that another
night in the open without food would be his last. He had committed a
crime against the law, and had been sentenced for it. And now he had
made a getaway. Well, that crime by no means found the farmer on the
side of the law. On the contrary, it found him on the side of this
poor, starving wreck. And he meant to help him all he knew. That is, if
subsequent talk failed to inspire doubt.
So he had brought him to this little workshop, where the stove was
still alight, and had released him from the lacerating shackles. He
had sought out Lightning and warned him not to intrude. Then he had
forthwith passed on to the house, and told Molly just sufficient to
account for his demand for the necessary food with which to restore
the convict to some semblance of well-being. But in all this he gave no
clue to the feelings which the encounter had inspired.
The convict cleared up the last of the gravy by wiping the platter out
with bread. He devoured the last crumb of the bread, and took a long
drink from the pannikin of steaming tea that was on the ground beside
him. Then he looked up with an irresistible smile in his eyes.
“Gee! That’s swell!” he said. “The liquor doesn’t count so much, except
it’s hot. Snow-water’s poor sort of stuff, but it’s drink. I’ll never
forget you gave me that feed, whoever you are. I hadn’t eaten for seven
days and seven nights.”
Then his gaze lowered to the hideous lacerations of his wrists.
“They’ve been frozen again and again,” he said.
“And they’ll rot if you ain’t careful.”
“I s’pose they will.”
Marton bestirred himself. He drew out of a pocket the bandages and
ointments he had procured from Molly.
“We best not try to heal ’em,” he said. “You’ll get worse trouble that
way. This dope’ll maybe save ’em from gangrene, and the bandages’ll
keep the frost out of ’em--and the dirt. It’s the best I know. Here,
we’ll wash ’em first.”
For ten minutes or so the farmer worked with the skill of long
experience in frost-bites. He worked in silence, and his patient
offered neither comment, nor protest, nor expression of pain. Then,
when the operation was completed, Marton sent him back to his seat and
returned to his position on the bench. He lit his pipe.
“Well?” he said, in that meaning fashion so comprehensive in difficult
circumstances.
The convict shook his head.
“What’re you going to do?”
The blue eyes were smiling, but a shadow of anxiety was looking out of
them.
“If I hand you feed and loan you a broncho, can you make a clear
getaway without involving me with the Police?”
“D’you mean that?”
The smile in the convict’s eyes was radiant.
Marton still gave no sign of any feeling. He smoked on heavily, his
eyes coldly expressionless.
“I don’t say things without meaning ’em, I guess,” he said, in the
same even tone, which never seemed to vary very much. “Ther’s just two
things I can do. One’s hold you right here till the Police get around
and relieve me of you. The other’s to help you beat it to a place of
safety--that ain’t the penitentiary. Anyway, I’ve a hunch for the man
who can kill his wife’s seducer, and for those that helped him.”
The man at the stove drew a deep breath. His condition was utterly
forgotten. The thought of all that might still lie ahead of him when he
again set out on the winter trail gave him not a tremor of disquiet.
He was thinking only of the heavily built creature smoking his pipe
against the table, and wondering. The sphinx-like face was impossible
to read.
After a few silent moments he stirred.
“Won’t you hand me your name?” he asked almost diffidently.
“Sure. George Marton. Do you feel like talking?”
* * * * *
For some moments Jim Pryse gazed up silently into the face of the
stranger who had so unexpectedly become his benefactor. His emotion was
such that for awhile the talk he had been bidden to seemed impossible.
It was all a miracle--a veritable miracle. A few short hours ago
the last shadow of hope had been extinguished. For days he had been
wandering about interminable hills, with the thermometer more than ten
below zero. His horse had long since been foundered and abandoned,
while he essayed to reach some sort of shelter on foot. Oh, he had made
his escape from Corporal McFardell surely enough, but the hell he had
endured as the price of that escape had been something he had never
thought that human body could endure.
The short days, the desperately long nights; no matches to kindle a
fire, no blankets, nothing but the merciful sheepskin coat which the
police had provided him with; no food of any sort, and only snow-water
to drink; nothing, nothing but his will to flounder on through a world
of snow and ice and a maddening sea of uninhabited hills. The terror of
those last days had been almost insupportable. And only was it a sort
of grim philosophy which had kept him going. A hundred times he could
have lain down and let the temperature lull his weary, starving body
and mind to that final peace which would have saved him from his agony.
But he had kept to his weary feet, that, as he had told himself through
his clenched teeth, he might go down fighting.
And now, now that was all behind him. The scars of it all were there.
Those manacles. The bite of the frost upon his face and hands. Then
the dreadful sense of bodily weariness. Even now he felt that the only
thing he desired was sleep--just sleep. And yet----
No, there was no sleep yet. This man, this queer, unsmiling creature
had offered him help, had given him food and had named no price. God!
There was no price adequate that he could pay him. What was it? Where
was the sign of this silent creature’s humanity? He passed a bandaged
hand over his forehead and thrust his fur cap back.
Then he began to talk, and with talking the desire for sleep passed
away. He talked to the man who sucked silently at his pipe and offered
never a word of comment. And his talk was of that queer history which
had brought him to the gates of the penitentiary. He told everything
without any reservation, even to the fact of the great wealth he had
accumulated during his five years up in the gold country of Alaska. He
felt in his wave of gratitude that he could do no less.
“You see,” he finished up, “I’m handing you all this because I don’t
fancy leaving you with a shadow of doubt. I’m a mighty rich man. So
rich I don’t fancy you can guess. But I’m not the sort that figures to
offer you a thing for what you reckon to do for me. But I want to say
this, and I mean it all; there just isn’t a thing I wouldn’t raise hell
to do for you or yours any old time, and for just as long as I live.
You’ve handed me life and hope. Hope! You don’t know what it means till
you’ve lost it. Hope! Think of life without it. No, you couldn’t. No
one could. Death a thousand times sooner--without hope. Gee, I’m tired!”
Suddenly he thrust his elbows on his knees and dropped his chin into
the palms of his bandaged hands.
The farmer bestirred himself. He knocked out his pipe, and, moving over
to a small pile of wood, replenished the stove. Then he stood up, and,
for the first time, the convict beheld a twinkle in the keen black eyes.
“I wanted that story, Pryse,” he said, addressing the other by name
for the first time. “And you’ve told it good. I’m not left guessing.
Well, boy, I’m going right up to the house now. I’ll be back along with
blankets in awhile. There’s wood right here that’ll keep the frost out
of your bones. You’re welcome to it all. Then you can sleep good. I’ll
have my gal, Molly, pack you up a big bunch of food by morning. I’ll
hand you dollars to pay your way with, in case that wealth of yours has
been left behind. And you can have a broncho that’ll worry the trail
a month without let-up, and live on the dead grass it can scrape from
under the snow. If you can make your getaway with that outfit you’re
welcome to it. If you fancy it, there’s a shot-gun and some shells
that’ll maybe help you to pick up some feed. That’s about all I can see
to do. And you’ll have to make that getaway after you’ve eaten good in
the morning. You won’t see a soul but me till you’ve quit here. I’ll
hand you the best trail to make. That’s all. Now I’ll get along to my
supper.”
He moved towards the door, but paused at the sound of the voice of the
weary creature beside the stove.
“Say, I want--I want----”
Pryse broke off lamentably, and Marton beheld the piteous spectacle of
a strong man with hot tears welling up into his eyes.
“Don’t say a word, boy,” the farmer said, in his curious, even tone.
“Not a word. I know how it feels. Forget it.”
And a radiant light in the twinkling eyes entirely transformed the
unsmiling expression to which the convict had grown accustomed.
George Marton turned again to the door and passed out. And as he went
there was a picture in his mind of a pair of fine blue eyes that gazed
after him through a veil of hot tears of which the man was unashamed.
CHAPTER IV
A Stroke of Fate
The hush of the woods was undisturbed by the rhythmic clip of the
farmer’s axe. The cloak of winter seemed to muffle the whole world, and
transform it into a dour desolation, fit only to harbour the timber
wolves and the coyotes which haunted the foothills.
A foot and more of snow lay everywhere in the open. Mounting snowdrifts
were driven against every obstruction. The pine bluffs were laden with
a roofing of crystal whiteness, and the greater hills had become a
world of snow, which would remain unchanging throughout the winter.
But George Marton was without concern for Nature’s desperate moods. He
knew she was a simple blusterer, governed by laws she had no power to
defy. She might rage or smile. It was only the weakling she could ever
hope to bluff. No, he never permitted himself an anxious thought in the
life that was his. He moved on with machine-like precision, and his
undisturbed methods brought him a slowly but steadily rising measure of
success.
For days now he had been labouring in the timber belt, hewing,
splitting, without pause for aught but those scheduled moments when
the needs of his stout body must be ministered to. And thus the stack
of cordwood stored at his homestead had risen to the proportions which
experience had taught him were necessary.
The sun had already set, and in something over an hour darkness would
have fallen. His day’s tally of cordwood was stacked on his double-bob
sleigh, and his team stood ready and eager for the journey that would
terminate at their snug barn.
Ordinarily he would have set out forthwith, and left the next day’s
work for the day to which it belonged. But for once in his life he had
decided to prolong his labours. The reason was that less than a week
ago he had lost half a day’s work because of his charity to an escaping
convict, and his spirit rebelled against that loss. So he turned again
to the standing timber, determined to employ the last hour of daylight,
and make the homeward journey in the darkness.
So the gleaming axe, with its razor edge, kept on at its work of
destruction. And in that hour twenty more of the youth of the forest
lay sprawled in the clearing. With the fall of the twentieth the
tireless man glanced up at the western sky. Already the starry sheen of
night was looking down at him.
But he turned back at once to a standing trunk that was a good deal
larger than those he had already felled. He measured its height with a
swift, upward glance, and ran his thumb over the edge of his axe. Then
he hunched himself, and flung his weapon at the work.
It was a strange scene in the growing darkness. The swing of the axe
was faultless. There was not an ounce of wasted strength in the blows
which fell on the rapidly widening cut at the base of the trunk. There
was not a single blow that fell other than where it was intended.
Each cut told, and each cut came nearer and nearer to the soft heart
of precious white timber. Just for an instant there was a pause, to
measure again the fall of the tree. Then he spat on his hands and
returned to his work.
The axe swung aloft and descended into the heart of the tree. It rose
again. Again it fell. Again and again the cutting edge hewed out the
flying chips. Then, in a moment, the snowy crest of foliage swung over,
and the tearing of uncut wood crashed sharply. The man stepped to move
clear. And then--and then----
It was done in less than a flash of the falling axe. The disaster came
before the doomed man could utter a sound. That step back, which had
been made a thousand times in the work he knew so well, should have
carried him to safety. But the darkness robbed him of that certainty of
vision that was always his.
His foot struck heavily against a prone log. It struck with sufficient
force to upset his balance. He sought to recover himself and jump
clear. It was too late. The falling tree crashed to the ground, bearing
him with it. And he lay pinned beneath it, face downwards, with the
great trunk crushing his shoulders and chest under its enormous weight.
* * * * *
Night had descended upon the farm, and the lamplight of the living-room
threw into relief the slight figure of Molly as she stood in the open
doorway. She was talking to Lightning, and her tone was anxious. There
was no smile in her eyes. She was urgent, and the trouble in her mind
was something which, in all her eighteen years, she had never known
before.
“It’s no use, Lightning,” she said at last. “Father’s never been late
like this. It’s been dark more than two hours, and the bluff isn’t more
than a half-hour away. Ther’s not a thing to keep him. Jane and Blue
Pete should have hauled him to home nearly two hours ago. I just can’t
stand it. That’s all. Beat it and hook up the cutter. Hook up my pinto.
She’ll get us out to the bluff quicker than the other beasts. Get a
great big move on. I--I--can’t stand waiting around. And his supper’s
baking itself to death.”
“Won’t you give him another haf-hour, Molly gal?” Lightning urged. “I
can’t ever see reason to jump in till you need. Your father’ll raise
hell with us. Guess he’s a hunch for folks keeping tight to their own
business, an’ not buttin’ in wher’ they ain’t needed. Won’t----”
Molly’s gaze came back abruptly from the dark direction of the
invisible snow-trail. And there was a cold look in her eyes which
silenced the man instantly.
“Beat it, Lightning, an’ do as I say,” she cried sharply. “Get your old
fur coat on, and a robe. You’ll need to come along. I’ll fix the rest I
need.”
The man offered no further protest. He realised something which before
he had not rightly understood. This girl was in a complete state of
panic. Had he been more imaginative he would perhaps have understood.
George Marton should have returned to his supper at the proper hour.
Never within his daughter’s memory had he failed to do so before.
Lightning went off in a hurry, and this lean, queer creature’s hurry
was something astonishing. He was back at the door of the homestead
with the pinto mare and the cutter before Molly had completed her
preparations.
She came to the door carrying a small wicker basket. She stood clad in
a long beaver coat, with a fur cap pressed low down over her ears. Her
storm collar was turned up and secured about her neck by a long woollen
scarf, and with her darkly-fringed grey eyes anxiously peering out into
the night, she was a vision that warmed the old choreman’s heart under
his tattered buffalo coat.
“No sign?” she said a little hopelessly. “Still no sign.” Then she
sighed deeply. “Something’s happened, Lightning. I just know it.”
Lightning cleared his throat.
“I’m not worrying, Molly, gal,” he said, with a poor attempt to restore
the smile to her anxious eyes. “But I sure am feeling bad about the
thing he’s goin’ to hand us when we meet him on the trail.”
The girl climbed into the driving-seat and took the lines from the man.
“We aren’t going to meet him on the trail,” she said, in a low,
significant tone, as she eased her hand to the impatient mare.
* * * * *
Out of a cloudless sky a myriad of coldly winking stars peered down
upon the snowbound earth. No breath of wind came to stir the snow-laden
tree-tops. The cold was intense, and zero had long since been left
behind by the sinking mercury.
The clearing in the timber belt was littered with sprawling trunks.
They lay still--so still. Near by to them, drawn up in the shelter of
standing timber, was the team still hitched to its load of cordwood.
The horses stood in their harness quite unmoving, their great heads
drooping in sleep. They had waited and waited for the sharp tones of
the voice they knew, and then, with equine philosophy, had permitted
their dream world to overwhelm them.
Drawn up near by stood the dim outline of a cutter, with its single
pinto mare. The mare had been driven hard, but tied fast to a sapling,
and wrapped in the comfort of a fur robe, she, too, was resting
quietly, with down-drooped head.
In the starlight two darkly-outlined figures crouched about the heavy
end of a fallen tree. Near to them lay the shining head of an axe
where it had fallen from the grasp of the man who had used it so
indefatigably. The two figures uttered no sound as they laboured. Both
were prying the log with improvised levers, which were tree-limbs of
stout proportions.
It was Lightning who had made the terrible discovery. In the half-light
he had literally tripped over the body of the crushed farmer. It was
a hideous moment for both. But for Molly it was a time of complete
despair. One look at the position of the fallen man had confirmed her
worst fears, and, with a cry of agony, she had flung herself upon her
knees, embracing the remains of the sturdy parent who had been her all
in life.
The loyal Lightning had proved himself the man he was in emergency.
With harsh words and rough hands he had forced the girl to abandon her
wild demonstration of grief. Then his practical mind had shown her the
thing that must be done.
Now his plan was being operated. It was terribly hazardous if life yet
remained beneath that log. They worked silently at their levers, and
inch by inch the log was lifted, and blocked up with carefully placed
tree-limbs. At last the reward they were seeking came to them. The log
was sufficiently raised to free the crushed body.
Slowly, and with infinite care, the still form of George Marton was
drawn clear of the tree. But no sound escaped the injured man as they
moved him. And the omen of it shattered the girl’s last shadow of hope.
She crouched on her knees beside him, passing one hand tenderly over
the crushed and broken body in a vain endeavour to estimate the damage.
And the while Lightning had gone back to the cutter for her basket of
remedies.
When the man returned with the basket, Molly had abandoned her
examination. She gazed up at the tall, shadowy figure standing over
her. The expression of her despairing eyes was hidden in the darkness.
But the tone of her voice smote the loyal creature to the depths of his
old heart.
“He’s--dead,” she cried. “Oh, Lightning, he’s dead. And he was all I
had.”
CHAPTER V
The Sentence
The cold fabric of discipline at the Police Headquarters at Calford
had been shocked into a flutter of excited interest and anticipation.
The machine-like routine of police life had, for a moment, reacted to
a more human aspect of itself. Interested comment passed from lip to
lip, and widely conflicting were the opinions expressed. But, curiously
enough, there was pretty general unanimity amongst the lower ranks of
the Force in a feeling of quiet satisfaction. Corporal Andrew McFardell
had been placed under arrest, and, at “Orderly-Room” that morning, he
would be tried and sentenced for permitting the escape of his prisoner
while on escort duty from Greenwood to Calford.
Alone in his barrack-room, which had been his charge for so long,
Corporal McFardell was more than sick at heart. But over and above
everything else he was smarting under a sense of intolerable injustice.
It was four days since he had returned to barracks. And before that
he had driven himself and his horse well-nigh to death for ten days,
scouring the snowy desolation of the hill country in search of the man
who had tricked him so badly in his moment of helplessness. The man
had vanished; completely and utterly disappeared. He had made good an
escape which McFardell had deemed impossible. The man was a stranger to
the country; he was shackled; his horse was none too fresh. How was it
possible?
McFardell had expected to discover his frozen body at least. But his
ten days of superhuman effort had left him unrewarded. So he had been
driven to return to Calford, his horse well-nigh foundered, and himself
in little better case, to make his report, and to be promptly placed
under arrest for his pains. Then he had been forced to place himself on
the sick list, to be attended for the frost which had bitten him almost
to the bone. And now, rested and recovered, he was awaiting that brazen
summons of the bugle for the thing that was yet to come.
It was curious. As the man lolled upon the brown blankets of his bed
his resentment and bitterness were in no way directed against the
prisoner who was the cause of his disaster. It was anger, furious
anger, against the authority which took practically no cognisance of
any circumstance in a case of failure amongst those who acknowledged it.
For years he had laboured and schemed, sacrificing everything to
“duty.” Step by step he had gained his advancement by sound, patient
work, until now he stood first on the roll of seniority for his
sergeant’s stripes. Now he knew that all that record would have to go
by the board. It would count for practically nothing. He must face a
cold tribunal, governed only by police regulations, which were devoid
of all human sentiment. He must accept the last ounce of punishment
for the loss of his prisoner for which they happened to call. He
would be punished in just the same degree as any other whose record
was incomparable with his. The injustice of it maddened him. In his
bitterness he claimed the right to treatment in accordance with his
record of years of good work.
But that was the Andrew McFardell whom his associates knew. That was
the man who, for all his good police work, had failed to inspire any
warmth of regard amongst those with whom he worked. That was why there
was excitement, and anticipation, and a sense of quiet satisfaction in
the thought of the trial that was to take place that morning.
Andrew McFardell took no thought for anything or anybody but himself.
As the last harsh note of the bugle died out on the crisp winter air
McFardell sprang alertly from his bunk. He set his fur cap on his head
and buttoned the shining buttons of his red jacket. Then, with a swift
glance round the deserted room, he passed hurriedly out in response to
the summons.
* * * * *
On the wooden side-walk just outside the Superintendent’s office
Corporal McFardell sprang to “Attention” in response to the
Sergeant-Major’s barking order. He felt that a hundred pairs of eyes
were peering out at him, prompted by a curiosity that had little
friendliness in it. He was under no illusion. Popularity with his
comrades was a thing he had treated with quiet contempt. He had never
concerned himself with their opinion. The only good opinion he had
sought had been of those in authority over him. And now he knew he was
about to learn the true value of the favour of the gods he had set
up. He pulled himself together, and thrust every other thought aside,
concentrating upon the task of combating regulations whose cold framing
left him so little hope.
As the little procession lined up facing Superintendent Leedham
Branch’s desk the Sergeant-Major snatched the fur cap from the
prisoner’s head. It was a further indignity demanded by regulations.
The Superintendent was contemplating the charge sheet before him. He
did not even glance at the prisoner. On either side of him and slightly
behind his chair, stood the two Inspectors of his command. They were
very definitely regarding the prisoner, but in that cold sphinx-like,
unrecognising fashion which the discipline governing them all had
taught them.
It was a bare, uninteresting room, with calsomined walls and a
flooring of bare boards. There was just sufficient furnishing to meet
the needs of administration. The Superintendent’s desk was a simple
whitewood table, and the chair he occupied behind it was of bentwood.
Immediately behind him stood a fireproof safe, and, distributed about,
where necessary, stood other whitewood tables and bentwood chairs for
the use of Inspectors and staff. The whole atmosphere of the place
epitomised the lives of these men, who spared themselves as little as
the criminals it was their work to deal with.
Superintendent Branch seemed in no hurry to deal with the case. Perhaps
his attitude was calculated. He continued his reading, while McFardell
regarded him with anxiously speculative eyes.
At last the man behind the desk spoke, without looking up. He was a
clean-cut, clean-shaven creature, with fair hair and pale blue eyes.
He was possibly forty. He was tall, slight, and his whole appearance
suggested energy and capacity.
“Corporal McFardell, the charge against you is one of gross neglect
of duty,” he said, in a quiet, colourless voice. “On November 8th
you permitted the escape of the prisoner, James Pryse, sentenced to
five years’ imprisonment with hard labour, while on escort duty from
Greenwood to Calford. You are further charged with absenting yourself
from duty from November 8th to the 18th, contrary to General Order
9075A2 governing the escort of prisoners by trail. What have you to
say? Are you guilty or not guilty?”
“Guilty on both charges, sir.”
McFardell’s reply came on the instant. He knew he had no alternative.
There was, however, a sharpness in his tone that gave some indication
of the alertness, the readiness to defend, that lay behind his words.
“Sergeant-Major Ironside.”
The man at the desk looked up interrogatively at the first witness. And
the Sergeant-Major cleared his throat.
“Sir, on the morning of the 18th Corporal McFardell rode into barracks
and reported the loss of the prisoner, James Pryse. He stated that the
date of the man’s escape was the 8th. When I questioned him as to the
delay of his return to barracks he explained he had been riding the
hill country in an attempt to recapture the escaped prisoner, who, he
believed, could not have made a clear getaway in the snowstorm that was
prevailing at the time of his escape. The Corporal’s horse was in bad
shape, and the Veterinary Sergeant reports that he had been pretty well
ridden to death. I placed Corporal McFardell under arrest, and reported
at once to the Orderly Officer of the day.”
The Sergeant-Major’s evidence was given in the unemotional manner of
an automaton. He had given the outline of the facts in the manner his
duty demanded. There was no exaggeration; there was no softening.
Superintendent Branch turned to the prisoner.
“Have you any question to ask Sergeant-Major Ironside?”
“None, sir.”
Forthwith the Superintendent turned to Inspector Kalton.
“You were Orderly Officer on the 18th, Mr. Kalton?”
The Inspector also gave a slight clearing of the throat. Then, very
briefly, he corroborated his subordinate’s evidence. As the prisoner
had no questions to put, for a few reflective moments, Superintendent
Branch gazed steadily up into his face.
“You have heard the evidence, Corporal,” he said at last, in that cold
fashion that was so desperately discouraging. “What have you to say in
your defence?”
Not a detail of the manner in which Orderly-Room cases were dealt with
was new to Corporal McFardell. He knew the whole ritual by heart. His
years of experience had brought him into contact with it often enough.
But this was the first time he had occupied the central place as the
prisoner. His whole concern at that moment was how far he might hope
to escape the full penalty due to him as laid down by General Orders.
He pinned his last hope to the extenuating nature of the circumstances
of his disaster. He believed that no one would have fared better
under his conditions. And, furthermore, he felt he had done all he
knew to recover the escaped man. He had striven till the last of his
bodily resources were exhausted. He felt that his case was good.
Superintendent Branch was a just man.
He knew that the extreme penalty for his crime against regulations was
reduction to the ranks, imprisonment, and dismissal from the Force
without character. If he could escape with reduction to the ranks
he would be happy. If imprisonment were added he would not despair.
Dismissal from the Force was the thing he dreaded most of all. It would
be the end of all things for him. For he had looked to make the Force
the whole of his career. A “bobtail” discharge was the nightmare of the
mounted policeman. So he, like those others, cleared his throat before
speaking, and hurled himself to his defence.
“Sir,” he began, a little hoarsely as he passed his tongue across his
thick lips to moisten them, “I’ve no sort of defence to offer beyond
the letter of the report which I addressed to you as my commanding
officer on my return to barracks on the 18th. You’ll have read it
before this, sir, and I want to say that every word I wrote there is
just the God’s truth. I was knocked out cold by my horse falling,
through the balling snow in his hoofs. And I guess there was no
power in the world to prevent the man getting the drop on me while
I was unconscious. When I woke up he’d got me covered, so I couldn’t
do a thing. I just had to lie there while he got clear away in the
half-light of the snowstorm. The moment I had the chance I was on my
horse and after him. And I didn’t let up till my horse was done, and
I couldn’t sit a saddle right. I’ve been through hell to recover that
prisoner, sir. Give me a chance, sir, to get after that feller again. I
don’t ask to escape punishment. I know I’ll lose my stripes, and maybe
I’ll go to the guard-room for a spell. But for God’s sake, sir, don’t
discharge me from the Force. It’s the only way I can hope to get after
that feller right. Hand me the chance to get after him. It’s all I ask.
It’s him and me, sir. Whatever happens, it’s that way just as long as
I live. If you keep me in the Force I can do it right. It’s my one big
chance. That’s all, sir.”
The passionate sincerity of McFardell’s appeal was wholly convincing.
His words came hotly, and regardless of the usual formalities. But
there was no sign of the relenting he looked for in the eyes observing
him so coldly. With his last word there came an ominous shake of the
head from the man behind the table.
“I’ve read your report very carefully, Corporal,” he said coldly. “I’m
quite convinced that it is the whole truth, and you are to be commended
that that is so. But, unfortunately, for you the truth is very damning
to your case. Your horse fell and threw you, and you were rendered
unconscious. No one can blame you for that. Had the prisoner made his
getaway while you were unconscious I should have dismissed the charges
laid against you. But he did not do so. He apparently only had time to
disarm you before you came to, which suggests you were only momentarily
stunned. Then, when he held you covered, you made no resistance. You
apparently did nothing. In fear of your life you _let_ him get away.
Do you understand my meaning? There is the moral charge of cowardice
preferred against you. Your report condemns you so flagrantly that I
shall inflict the maximum penalty. You are reduced to the ranks. You
will be confined to the guard-room for two months, with hard labour.
And--your case will go up to the Commissioner with a recommendation
that you be dismissed from the Force.”
“Right turn! Quick march!”
The Sergeant-Major’s commands rang out. It was like the hideous toll of
the prison bell after an execution.
* * * * *
Superintendent Branch, his officers, and Sergeant-Major Ironside had
been discussing the escape of James Pryse. Orderly-Room was over.
Trooper McFardell was already in the charge of the guard, and about to
begin his two months of hard labour. His case was already relegated to
the orders of the day. And, in so far as he was concerned, the matter
was dismissed from the minds of his superiors. They had no thought for
the career which their discipline had devastated.
“You know, Sergeant-Major, it’s a far more serious matter than I
can say,” Superintendent Branch declared at the conclusion of the
discussion, with an emphasis which his associates recognised as his
most profound danger-signal. “Were this man, Pryse, an ordinary
criminal, it would leave me less disturbed. Through him the Police
prestige has suffered a double blow. Think back. What is the position?
A murder is committed--a clear, frank, deliberate shooting by a man
who, maybe, felt justified. That’s all right. His brother, this Pryse,
fresh from Alaska, is staying in his house in Greenwood. The murderer
has no thought of a getaway. He knows our people are coming for him,
and he reckons to stand his trial. We know all that. Meanwhile this
wild man, James Pryse, gets at him. He plans his escape and prepares.
When our men come along, the house is transformed into a veritable
fortress, and we are forced to storm it. Well, eventually we get in,
and what do we find? This man, James Pryse, simply laughing at us.
Which means that the whole of the town of Greenwood was laughing with
him. It was all a game. Our man had been got away before we came. And
the whole pantomime of barricading the house was performed to give
him added time, and delay our ultimate pursuit. That all came out at
Pryse’s trial. That’s bad enough. But now this later escape of Pryse
himself is ten times worse. We’ve lost so much ground I simply daren’t
think of it. We shall have the Commissioner here to investigate our
discipline and efficiency. And very rightly so. Things have got to be
jerked up, and at once. I shall hold myself responsible that this is
so. And I shall hold my officers no less responsible, and you, too,
Sergeant-Major.”
“Yes, sir.”
The Sergeant-Major’s face reflected the storm which the other’s words
had set boiling behind his hard grey eyes. His superiors all knew his
swift methods of passing any reprimand he might receive on to the
troops under him.
A grim light was shining in the eyes that regarded the rugged face of
the harshest Sergeant-Major in the Police Force.
“Now, let there be no mistake, Sergeant-Major. No mistake whatever,”
the man at the desk went on, in a carefully calculated tone. “The
prisoner, Pryse, has to be recaptured. If there is any further failure,
you will have to answer for it. Do you understand me? How many patrols
have you got out?”
“Three, Sir.”
“Three? You will treble that number. You will treble it, if you have
to return half the staff to duty. You must go through the territory
within a hundred and fifty miles of this post with a fine comb, and
any failure in efficiency in the work will be dealt with in the most
rigorous fashion. See to it. These patrols must be on the trail by
noon. That will do.”
CHAPTER VI
The Gateway of Hope
A world of smiling hope looked out of the man’s tired blue eyes. The
sky was brilliant, and flecked with fine-weather cloud. The air was
full of a warmth that was increasing with each passing day. The whole
world about him was bursting with renewed life. He felt that the battle
had been fought out. At long last the prospect of ultimate victory was
infinitely more than a vain hope.
His face and body were painfully thin. But the full ravages, induced
by the privations he had suffered during the desperate months of
winter, were largely concealed under a thick growth of grey beard and
whisker. His hair was long, with scarcely a streak of its original
colour remaining. And its white strands reached to the decayed collar
of a coat that would have ill-become the body of a “hoboe.” His nether
garments were worn and patched, and painfully soil-stained. But his
thin body was unbowed, and the spirit looking out of his eyes was
undismayed.
Near by his horse, in little better shape than himself, was hungrily
devouring the new-born shoots of sweet grass. Its long winter coat was
heavily matted and mud-discoloured. There were the disfiguring scars of
saddle-galls about its withers and under its forelegs. And its whole
condition was illuminating as to the part the wretched creature had
played in the desperate battle for existence which they had fought out
together.
Just behind the man, in a shelter of a pinewood bluff, stood a crazy
habitation. It was a patched ruin which must have been set up many
years ago by some other wanderer seeking hiding within the mountain
world. It was log-built and box-like, without windows or smoke-stack.
It was just a shelter against the storms of winter, with sufficient
space in its hovel-like interior to admit of accommodation for horse
as well as man. A small fire was spluttering before the doorway, and a
cooking-pot stood steaming over it.
The man had reached that condition of endurance when bodily comfort no
longer concerned him. The smiling sun, the warm rains that had swept
the snows of winter from the face of an earth that was lusting to
produce, the stirring life that was in full evidence about him--these
were the things which preoccupied him, to the exclusion of everything,
and afforded him an answer to the question that had dogged his every
thought for months.
Jim Pryse had christened his hiding-place the Valley of Hope. And, in
the weary months he had spent within its shelter, he had buoyed himself
by planning a dream world within its bosom--a whimsical, fantastic
world that satisfied a quiet sense of humour that never wholly deserted
him.
But this had been at a time when he knew not from day to day the fate
that was in store for him. This had been when storm and blizzard buried
the world about him feet deep in snow, when the depths below zero ate
into his bones, and such fire as he possessed was insufficient to thaw
the frost rime that whitened the whole interior of his quarters.
Now his dream had become a real, vital purpose to him. Now it was
altogether different. Now the great gateway of the valley stood wide
open in the brilliant spring sunlight, and revealed the wonder of the
world within. It was a glorious, fertile plain of sweet grass, that
reached so far out towards the warming south that its confines lay
beyond the reach of human eyes.
It was a radiant picture, alive with a busy, fussing, mating, feathered
concourse. It was dotted with woodland bluffs of spruce, and pine, and
poplar, and tamarack, and a wealth of undergrowth already bursting into
full leaf. There were wide pools of snow-water standing in the troughs
which lay between the rollers of new-born grass, a happy feeding and
playing ground for the swarming geese and mallard. Splitting it down
the centre, winding a crazy course over the line of least resistance,
a surging mountain torrent tore joyously at its muddied banks in a mad
desire to release its flooding waters. East and west the limits of the
valley were frowning with dark forest-belts that came down from the
mountain slopes. Southward the gateway revealed nothing but a broad,
sunlit highway.
The gateway itself was marked by two sheer cliffs, black with the
weathering of ages. Standing half a mile apart, and rising to immense
heights, they embraced between them a spread of dense forest, which,
in turn, concealed the cascading torrent whose source was the world
of eternal snow above. The meaning of the gateway was simple of
explanation. Beyond a doubt the great cliffs were all that remained of
a saddle of hill, linking twin mountains, which had ultimately yielded
to the fierce erosion to which the melting snows had subjected it.
Beyond the northern confines of the valley, somewhere behind a barrier
of lesser hills, one great snowy head reared itself to the clouds.
Similarly, to the south-west another stood up at a height that could
not have been less than twelve thousand feet. Then, to the east, there
were two others. They were monsters whose purpose was clearly that of
cradle posts for the valley they sheltered between them.
It was all far-hidden by the secret approach up Three-Way Creek from
the east. It was all even deeper lost to the hill and forest country
of British Columbia, to the west. Devoid of any highway approach,
it suggested the hiding-place it had become. It was one of Nature’s
remotenesses completely disguised at the moment of furious labour when
the world was born.
Pryse bestirred himself. Food and drink were aflood in this home that
was his. And food and drink summed up his needs at the moment. He moved
out into the full sunlight, and the dripping soil oozed under his
ill-shod feet.
At his first movement his horse flung up its head. Its ears were
pricked with all the alertness of its well-being. Its eyes were full
and bright, for all its body was little better than skin and bone.
There was inquiry in the soft-gazing depths. To the man it almost
seemed as if they contained reproach.
“Don’t worry, old feller,” he said, as though speaking to a well-loved
companion whose comprehension was beyond question. “Get right on with
your feed. Eat it all. I’d like to see you so pot-bellied I couldn’t
get the cinchas around you right.”
He moved on till he stood close up to the animal. Then he laid a
caressing hand upon its attenuated neck.
“There’s no saddle to-day,” he went on. “Dan’s coming along, if he
doesn’t get held up by a wash-out. He’s bringing tobacco, and matches,
and tea, and a bunch of cartridges, so we can shoot up some of those
dandy mallards. Maybe he’s bringing us news, too. And if it’s good
news it’s liable to lead us to a place where there’s a bunch of oats
for you, and something that’ll likely help me to look more like a man.
We’ve waited and stuck it out, old feller, you and me. And I sort of
feel there’s a good time coming. I’ll just get right along and haul up
the lines in the creek, and see what sort of eat I’ll make.”
The horse rubbed its shaggy head against his thread-bare coat. No doubt
it meant nothing. Yet it almost seemed as if the creature understood
the feelings lying behind the smiling words. Pryse moved away.
He hurried out across the moist grass, and his step was light and
vigorous. At that moment the world looked good to him. He was hungry.
He was always hungry. And he knew from past experience, ever since the
thaw had come, that it would be only a question of how many fish his
night-lines had collected.
He reached the undergrowth at the river bank and disappeared within it.
And only the sound of breaking bush came back as he thrust his way. He
was gone for nearly half an hour. And when he reappeared, it was to be
greeted by the hail of a horseman waiting for him at the edge of the
woods that contained his winter home.
“Say, thanks be to the Holy Mackinaw this is going to be the last trip
I’m makin’ up Three-Way Creek,” the man bellowed across at him, in a
tone and accent that was unmistakably Irish. “I’ve beat it through
muskeg that had me right up to the cinchas. There’s enough flood water
by the way to drown a whole darn world, and the skitters are crazy for
good Irish blood. Say, boy, I come along to tell you you’re going to
get out right away.”
Jim Pryse hurried across to his visitor with his bunch of strung trout.
He looked up into eyes as blue as his own. The man was infinitely
bigger than himself. He was a weather-stained creature round about
forty, clad in the hard clothing of the prairie. And his big horse was
well fed and cared for.
Dan Quinlan swung out of the saddle, and began to unship a pair of
bulging saddle-bags.
Pryse watched him.
“Do you mean all that, Dan? About my going, I mean?” he asked, in a
voice that was not quite steady.
The Irishman answered him over his shoulder while he tugged at the
rawhide lashings.
“Mean it? Faith, I do that, man,” he said, in his big-voiced way.
Then, the saddle-bags released, he held them out. “Beat it, and
empty that truck right out. Ther’s soap there. But for the love of
St. Patrick I can’t get your need of it. There’s a razor, too. Maybe
it’s a shade better than a hay mower, which would seem to be just an
elegant proposition for that carpet hanging to your face. Ther’s tobac
an’ lucifers, a flask of Rye, and all the junk we folks reckon fits
our bellies better than hay. Just empty it right out, and bring that
flask of the stuff back. We’ll sit around awhile, so you ken roast them
measly trout and eat. And we ken yarn. I got things fixed the way you
asked and the police boys have quit your trail.”
Jim Pryse made no reply. He offered no word of thanks. But the thing
shining in his sunken eyes was all sufficient for the Irishman. He took
the saddle-bags from his benefactor and obeyed him implicitly. When he
returned with them empty, and bearing a pannikin and the flask of Rye,
he indicated a large log beside the spluttering fire.
“Will you sit, Dan?”
Pryse’s invitation was quiet in contrast with the other’s larger
manner. And the Irishman turned abruptly from his contemplation of the
flood of snow-water teeming with legions of wild-fowl.
“Sure, boy,” he said. Then he indicated the scene with a broad gesture
of an out-flung arm. “Can you beat it? Get a look. Ther’s millions of
’em. Gee! This would be one hell of a swell place to fix a homestead.”
“That’s what I’ve decided to do.”
Pryse smiled as the other swung round and stared at him. Then he sat
down on the log, and Dan Quinlan took up his position beside him.
Pryse poured out a tot of the Rye and offered it to his benefactor. But
the man thrust it aside.
“Get to it yourself, boy,” he said, with a rough laugh. “I take a deal
too much of that belly-wash. It’s a curse on me. You’re needing it.
I guess you’re needing it bad. Drink up, boy, and set the rest aside.
One’s all you need now to set life into your tired grey head. Two would
set you crazy. And you don’t need any craziness just now. What d’you
mean about that--homestead?”
Pryse drank down the raw Rye, and the scorch of the spirit made him
gasp. Then he carefully re-corked the bottle, and set it on the ground
beside him, and sat gazing into the fire. Dan Quinlan lit his pipe, and
diving into a pocket, produced a second. He held it out.
“It’s a new one,” he said. “I went right into Hartspool for it. Smoke.”
Pryse accepted the thoughtful present, and the warming spirit
brightened his eyes.
“Say,” he ejaculated, with sudden urgency, “I’m going to talk a whole
long piece, Dan. Will you listen while I roast these trout over the
fire? It’s all I’ve got to offer you for feed. There’s a big bunch
of them, and they’ve just come out of the creek. Will you share? And
I’ll boil up some of the tea you’ve brought me. And there’s the sugar.
I haven’t tasted sugar for days. Not since I finished the last you
brought me.”
Dan nodded his rough head.
“I ken mostly eat anything. Get on with that talk.”
“Did you hear from my sister?”
“Sure. I got this registered mail when I went into Hartspool.”
The Irishman held out a bulging envelope.
Pryse set his fish to roast on the hot ashes and took the mail. He
looked at it. Then he looked into the eyes of the man who had passed it
to him.
“You haven’t opened it and--it’s addressed to you.”
Dan laughed.
“It ain’t a way I have looking into other folk’s affairs,” he said.
“That’s from your sister in answer to the letter I put through for
you. That bunch is for you. It’s not for me.”
“Yes. I know that. But--say, Dan Quinlan, you’re a big feller and a
swell friend. Why?” Pryse shook his head. “Because your heart’s mostly
as big as your fool body. There are things to life I can’t get a grip
on. Here are you, living away up in the hills with no one near you for
twenty-five miles. You got a poor sort of ranch homestead, and a bunch
of stock that couldn’t hand you more than a bare existence. Why? Are
you a hunter? Do you just love the crazy hills, with their storms, and
snow, and cold? No. It’s not that. And I’m not going to ask things.
I’m just going to say it’s a God’s mercy for me that you do live that
way. If it hadn’t been that I fell into your place last fall, by a
chance I can’t ever account for, I shouldn’t be alive and talking now.
You’ve done for me what no ordinary fellow--but just one other, I know
of--would have done for me. You showed me Three-Way Creek and found
me this hiding-place when the Police got smelling around. And you’ve
handed me feed and things at intervals ever since, like the ravens did
for that boy in the Bible. You’ve done that for me I can never repay
you for. And you’ve done it on my own story, without ever a question.
And now you’ve completed your good work by getting me in touch with my
sister.”
“Best get on with it, hadn’t you?”
The Irishman’s grinning eyes were full of beaming good-nature. But he
had not come there to listen to any expression of gratitude.
Pryse tore open the envelope. He drew out a roll of money folded inside
a long letter. Dan Quinlan stared. The outer bill he could see was for
one hundred dollars. And inside it there looked to be at least fifty
more of a similar denomination. But the other gave the money no heed.
He was hungrily devouring the contents of the letter. Dan stooped and
turned the roasting fish, amazed at the thing he had beheld.
Pryse looked up from his letter.
“Let’s eat, and I’ll fix the tea. I can talk as we eat.”
It was that talk Dan wanted to hear. Pryse passed into the hut, and
returned with the limits of his household utensils--one plate of
enameled iron. He knocked the ashes from the roasted fish, and piled
them on the plate. Then he set the pot to boil, and threw a small
handful of tea into it. Then he sat on the log again, and Dan possessed
himself of a fish.
“You don’t know me, Dan, except the police are yearning to set me to
hard labour,” Pryse began, while he ate the hot fish he, too, had
picked up in his fingers. “You know what for, but that’s all. The thing
you don’t know is I’m a pretty rich man as gold goes. My sister’s got
charge of my stuff, and she’s living down in New York. She’s sent me
the stuff I need to make my getaway. You’ve given me the news the
Police have quit my trail. And so, with the summer coming, and maybe
your further help, the way lies open for me. That all looks pretty good
to me after the thing I’ve gone through. But I want to tell you I’ve
fixed it to come right back again.”
“To set up that--homestead?”
The Irishman’s eyes were no longer grinning.
“That’s it, Dan. And I want you to help me. I want you to be partners
in it with me. Oh, it’s going to be a crazy proposition. It’s crazy
enough to suit an Irishman like you. It’s going to be a homestead like
you’ve never heard of before. And the notion of it got right into my
mind from the moment I christened this queer stretch of Nature the
‘Valley of Hope.’ It’s been that way for me, and I want to make it that
way for others. Don’t get the notion I’m crazy. I’m not, boy. First one
great fellow, and now you, have taught me something I can never forget.
You folks have taught me there’s no feller so down and out there isn’t
a shadow of hope for him somewhere in this tough old world. Well, my
notion is, with you a partner, to collect that hope, and hand it to
the folks needing it. Are you on, if I tell you about it? You’ll be my
partner? I’ll find the stuff and organise. And you’ll come in on my
profits without taking a chance.”
The Irishman guffawed loudly. But it was a laugh intended to disguise
the feelings the other had stirred in his emotional heart.
“Sounds a swell proposition for me,” he said. “I’d like it a deal
better for some of the chances lying around. But get to it, boy,” he
went on, helping himself to another of the trout. “Ladle it out. Hand
me the whole darn fancy, an’, short of murder, I haven’t a scruple.
If ther’s a fight to it I’ll be glad. You see, it’s only when I’m up
against things I can keep off the liquor. Give me something to help me
dodge the liquor, and I’ll call down all the saints to bless the day,
or night, you blew into my shack in a snowstorm.”
The two men sat on talking while the sun rose higher, and the stirring
flies and mosquitoes advanced to the attack. They talked and ate, and
drank tea with sugar, discussing all the details of a proposition that
looked to be wild enough to satisfy even so reckless a creature as Dan
Quinlan.
And Dan fell headlong for the whole thing. He questioned closely. He
argued points all along the line. And Pryse realised something of
the extent of the latent ability he possessed. But in the end full
agreement was arrived at between them. And when the time came for Dan’s
departure, and his horse was saddled, and he was ready to lift his huge
body into its seat, a great change had been wrought in their relations.
For Pryse, Dan Quinlan had suddenly become a shrewd, long-headed
creature, with a great capacity and foresight; and for Dan, Pryse was
no longer a fugitive from justice, but a creature of infinite sympathy,
whom he asked nothing better than to serve and support.
Dan leaned down from his saddle and gripped the lean hand held out to
him.
“Say boy, I want to tell you something,” he cried, with one of his
boisterous laughs. “You got me plumb in the vitals with this thing.
Same as if you’d pushed a gun there. You can count me for it body and
soul.”
Pryse smiled up in response.
“So long, Dan,” he said. “A week of this grass’ll see my poor old plug
fit, and I’ll be down along by your shanty. Get those things in train I
told you about. You can’t ever tell. This thing has come out of my own
selfish need. It looks like I’ll be more glad of it than--anybody else.
You see, I was condemned to five years’ hard labour. And until those
years of penitentiary have been served they’re always hanging over me.
So long. May the saints of your queer old country bless you.”
CHAPTER VII
In New York
Most of New York--that is, all those more fortunate individuals who
were not actually tied to the city by the necessities of business, were
somewhere on the seashore, or up in the hills, seeking cool, bracing
air with which to sooth their jaded nerves. The heat was torrid. The
noise and the city odours burdened life to an almost insupportable
extent. There was no shade anywhere that could help things, and not a
breath of air, except that set in motion by artificial means in the
dwellings, was stirring to make things easier. The sun scorched down
on the immaculate streets from early dawn to late evening. And even as
late as nearing midnight the furious mercury registered anything up to
eighty degrees of humid heat.
It was the one time in the year when the bustle and rush of the great
hotels was at its lowest ebb. The telephone boys had time to sweat at
leisure. The head-porters had breathing space from their everlasting
task of booking railroad “reservations” for their transient custom.
Even the waiters were able to give a personal touch of interest to
their guests. But for all the greater ease of service the leisure
thus obtained was more than counter-balanced by the discomfort of the
appalling humidity.
At the Seraphim Hotel the oval of the great dining-hall was almost
empty. An army of waiters stood ready to advance upon their customers.
But the customers were few, and many of the beautifully appointed
tables had remained unoccupied for the day’s lunch. On the raised
amphitheatre which circled the outer extremities of the hall only
about half a dozen tables were occupied, while in the central space one
solitary couple sat lunching.
It was a man and a woman. The girl was exquisitely gowned in a quiet,
unassuming fashion. A woman might have appraised the costliness of
her equipment at its true value. To a man she appeared to be just
well turned out in something that was sufficiently diaphanous for the
temperature all must endure in July in New York. But her hat--well,
even a man could not have made any miscalculation as to her hat. It was
exquisite, and added a wealth of charm to the beautiful, smiling face
beneath it.
She was regarding her companion with almost hungry interest. Her blue
eyes were gravely smiling, for all a certain anxiety was gazing out
of them. She was eyeing his well-barbered, snow-white hair that was
a never-ending source of admiring concern for her. Then, too, the
deeply-lined, clean-shaven face left her not a little troubled. He was
dressed well in well-cut summer suiting, and his broad shoulders and
strong, shapely hands told of work they could never have encountered in
New York.
The man had been talking for some time in a tone which was never
permitted to reach beyond his companion’s ears, and the twinkle of a
smile lit eyes that were twin in colour to those he was gazing into.
He had been recounting the details of a long story that held his
companion completely enthralled. There were moments when he had to
break off to remind her of the food that no longer made any claim upon
her appetite. And as he finished a deep sigh proclaimed the breathless
interest in which the girl had been held.
“It’s all amazing, dreadful,” she breathed, in a suppressed tone.
“If it weren’t you, Jim, sitting there telling me I could never have
believed it. I just hadn’t a notion when I got your letter asking for
those five thousand dollars. You never gave me an inkling. You never
said a thing. And now you tell me all this.”
She made a gesture that expressed her amazement.
“Eddie hunted for killing the man who had broken up his home-life.
Poor, dear, weak, foolish Mary gone--goodness knows where. And you, my
dear old brother and best of all playmates, convicted and sentenced
for--for--as a price for that fool loyalty which has always been
your besetting curse. The disaster of it is unspeakable. It’s--it’s
dreadful. And look at you,” she went on, with that final touch of the
woman which she found impossible to resist. “Your hair snow-white, and
not a single curl remaining. Your poor thin face lined like a man of
more than twice your years. And you have come here with--with a price
on your head. Jim--Jim, you must get away. You must get away to a place
of safety. Your money’s been safe with me. I’ll hand it over. And you
must get away.”
Jim Pryse’s eyes twinkled humorously.
“That’s what I came here for.”
“That’s why you came here--for safety?” The girl’s eyes widened. “You
must be crazy.”
Jim shook his head.
“Not a thing. But smile, Blanche. Get that look of worry out of your
dandy eyes. There are waiters around.”
The girl shrugged her shoulders a little helplessly. But she smiled.
And somehow the smile was unforced.
“Oh, Jim, you’re just the same. Just the same--what shall I
say?--devil-may-care you’ve always been. You’ve told me enough to make
me realise something of the awful thing you’ve been through. And your
beautiful white hair, and those cruel lines down around your mouth and
cheeks, tell of what you have not told. What are you going to do?”
“Do?”
Jim sat back in his chair and laughed happily as the waiter approached
with two _pêches Melbas_. He continued to smile while the man removed
the plates and set the sweets before them. Then, as he withdrew,
his smile resolved itself into that twinkle which was his natural
expression of good-humour.
“Why, I guess there’s a whole heap of things I could do,” he went on
quietly. “But I’m only going to do just one of ’em. You know, Blanche,
it’s a pretty terrible thing when a feller gets bug on notions of
the welfare of his fellow-man. It’s the sort of craziness that sets
a boy yearning to get after folks and things with a club. He sort of
sees red most every time he hears some fool kid won’t eat its bottle
right, and the birch in a school-house is liable to set him shooting up
Presidents. Which mostly means the bottom’s dropped right out of his
sense of proportion, and his backbone’s disintegrated in the juices of
a mess of sloppy sympathy. Well, there’s nothing much wrong with my
backbone yet, and my sense of proportion seems in decent shape. All
that’s happened is that I’ve got a notion, and, if _you_ feel good
about it, I’m going to work it out. If it works good I’ll be mighty
pleased, and’ll be feeling like some commercial philanthropist who
reads a news-sheet’s account of his good works. If it doesn’t, why,
I’ll throw in my hand, and start a fresh deal with the same deck of
cards.”
The man paused for a moment, and his sister shook her head
admonishingly.
“I don’t think I’ll ever understand you, Jim, any more than I shall
ever understand our Eddie,” Blanche said. “Maybe I lack a sense of
humour. Maybe, being a woman, I haven’t a notion beyond the things I
was raised to. Why--why had you two boys to quit business right here
in New York and get out to the--tough countries? You had ample here.
Our folks left us all three the same. And the business was good. No,
you sell up and get out. I know you’ve made a big fortune in gold, and
Eddie was doing well in Greenwood. But--but all this terrible disaster
could have been avoided. All this----”
“No, it couldn’t, Sis.” Jim shook his head and laughed. “If we’d
stayed around we’d have got mixed up with things, anyway. These things
don’t happen because. They happen anyway. A feller’s going to get the
marked-out tally someway. Fate’s got just so many kicks for every
feller born. And he’s going to get ’em. Do you fancy hearing my plan?”
“Of course I do, Jim. I’ve been waiting. And I want you to know that
there isn’t a thing in the world you can ask me that I won’t do for
you.”
The man chuckled softly as he ate the last of his sweet.
“Fine,” he cried. “That fool loyalty again. Only it’s you this time,
Sis.”
The girl smiled back at him.
“Don’t be absurd,” she said gently. “Get on with the thing I want to
hear.”
“Well, for all I’ve got a million or so gold in my bank-roll I guess
I was right down and out after getting clear of that red-coated boy,
and looked like leaving my miserable bones feed for the coyotes.
It was then I found it--in those two boys. One was a pretty tough,
straight-thinking French-Canadian farmer, and the other was a broth of
an Irish boy, whose only worry in life seemed to be he was scared to
death of liquor, and scared worse that some time prohibition would make
him have to live dry. Those two boys knew me for an escaped convict.
Yet they kept me alive, fed me, and helped me all they knew to make a
getaway. And they both did it for nix, and under threat of penitentiary
for themselves. Say, those boys had a cargo of sheer sympathy and
humanity aboard them enough to stock a heavenly department store, and
the whole thing has given me a hunch. That hunch says I’m going to
stake my last ounce of gold to help other ‘down-and-outs’ the same as
they helped me. And I’ve come along now because I kind of hope you’ll
help me. You see, a boy can do ordinary things. But when it comes to
the real good things of life the girl’s got him beat out of sight.”
“There isn’t need to ask me, Jim,” the girl said, in a voice in which
emotion came near to robbing it of steadiness. Then she laughed in
self-defence. “You see, I’m one of those fool women who haven’t a
notion beyond the men-folk belonging to them. My brothers have always
been first with me. And now I sort of feel they’re more first than
ever.”
Jim sat silent for a moment. His eyes were hidden as he contemplated
the table. However he had been hit by the humanity and sympathy of
those others, the utter and complete self-sacrifice of this sister, who
dwelt in all the comfort and even luxury of her great home city, left
him speechless for the moment.
At last he looked up. And when he did so the humour had faded out of
his eyes. It had been replaced by a smile that was full of a world of
tender gratitude.
“That makes me feel good, Sis,” he said quietly. “It also makes me feel
bad. You see, you don’t know the thing I’m going to ask you.”
He glanced about the room. Then his gaze came back to the fair-haired
creature who was only midway between twenty and thirty, and who he
proposed to expose to a life the roughness of which would test her to
the uttermost.
“Not ask, Jim.”
The smile accompanying her denial was dazzling.
“No.”
Suddenly Jim spread out his strong hands.
“How would you fancy coming right out West to the heart of the Canadian
Rockies?” he began. “How’d you fancy setting up a swell home with me
there? There’s no stores or subways there. There’s no Fifth Avenue,
or theatres, or bridge parties, or dances. The only noise and bustle
you’ll get there is when the wind howls down off the glaciers. There
won’t be a thing to worry over but the cold, and snows, and blizzards
in winter, and the storms and wash-outs in summer. Then there’ll be
the buzzy flies, and the crazy skitters, and the voice of the timber
wolves, and the yowl of the coyotes who missed feeding my bones. Maybe
you won’t locate Eddie there, but there’ll be other folk who aren’t
yearning for the sun of civilisation to shine on them. There won’t be
any steam heat, and lots of other things you’re used to. But there’ll
be cattle, and horses, and a real live trade, and work that’ll leave
you with a joy of life and health you can’t ever get in a city. I’ve
got to do something for the ‘down-and-outs.’ I’m filled right up to
the neck with a yearning to help the way I was helped. I’ve found the
wonderful, sweet grass Valley of Hope. And I want to set its gateway
wide open for those folk who haven’t found it. Will you come along,
Sis?”
“Why, I’m crazy to.”
The man turned abruptly and hailed the waiter. When the bill was
settled he pushed back his chair.
“Come along, Sis,” he said, in a tone that thanked the girl infinitely
better than words could have done. “It’s hot enough here with the fans
going. Maybe Central Park’ll be a foretaste of hell about now. Any
way, we’ll chance it. We’ll take a crawl out there in the open, with
that great old sun beating us over the head, and I’ll tell you all the
details of the thing I’ve set my heart upon. And we’ll plan it out
together.”
CHAPTER VIII
Two Years Later
Two years had passed since the calamity at the Marton homestead.
Molly’s eyes were smiling again, and all signs of her grief had been
swept out of them, driven headlong by the spirit of youth, and the
merciful healing which time brings to the aid of all human grief. Her
cheeks had lost none of their bloom, her eyes none of their brightness.
The life that was hers once more claimed her to the full.
It had not been so for long weeks after the tragic discovery in the
woodland belt. The process of recovery had been slow. But gradually
the sun of her life had emerged from behind the clouds, and, when once
reaction had set in, the speed of the girl’s transformation had been
something almost magical.
Now the labours of the seasons had again assumed their due importance,
and were no longer useless, burdensome tasks, without real
significance, and only calculated to further depress the spirit. Now
the air that came down from the eternal snows imparted to nerves and
mind, and the springs of human emotion that sense of well-being that
gilds all youthful yearning, and sets old age desperately clinging to
the ebb-tide of life.
But the change, the recovery, had been subtle. Molly herself had known
nothing of it. Even when the time came when she found it natural to
turn her thoughts back to the dead man in deep, abiding, but calm
regret, she was left unaware of the metamorphosis. Nevertheless, she
found it possible to feel gratitude to Fate, and draw real consolation,
that her dead father had been spared all suffering of mind and body.
Death she knew had been instantaneous. And she was glad that he had
gone to his rest without a moment of anxiety for the daughter he had
left behind.
But Lightning Rogers had no such thought or feeling for the man he had
served. This lean, grey-whiskered remains of an unsavoury past was
wholly a product of the hard life he had lived. He was desperately
human, and his service for George Marton had been solely for wages. He
had been wholly uninterested in the man.
But his attitude towards Molly was different. In her case his service
was something no wages could have bought. It was the manhood in
him--the primitive. Molly had proved an anchorage for all the affection
that was parental in him. She was of the other sex, and her eyes were
bright and smiling, and her femininity was something that carried
memory back to those far-off moments when his pulses had quickened more
easily. To him Molly was the beginning and end of his vision of his
remaining years. When her father had been struck down horror had leapt
upon him. But it was not for the fact of the girl’s disaster. It was
for the possibility which the disaster might have for him. He feared
lest, as a result, Molly herself might pass out of his life.
He had bethought him heavily on that drive home from the woods. And
decision had come on the instant. He spoke no word of comfort to
the departing girl, feeling that such an attitude would be the best
expression of consummate delicacy. Besides, he had no idea of what
might be the suitable thing to say. But, once back at the homestead, he
lost not a moment in taking charge of the situation.
He took the already frozen body of the dead man and laid it out in the
parlour in such state as seemed to him befitting. Then he returned to
the kitchen, where the stewing supper was as Molly had originally left
it. Without a word to the girl, sitting huddled in her grief over the
stove, he prepared a meal for her. Then, with an assumption of grave
authority, he stood over her with the firm intention of seeing that she
ate it. His philosophy taught him that the surest, the only support at
a time of grief was a good, round feed of beans and sow-belly.
The girl had looked up at his bidding. It was only one momentary
glance, but the old man beheld in it such a look of repulsion for the
food that he edged hastily away to the table, and sought to restore his
suddenly lost confidence by devouring it himself.
With a return of courage he essayed another magnificent effort. This
time, in seeking to enforce the necessary authority, his voice, which
was rarely gentle, became unduly harsh.
“You best beat it to your bunk, Molly, gal,” he said. “You best make
your blankets right away. Hev a good cry. Ther’ ain’t nothin’ for a
dandy gal like a bunch of tears you couldn’t swab right in a week.
Susie Larks allus reckoned that way. You ain’t heard tell of Susie
Larks, the li’l dancin’ gal o’ Moss Crik, down Arizony way. If things
got amiss she just used to cry like hell till they came right, an’----
Eh?”
Again the girl had looked up, and the whole of her tragedy was there,
looking back at him out of eyes which were gazing in horrified,
tearless amazement. She said no word. She gave no other sign. And,
after one apprehensive glance, Lightning had shuffled off out of the
room and betaken himself to the lean-to workshop, where he forthwith
set the stove going.
The efforts of his brain amounted to something little short of storm
that night. He planned, and smoked, and swore. And he swore, and
smoked, and planned. And by daylight a tangle of ineptitude completely
befogged him. The only clear idea that gripped him was a settled
determination that he was going to see “Molly, gal” through her
troubles, if it used up his stock of brain-power and left him with
nothing over for himself.
With daylight, however, he was free to act, which, in Lightning, was
a wholly different proposition. His motives for the things he did
that day were never at any moment clear to him. Something impelled
him to ride into Hartspool. He took money with him, feeling that at
such a time he might need it. He may have been right. At any rate, he
contrived to leave it behind him in the town, having exchanged it for a
subdued, drunken melancholy.
But he had obtained other results. First a Mounted Policeman appeared
at the homestead. He was closely followed by a doctor. And, finally, a
man who was known to be a carpenter in Hartspool made his appearance.
He interviewed them all, and sternly headed them off from the stricken
Molly.
A few days later, Lightning took another trip into Hartspool. He had no
money which he could take with him. This time he drove the heavy team
and the double-bob sleigh, which usually hauled cordwood. His trip was
rapid, for his burden was light. The latter was just one long box of
unpolished wood.
He had feared that Molly would accompany him, but, to his extreme
satisfaction, the girl completely broke down at the last moment, and
the wife of the carpenter, who was a kindly creature, who usually aided
her man in that work which was not intended for the living, volunteered
to remain and look after her until Lightning’s return.
And now, with the passing of time, and the return of the girl’s smile,
Lightning gazed back on those painful days, and took full credit to
himself for her recovery. He felt himself more than entitled. His
little vanities peeped out from amidst his sterling qualities like
blemishes dotting pure, crude metal.
Oh, yes. He had done well. He was glad. And, to his credit, no thought
of thanks concerned him. The girl’s smile and well-being were more than
sufficient reward for anything he had done. She was the farmer in place
of her father. And he had achieved the thing he had desired.
It was a perfect spring morning. The air was fresh, and the sky, ablaze
with golden beauty of dawn, was studded, with wind-tossed, swift-moving
cloud-flecks. It was a morning to stir the pulses of the old ranchman,
and set the sturdy tide of his vigorous life in full flood. He stood
for a moment in the doorway of the log shack, which was his sleeping
quarters, and breathed deeply of the mountain air. Then, with a
characteristic hunch of his shoulders, he passed out to begin his day’s
work.
He moved down to the corral, where, now that the warming spring days
had come, the milch cows were housed for the night. His first task was
to hay and milk them. But for once his task remained unfulfilled. The
bars of the corral were down, and the place stood empty.
For some moments he stared stupidly. To him the discovery was
incredible. It was even staggering to his self-confidence. The cows,
that were his work to shut up for the night, had got out. It never
occurred to him that the bars might have been set up carelessly. It
never occurred to him that he could have made any mistake. The cows had
been set in their corral overnight. They should still be there in the
morning.
His study became active. He looked at the fallen bars. He looked at the
cloven hoof-prints in the still soft soil about the entrance. Then his
eyes hardened and narrowed and a curious thrust took possession of his
bewhiskered chin. He had become a victim of one of his hasty, obstinate
opinions that came so easily. He passed to the log barn and saddled up
his horse.
After that he hurried up to the house.
Then came an exhibition of the man’s regard for the girl. He said no
word of the thing that preoccupied his mind, but contented himself with
warning her that the cows had strayed.
“They broke out,” he declared, implying no blame to himself. “They made
a getaway. I’ll jest git a sip of your swell coffee, Molly, gal, an’
beat it after ’em.”
Molly, in the midst of her cooking, looked round from the stove.
“Sure you will, Lightning,” she said. “And you’ll get your feed with
it. An empty stomach’s no sort of thing to chase up ‘strays’ on. Just
sit around while I fix things.”
The man obeyed. He took his place at the spotless table set with homely
ware for two. And in less than two minutes he was noisily devouring the
bacon and beans, of which, in all his years, he had never yet grown
tired.
Molly went on steadily with the work of her home while Lightning ate
his food. And when he had finished she speeded him on his journey.
“I’ll make a big seeding while you’re gone,” she said, from the
doorway. “Maybe you’ll be quite awhile. You can’t ever guess where
those crazy creatures will make. I’d try the sweet-grass flats.”
Lightning shook his head.
“Maybe I will. You just can’t tell,” he added, with a tightening of his
thin lips.
Molly watched him go, his tall figure lurching with that peculiar gait
which, with advancing years, seems to become ever more marked in men of
great height. She knew the man for what he was--a hard ruffian utterly
devoid of any graces or refinements, but a creature with a heart of
unalloyed gold. She knew how great was the debt she owed him. She
knew how much his goodwill meant to her. But beyond all question of
self-interest there was real affection in her heart for him. She loved
the simple, foolish, headlong nature that seemed beyond his power
to control. She laughed at his vanities, his inadequate reasoning.
Sometimes, even, she found pity for him. But this was only rarely. No
one knew better than she how little pity was needed. He lived his life
full to the brim of supreme contentment.
She went back to her kitchen and her own breakfast.
CHAPTER IX
Suspicion
Lightning did not return until sundown, and when he reappeared the
hard light of his eyes had deepened, and the thrust of his chin had
become more aggressive. Molly realised these ominous signs when she
encountered him at the barn, where she had just stabled her team after
a long day’s seeding.
“Well?” she inquired.
The old man shook his head, and the storm leaped into his eyes.
“Not a sight of ’em,” he declared harshly. Then he turned a swift,
malevolent glance in the direction of the hills to the south-west. “An’
we ain’t gettin’ a sight of ’em anyway. Our six prime cows in full
milk. It ain’t no sort o’ use chasin’ these hills fer strays with--hoss
thieves around.”
Molly’s smile changed to a look of incredulity.
“Horse thieves?” she echoed. Then she shook her head. “They surely
would look for a territory where there’s stock to steal. Why, there
isn’t fifty head between Dan Quinlan, up in the hills, and us, and that
poor boy, Andy McFardell, on the road to Hartspool, with his miserable
half section he’s trying to make look like a homestead. And there’s no
one else within fifty miles of us, except Hartspool way.”
The choreman slid out of the saddle. He loosened the cinchas of the
saddle and flung it on the ground. Then he clapped his mare on the
quarters, and watched her move off for that roll which a horseman knows
means so much.
“It’s only reasonable fer you thinkin’ that way,” Lightning admitted
with unintentional patronising. “I guess you argue like the dandy gal
you are, an’ not like a hoss thief tough.” He gazed thoughtfully down
at the girl’s slim figure in its simple home-made clothing, that was
so carefully planned to leave freedom for her work. “But I ain’t told
you all the stuff I got in my head. I tell you my eyes and ears, an’
nose are all wide open. I’m wise to a whole heap of doings about these
hills. Them cows is gone. Plumb gone. They ain’t within a ten-mile
range of us. I’ve rode every yard this day. An’ six milch cows full of
milk couldn’t have made ten miles in the night grazin’. They’ve been
drove. Them bars at the corral hev been taken down. When I set ’em in
place ther’s no buzzy cows ken make a getaway.”
Molly’s smile broke out.
“I fixed them last night,” she corrected. “You were busy getting the
seeder right for me. Don’t you remember?”
The man stared.
“I’d fergot,” he said shortly.
“Maybe I didn’t fix them right,” Molly went on quickly, in an endeavour
to make things easier. “It was nearly dark. But--best come right up to
the house. I’ll fix supper, and you can tell me about--horse thieves.”
Molly went off to the house. But Lightning made no move to accompany
her. A day wasted scouring the hills left him with a heavy leeway
of chores to make up. It was upwards of an hour, and darkness had
closed down, before he appeared at the house for the meal the girl
had prepared. Molly made no attempt to question him further till the
man’s needs had been amply supplied. She knew too well the value of a
comforted stomach in men-folk.
After she, too, had eaten, Molly sat with her elbows planted on the
table, and her cheeks supported in the palms of her sun-browned hands.
She was thoughtfully watching Lightning devour the last of his third
portion of baked hash. They were in the neat kitchen. It was plain
and scrupulously simple in its furnishings, much of which had been
home-made. But they were ample for the needs of their no less simple
lives.
Lightning washed down his supper with a noisy draught of tea from an
enamelled beaker. And as he did so Molly withdrew from the table to
replenish it.
“Light your old pipe,” she said, as she passed the teapot back to the
stove. “Then you can tell me about--horse thieves.”
“It’s--Dan Quinlan.”
Lightning’s statement was an explosion.
“Dan Quinlan?”
Molly came again to her chair, and sat down in a hurry. She was
genuinely startled.
“Why, Dan Quinlan’s been up in the hills years,” she went on,
recovering herself. “I remember him when I was a kiddie.” She shook her
head. “I’d say you’ve made a bad guess.”
“Hev I?”
The old man’s eyes widened. And Molly saw the old “Two-gun” Rogers
glaring out of them.
“Oh, yes, maybe I hev. Maybe I’m a bad guesser, anyway,” he cried
sarcastically. Then, with sudden ferocity: “But I’m right! It’s Dan
Quinlan!”
After that he sat back in his chair and lit his pipe.
“Say, Molly, gal, you’d jest hate to think bad of Dan Quinlan, ’cos
you’d hate to think bad of any feller,” he went on sharply. “I ain’t
seen you raised from a squallin’ bundle of fancy fixin’s without
gettin’ wise to the things lying back of your dandy eyes. You don’t
ever get near Dan Quinlan. Twenty-five miles of bad hill territory an’
muskeg is quite a piece, even to folk like us. But if you knew him you
wouldn’t be feelin’ good about him same as you do fer that darn gopher,
McFardell, the Police set adrift without a ‘brief’ to say the boy he
was. Dan Quinlan’s a drunken Irish bum, the sort that’s dead sure to
get on the cross when it suits him. I know his sort. I met a heap of
his sort in the old Texas days. I----”
“But why? What makes you think he’s on the cross? Because our cows have
strayed?”
Molly had recognised the reminiscent tone. In a moment the old man was
flaring again.
“Them beasts was--drove!” he cried fiercely. Then he removed his pipe
and flourished it at the girl. “How do I know? Why, I’ve rode our
territory fer ten miles around. Who’s drove ’em? Dan Quinlan. How
do I know? Dan Quinlan’s shippin’ a bunch of yearlings he couldn’t
have raised honest out of the ten fool cows he starves around his
bum layout. He’s no sort of ranchman, an’ a no-account feller, who’s
fixed his place right there twenty-fi’ miles south-west of us, up in
the hills where folks an’ the police boys ain’t like to worry around.
Last year he registered his brand. ‘Lazy K’--that’s his brand. An’ I’d
surely guess it’s suitable. An’ last summer he shipped into the Calford
market, an’ through Hartspool, a hundred an’ fifty beasts risin’
two-year-old. It can’t be done on his cows. An’ all that I got from
Hartspool, wher’ the folks are guessin’ hard about it.”
Just for a moment the girl was impressed. Then she shook her head in
quick decision.
“It surely sounds queer, Lightning,” she said, the more gently for
the denial she was about to make, “but there’s something missing. Dan
Quinlan hasn’t a neighbour but us, and we’re twenty-five miles away.
Who’s he duffed his breeding cows from? We haven’t lost even a calf
ever before. And you say he’s traded a hundred an’ fifty? No. That
doesn’t answer whose stolen our cows.”
Lightning stirred irritably. His argument had been all sufficient for
him. But the girl’s reason worried him.
“I’m goin’ right up there, anyway,” he declared. “An’ I’ll shoot his
vitals to coyote feed, but I’ll get them beasties back.”
Molly realised the danger-signal.
“I shouldn’t,” she said. “Let’s get so sure there can’t be a mistake.”
“I tell you I’m goin’.” The man’s hasty anger was stirring again. “An’
I’m goin’ farther. We’ve sat around a deal too long. I’m goin’ all
through this territory. Ther’s folk gettin’ around, like that boy,
McFardell. An’ we got to know jest how things are. We can’t stand fer
neighbours acting queer. With boys raising stock out of cows they
ain’t got, an’ throw-outs from the Police squattin’ on the land under
pretence of raising a farm, an’ spendin’ most of his time bucking the
game, an’ shooting craps in Hartspool, we need to keep tab of things
with a brace of guns in our belts. I surely am goin’ right up to that
Irishman’s layout right away.”
Molly reached out and laid a pacifying hand on the old ruffian’s
shoulder.
“No, don’t you do it, Lightning,” she said almost pleadingly. “I know
just how you’re feeling. And, in a way, I surely feel the same. But
let’s take another day. Then I’ll be right with you in anything you do.
I’ll take my pony and chase up the creeks to-morrow. I’ll peek around,
and I won’t leave a blade of sweet grass unturned. You stop right here
till I get back, and after that, if I haven’t located those cows--why,
we’ll just get right after the Police in Calford.”
“You’re givin’ him time, gal, an’ I don’t like it,” Lightning
protested. “He’ll get nigh three days to hide up them beasties in the
hills. That ain’t my way. Git right after ’em quick. Guns is the only
thing fer hoss thieves.”
“Sure it is. All the time,” Molly agreed, her eyes twinkling. “But
let me have it my way this time. It makes me feel real bad suspecting
folk--till----”
A wide grin spread over the choreman’s gaunt features.
“That’s it, gal,” he cried, slapping the table in sudden glee. “What
did I say? You’d hate to think bad of a jack-rabbit. Sure. We’ll act
your way--to-morrow. After that--my way.”
Molly nodded.
“You’re good to me, Lightning,” she said warmly. “I guess I’ll be all
wrong, and you’ll be right, as you mostly are. Still, I don’t see you
need be worried about that boy Andy McFardell, though. I sort of feel
good about him. I’d say any boy who takes up land is a swell tryer.
Can you wonder he gets into Hartspool to buck a game? Why, think. He’s
right on his lonesome there. Not a soul to pass a hand to him. He’s
mighty little money, and he’s got to fix it all up himself. I’d go
crazy that way--if there wasn’t some sort of game around to buck. Then
to get fired from the Police. My, that’s awful. I haven’t heard why,
and he never talks, but I often see a deal of worry in his swell eyes.
We shouldn’t think hardly of him.”
“No. You’ve a hunch fer that boy.”
Lightning’s smile had passed. Molly looked squarely into the eyes
behind the smoke of his pipe. Hers were unsmiling, too.
“When disaster hits a man, and he’s the courage to start up in decency,
it gets a hunch from me all the time,” she said coldly. “Life’s tough
in these foothills, Lightning. I’ve been bred to it. The man who can
jump into it, and face it right, seems to me my best notion of a--man.”
“Sure. If he’s on the straight.”
Molly drew a deep breath. A quick sparkle lit her eyes. “Andy
McFardell’s on the straight,” she said quietly, as she rose to clear
the supper-table.
* * * * *
Lightning passed out of the house to the blankets awaiting him at his
bunk-house.
As he passed along to his quarters audible expressions of disgust
and anger broke from him. The cows were forgotten. Dan Quinlan was
forgotten. All his bitterness was turned against the man the mention of
whose name had stirred Molly to a rebuke that had hurt him in a fashion
of which she was wholly unaware.
Horse thieves were anathema to Lightning Rogers, whose life had been
wholly spent in cattle countries. His hatred of them was something
traditional rather than personal. He believed it was the right of
every citizen to shoot to kill “on sight” where cattle thieves were
concerned. There could be no extenuation. They were the wolf-pack to
which no mercy should be shown, to which no quarter should be given.
But the man, Andrew McFardell, who had come into their lives something
under two years ago, was on a different plane.
He hated the man. He hated his dark good looks and foxy face. He hated
his easy, pleasant manners. He hated the thought that he had come to
set up his homestead on the trail to Hartspool, within ten miles of
the farm. He hated him because of Molly’s liking for him. So, for once
he rolled into his blankets and lay awake for hours searching his mind
for the answer to the threat which he believed to be overshadowing the
child of whom he had become the self-constituted guardian.
Lightning had no illusions. He had no false sentiments. Molly was
the owner of a farm that had been amply prosperous in her father’s
lifetime. It still afforded her a livelihood. She had good stock, and
ample buildings. She had a stout home, and knew the business in all its
phases. Furthermore, she was strong and capable, and a pretty girl of
twenty; and as simple as the hills that had bred her.
Now, almost immediately after her father’s death, this “bobtail”
policeman had come into her life. Why? Why of all places had he chosen
the foothills for the setting up of his homestead?
To Lightning’s method of reasoning there was only one answer to the
question. He saw the time coming when Andrew McFardell’s pretence of a
homestead would be completely abandoned, and he himself would be asked
to serve under a master instead of a mistress. And it would be a master
who was a “throw-out” from the Police Force.
More than half the night was endured in angry thought. And when, at
last, his stertorous breathing proclaimed his sleep, it was only after
his mind had been completely made up as to the line of action he
intended to follow on the morrow.
Molly had retired to bed in the firm belief that she had effectually
steadied her loyal friend. She was certain that she would discover the
precious cows calmly grazing, tucked away in some secret, sweet-grass
slough in which the hill country abounded. She anticipated a day in the
saddle, perhaps; a day of hill-ranging, with her saddle-mare’s eager
body thrilling under her. She would strike out north and east along the
creek in the direction of Whale River, into which it flowed. It was
sweet grass all the way. It was on the way to Hartspool, but she had
no intention of doing the whole journey. She would not go farther than
Andy McFardell’s homestead. If the cows were not in that direction she
would strike out on a fresh line that afternoon.
Molly was at that age when self-deception is the most natural thing in
the world. It never occurred to her to doubt her sincerity in selecting
the direction of McFardell’s homestead for her first search. But,
having decided her course, she lay there between the snowy sheets
contemplating a picture of the dark-faced, dark-eyed man she had first
learned to pity for the hardships confronting him; whose courage she
applauded.
Lightning was right. For all her twenty years Molly was an innocent
child. Love as yet meant nothing to her. But even so, as she dropped
off to sleep at last, it was with a ravishing feeling that to-morrow
would be a day of unusual pleasure. And the pleasure of it had no
relation to her search for her missing cows.
CHAPTER X
The “Throw-Out”
Whale River meandered pleasantly down the middle of a valley. It was
wood and grass from end to end, and the reed and willow banks of the
river completed a picture of luxuriant fertility.
Andy McFardell had selected the valley of Whale River for the setting
of his homestead without hesitation. In his police days he had come to
know the place, and had pondered the thought that some day it would
surely shelter a thriving homestead if only a sufficiently hardy
settler should chance upon it. Often he had urged that only ignorance
and something approaching superstition kept the homesteaders to the
prairie lands. These people were obsessed by the openness of the
plains, and, all unsheltered, preferred to face their winter storms
rather than grapple fearlessly with their awe of the mystery world of
the hills. But never in his dreams had he visualised himself as the
first settler in Whale River valley.
Utterly dispirited, bitter and desperate, he had passed out of Calford
barracks at the end of his term of imprisonment with but the vaguest
plans for his future. Like many another, he had given himself up
completely to police life, and regarded his calling as settled for the
full extent of his working life. He had contemplated due promotion.
He had contemplated a slow upward moving, which, at the end, should
open for him the road to some form of official appointment which would
afford him the comfortable old age he knew to be attainable. But he had
reckoned without the machine. He had reckoned without those chances
and accidents with which the machine dealt so mercilessly. And so he
found himself adrift, with a thousand or so dollars in his pocket,
and without any training or equipment for the civil life in which his
future lay.
So it came that he had recourse to the fall-back which Canada holds
out to everybody. There was land. There was Whale River valley, which
he had so often pictured as sheltering a sturdy homestead. And he
forthwith set out for it as the only possibility presenting itself.
But his suitability for the life had yet to be proved. It was all
so very different from the shepherded life of the Police Force.
Discipline, as a servant, he understood. It was an easy thing, provided
temperament was right. He had even come to love the simple process of
obeying the last order. And then, as a Corporal, he had had the appeal
of inflicting orders upon others. Now the position was altogether
different. He had become his own machine as well as its servant. Was he
morally equal to the dual capacity?
For the first season he had worked with an enthusiasm that looked to
be carrying all before it. His capital was spare, and he husbanded it
carefully. With a few tools he built himself a shanty of green logs,
and thatched it with reeds cut from the bosom of Whale River. The whole
thing cost him no more than the labour, and he felt good about it, and
settled his kit into it with no little satisfaction. Then he built his
barn for the team he had acquired during his police days. And all the
time in the work of it he was widening a clearing in the woodland bluff
he had decided should shelter his homestead.
With the summer no more than half spent he set to work on the corral
for his two cows, and a second small barn for their winter shelter.
Then he embarked upon his first real expenditure. It was for the wire
with which to fence in a twenty-acre pasture of sweet grass upon the
river bank. It was all a wonderful exhibition of single-handed labour.
But, then, his mood was bitter, and lent him artificial courage. It
drove him hard. He was a “throw-out” from the Police, and he wanted to
prove to the world the fierce injustice with which he had been treated.
At midsummer he passed into Hartspool, with its saloon, and store,
and its freight of mixed human nature. The place caught him on the
rebound, as it were. He had achieved amazingly, and felt a reasonable
satisfaction. He felt himself to be a man of some sort of property. He
felt he could afford to hold his head up with those others. He felt,
alas! that he must loosen the strings of his purse, and show these folk
that he knew the game he had only just embarked upon. He fell headlong
into the pitfall awaiting every unwary settler. The implement and
machinery agent was at his elbow, and pleasant evenings at the saloon
helped towards his undoing.
He bought plough, and harrow, and seeder, and hayer, and binder, and a
dozen and one other implements on the mortgage plan. It was so easy--so
very easy. The future would pay for them--the crops he was going to
grow. And Barney Lake, from behind his bar, watched the smiling dark
eyes, and observed the confident attitude of the new man as he handled
a deck of cards in the evening, or shook the crap dice with the men
of substance who had built up large agricultural interests in the
neighbourhood. And his mental reservations were decided and sharply
pointed.
McFardell went back to his farm with his new possessions. And when
winter closed down he had fifty acres under the plough. It was a
tremendous feat.
It was during that first summer that Molly Marton became aware of her
neighbour. For three months McFardell had been at work in Whale River
valley before the girl discovered him, or the watchful Lightning
became aware of his existence.
It happened on one of the girl’s periodical trips on domestic errands
into Hartspool. As she rode down the valley over the grass-trail she
beheld the smoke of a camp-fire curling above the tree-tops. Then
she beheld the fencing down on the river flats where the grass was
abundant. Then had come the final revelation, when she had looked into
the clearing McFardell had cut in the shelter of the forest. The man
was at work then on the finish of his log-built corral.
At sight of him her imagination was completely captured. His appeal was
enormous. She beheld a muscular, good-looking man clad in an undershirt
and trousers, and with queer, stout moccasins on his feet, waging a
lonely battle with all the elements of the world she knew to be so
fierce. Single-handed he was grappling with his colossal task, and the
sight thrilled the hill-bred girl with its courage.
Beyond doubt McFardell was good to look upon. His eyes smiled
pleasantly into hers, and the stubble of whisker about his cheeks and
chin, and his black moustache, all helped to hide that curious ugliness
of mouth which, even had she noticed it, Molly could hardly have read
aright. That was the beginning of an intercourse that had never been
allowed to die out. Intimacy leapt. She was a simple child, and he--he
beheld a sweet, dark face, with fine grey eyes that were too honest to
conceal her woman’s admiration.
Molly remained faithful to the picture of her first discovery. There
was never any reason for her to do otherwise. Since that meeting
she had seen him many times--far more frequently than she permitted
Lightning to become aware of. And she always saw him in the same
setting, battling with the labour of his primitive homestead in a
fashion that never failed to provoke her admiration. But it was
left to Lightning to nose out the things that helped to foster his
unreasoning dislike, which he never attempted to conceal. And these
things came in the short days and long nights of the first winter.
Winter was Lightning’s playtime. It had always been so during George
Marton’s life, and Molly was content. Lightning would snatch days and
nights in Hartspool. A fifty-mile ride or drive was nothing to the old
sinner, if a reasonable soak of “hooch” was to be acquired as a result.
And it was on these trips that he learned the depth of McFardell’s
weakness.
The fierce loneliness of the hills in winter quickly proved intolerable
to the ex-policeman. His homestead was snowed up. Whale River was solid
to its bed. And the storms roaring down the valley, and the cruel
depths of cold, left him with his thoughts flung back to the police
canteen, with its roaring stove and pleasant companionship. He resisted
temptation for a period. Then he yielded. By far the greater part of
his first winter was spent in Hartspool, and his visits seriously ate
into his capital, but they made far deeper inroads into such store of
moral resolve as he possessed.
Barney Lake nodded reflectively over the thing he beheld, and his
dictum remained uncontroverted.
“It ain’t no sort o’ use,” he said, for the enlightenment of Lightning
and a group of his winter custom lounging about his office stove.
“You can’t raise wheat enough to pay the machine agent settin’ around
a cyard parlour all winter. I’d say winter’s mostly a bad time fer
folks in general. Fer a tenderfoot, yearnin’ to look like a mossback,
it’s just about all the hell he needs. But there’s a heap a feller
ken do around winter, and he needs to do it if he’s goin’ to make
good. You can’t sit around half soused, shootin’ craps fer a wad that
wouldn’t attract a Hebrew-Chink,” he declared, spitting copiously into
the stove. “That boy, McFardell, ain’t better’n the ord’nary police
‘throw-out.’”
* * * * *
The signs of McFardell’s weakening must have been apparent to any close
observer as he stood in the doorway of his shanty gazing out upon the
litter of his clearing. His eyes were unsmiling, and discontent looked
out of them. He had no right to be standing there. He knew that. But
his head ached, and he was hating the thought of work more than he
had ever believed himself capable of hating it. His horses were in
the barn, where he had put them somewhere about midnight. They were
unbrushed, and unfed or watered. His two cows were at the corral bars
bellowing for the milker and the feed they knew themselves entitled to.
Then there was that seeding that should have been completed to-day. And
now, in an hour or so, it would be noon. He felt tough. But----
He dived his hands into the pockets of his trousers. Then he searched
his hip pocket. The result was a few silver coins and two bills of
small denomination. He gazed at them awhile, and a feeling of sickness,
which had nothing to do with the whisky he had consumed overnight,
pervaded his stomach. He was thinking hard, and remembered he had “shot
craps” to a late hour. Two dollars and a half was the change out of the
fifty good dollars with which he had visited Hartspool the day before.
He thrust the dollars back into his pocket. Then he moved out into the
sunlight.
“Gee! I must have been soused,” he muttered.
His heavy gaze surveyed the scene while the cows continued their
clamour. It was a poor enough place, typical of its kind. The whole
thing was haphazard. It was slipshod. Maybe the buildings were
stout enough. It was the best that could be said of them. There was
inexperience, carelessness, even indifference, in every detail of them.
The thatch upon the barn was loose and wind-blown; the corral, snugged
against the sheltering woods at the far side of the clearing, looked to
have been constructed with regard to haste rather than stability; the
near-by hay-stack of last year’s hay was a hopeless, wasteful litter.
So, too, was the extravagant assortment of expensive implements,
already rusted and paint-worn, which it would take him years to pay for.
He disregarded it all. At the moment his only concern was for the bad
day he had had in Hartspool, and his complete disinclination for the
arrears of work he knew to be awaiting him.
He passed down to the corral and cursed the clamouring cows. And later
he returned with a bucket of none-too-clean milk, which, regardless of
the swarming flies that descended upon it, he deposited just within the
doorway of his shanty. Then, his mood improving with activity, he went
on to the barn to tend his neglected team.
As he passed into the miserable building the whinny of gladness that
greeted him was lost upon McFardell. All the years of his association
with horseflesh had failed to inspire a shadow of appreciation. Horses
had their uses, and, for him, that was all sufficient. And just now
his only thought was to be done with irksome labours. The brush and
curry-comb were things he had learned to hate in the days of his police
life.
By the time he had rushed through the bare necessities of his team his
mind was made up. There would be no seeding that day. It could wait
until the morrow. He condemned himself for oversleeping. He knew that
he had been half-drunk overnight. He had lost money at “craps” he could
not afford. But he would straighten up. Yes. That was it. He would cut
out Hartspool for awhile--at least till that big farmers’ dance which
would take place in about two weeks. Hartspool was no use to him. He
would stick to his work now the spring had come. So, for the rest of
the day he would overhaul his machinery, and get it into good shape.
He----
He looked up in the act of dipping corn from his iron bin, and stood
listening. Then a shadowy smile crept into his eyes. He passed the feed
to his horses while he listened to the sounds of someone approaching,
and suddenly a girlish voice, hailing him by name, set him moving
quickly to the doorway of the barn. His tongue moistened his thick lips
behind the screen of his moustache.
“Ho! Andy!”
Molly Marton’s call was full of joyous greeting. She had just leapt
from her saddle as McFardell appeared in the doorway. Her face was
alight and smiling as she gazed into the man’s. She noted his stained,
moleskin trousers, belted at the waist. She observed the business-like
cotton shirt, with its sleeves rolled up to the elbows. She saw the
muscular, sunburnt arms, and drew conclusions that satisfied her.
“Fixing your team for midday?” she said.
McFardell lied without hesitation.
“Sure,” he cried. “They done a big morning. But say, this is just
great. I hadn’t thought you’d be along. It’s two weeks since--since----
It’s tough you living so far away, Molly. I sort of count the time
between seeing you around.”
A quick flush mounted to the girl’s cheeks, and somehow she found
herself interested in the cows feeding their hay down at the corral.
Molly stood with her reins linked over her arm. Her tall, gently
rounded figure was full of appeal to the covetous gaze of the man. Her
divided skirt was sufficiently attractive and business-like for all it
was home-made, and of her own design. Her feet were well shod in soft
tan riding-boots that were adequately spurred. Her half-length jacket
over a white shirt-waist, and the wide-brimmed prairie hat securely
strapped under the coil of hair at the back of her neck, completed a
picture that stirred the man and banished the last of his heavy morning
mood.
“It’s a real great time when we start seeding,” Molly cried
impulsively, with a little laugh of excited spirits. “Doesn’t it make
you feel glad? Seeding, I mean. It’s a good time for us folk.” She
nodded wisely. “You see, we’re all looking ahead. The sun’s full of
promise after winter. The birds an’ things are making ready, too. And
the earth. Yes, everything’s just looking ahead. I love seeding. How
many acres have you put down?”
McFardell lied again.
“Twenty so far,” he said. Then he reached out to take the reins from
her arm. “You’ll stay and eat?” he went on eagerly. “I’ll just fix your
mare, and we’ll go right up and eat. The beans are ready, and I’ve a
swell piece of imported bacon I brought out from Hartspool last night.”
“Were you to Hartspool yesterday?”
The man’s smile passed abruptly as thought flung back.
“Yes,” he said, and laughed without mirth. “But I’m glad to be out
again. As you say, it’s good with spring around.”
Molly was thinking of Lightning. She remembered his expressed contempt
of this man. And her smile passed.
“You go right up and fix things,” she said quietly. “Sure I’ll be glad
to eat. I’ll fix Rachel,” she went on. “I always fix her. She needs
hobbling, and I guess I’ll set her out on the grass. You see, I’m out
after our cows that have strayed. I left Lightning back there cursing
cattle thieves and folk like that. He never reckons our cows can
stray.” She laughed. “Lightning would hate to think they hadn’t been
driven by cattle thieves.”
McFardell nodded.
“I see,” he said seriously. Then he added thoughtfully: “But I’m not so
sure about Lightning being crazy that way. You know there’s a lot of
young stock coming down out of these hills. The folk in Hartspool are
guessing about it. A boy named Dan Quinlan, somewhere away above your
place, has set them all wondering. And being folk who’re interested,
and easily disturbed, all sorts of queer hints and looks are passing
amongst ’em. Anyway, I’ll go fix the food while you pass your mare all
she needs.”
* * * * *
Molly was sitting on a box just outside the doorway of the man’s
shanty. McFardell was facing her on an up-turned bucket. And between
them, on the ground, was the remains of their repast of beans and the
boasted imported bacon.
Their tin platters had been laid aside, and each was in possession of
a beaker of tea, which had just been dipped from the simmering camp
kettle. The man was smoking his first pipe of the day and regarding
the girl with that curious, burning smile which her innocence would
never have permitted her to interpret aright. Frank admiration was
looking out of Molly’s eyes. To an onlooker the truth must have been
all apparent. The girl was in love. And the man with the curiously ugly
mouth was contemplating her with no great purity of thought behind his
eyes.
But McFardell held himself under restraint. He had come to know
something of Molly’s courage and independence. He realised, too,
the innocence of her mind. Her beauty was unusual. Her shapeliness
was something that ravished him. So he did his best to hide up the
feelings she stirred in him.
“You know, Molly, it’s a mighty tough life, this homesteading,” he
said, with the air of a man contemplating affairs in the abstract. “It
beats me, the way you get through on your lonesome.”
“But I’ve got Lightning.”
The man laughed contemptuously.
“Lightning?” He shook his head. “The fag end of a misspent life.”
Molly’s smile died on the instant.
“You think that?” she cried, a flush mounting to her cheeks. “You
needn’t. You surely needn’t. He’s no ‘fag end,’ and never will be.
He’ll be ‘Two-gun Rogers’ to the day he dies. A reckless, headlong
creature, who’d as soon fight as eat. Sooner. I couldn’t get along
without him. He knows the game from A to Z, and puts it through.
Besides, he’s more than that. Since father got broke up, he’s been a
sort of father to me. He’s got all the courage when I weaken.”
“Sure. But--do you ever weaken?” McFardell asked, a little hastily.
Molly’s smile returned at once.
“You don’t get things. Weaken?” she cried. “Why, surely I do. I weaken
most all the time. I don’t know. I love my life. I just love our poor
farm. There isn’t a beast or a stick on it I don’t love, but--but--oh,
I don’t know,” she went on, spreading out her hands. “It’s the same.
Always the same. The seasons come an’ go. The whole round. An’ each
season has its work. Sometimes----” She sighed a little hopelessly.
Then she laughed. “But I’m not grumbling. Sure. Sure. It’s spring now.
And the sun’s fine, and the birds are nesting. There’s mallard and
geese in the sloughs. And--and I just feel glad about everything. Why,
I’m not worried a thing about our six cows. I just can’t worry in
springtime.”
The man pressed the tobacco down in the bowl of his pipe. His eyes were
hidden.
“I know,” he said. “It’s the way I feel. Most folks feel good when
spring starts life moving again. You don’t ever get to the cities?”
Molly’s eyes widened as she shook her head.
“Only Hartspool for dry goods.”
“It’s a poor sort of settlement. But it isn’t that.”
“What d’you mean?”
“You know, Molly, folk just can’t live alone always,” McFardell went
on, his eyes on the litter of his homestead. “That’s the thing. We’re
human, and all that that means. We’re not machines to work like--like
a thresher. We need companionship--our own kind and age. We want
things to laugh at, or get mad about. We want things over which we can
exercise all those moods and feelings Nature gave us. You’re feeling
that way and don’t know it, or maybe your grit won’t let you admit it.”
The girl was just a little frightened. She knew that Andy had put into
words something of her own secret thoughts.
“Maybe that’s so,” she hesitated, while she wondered admiringly at his
penetration. “You know, Andy, it’s real ungrateful of us to feel that
way. Get a look around. There’s nigh everything we folk need. There’s
sweet grass you couldn’t find anywhere else. There’s the rivers full of
fish. There’s shelter the Almighty set for us. There’s the wonderful,
wonderful sun, and an earth ready to grow us the things we ask it.
There’s----”
“Always that crazy human feeling we just can’t help.” McFardell
nodded. “That’s why I went into Hartspool yesterday--to buy that bit
of--bacon.”
They both laughed. Then Molly fell serious again as she watched Andy
refill his pipe.
“But I wish it wasn’t that way,” she said.
“Why?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Father never felt the need of--playtime.”
“He was more than twice your years, I guess.”
Andy re-lit his pipe.
“You mean when he was young?”
“Surely.” Andy nodded. “Don’t you reckon he ever hit up a joytime?”
he asked. “Don’t you guess he and your mother made out at parties an’
dances? Maybe,” he smiled, “he even found the inside of a saloon better
than the outside. I tell you we all need to get joy or--burst.”
“Yes. I feel that.”
“Why, you can even get joy in Hartspool.”
“Hartspool? How?”
“A party. A swell dance.”
“A party? A--dance?”
Molly echoed the words with a deep breath of ecstasy. Then she shook
her head.
“I’ve--I’ve never been to a--party,” she said dejectedly.
Andy nodded and laughed. And his eyes were hotly regarding this child
of the hills who was like clay in his hands.
“Will you go to this one? It’s the swell farmers’ dance that they hold
when seeding’s through. There’s two weeks yet. I’m going. I guess I
wouldn’t miss it for a deal. Say, I haven’t always been a farmer like
you. I couldn’t go right on here from year to year without a break. I’d
go crazy. You come with me to it. I’ll fix the tickets. It don’t mean a
thing but a good time. And for you a fifty-mile drive. Will you do it,
Molly? Say, I’d be mighty glad and proud. You’d be the belle of that
dance, and I’d be----”
“I don’t know,” Molly demurred. “Lightning would be real mad. He’d----”
“Oh, to hell with Lightning. He’s your hired man. You’ll come?”
“But I haven’t a party gown,” Molly cried, in sudden dismay.
“I said there’s two weeks yet.”
“You mean I could--fix one?”
The light in the girl’s eyes told the man all he wanted to know. She
was a little overwhelmed, but wholly yielding. Her excitement was
apparent in the rise and fall of her gently swelling bosom. He pressed
her the more surely.
“Surely you could. There’s all the elegant stuff you need in Mike’s
store in Hartspool. Make a trip in after you get your cows back--if the
cattle thieves haven’t got ’em,” he said with a laugh. “Say, Molly,
promise. You will?” he urged, leaning forward and suddenly reaching
out for possession of her hands. “Promise,” he cried. “You must come.
I--I----”
But the girl had risen from her seat. Perhaps it was those reaching
hands she wished to avoid. Perhaps-- Something was stirring within
her, a feeling she had never known before. Quite suddenly she found
herself impelled to flee from the sight of those appealing eyes,
beyond the reach of those outheld hands. For one moment her cheeks had
paled. Then, in an instant, a deep flush suffused them right up to the
temples, and the broad, low forehead, shaded by the wide brim of her
hat. She glanced quickly out over the clearing. Then she laughed. It
was a forced laugh she was almost unconscious of.
“I--I won’t promise, Andy. I’ll just--think about it.”
The man urged her no further. He was content. He knew.
“All right, Molly,” he said, rising from his bucket. “That’s fixed.”
His confidence passed all unheeded. Molly was lost in the new, strange
sensations of the moment. Quite suddenly and almost sharply she
declared her intention of going.
“I’ll saddle up right away,” she cried. “Look! Look where the sun is! I
must have sat here more than an hour!”
CHAPTER XI
Lightning Operates His Plan
Lightning had reached the summit of a “saddle” between two considerable
hills. The hills themselves were wood-clad, but the “saddle” between
them was grass-grown and open, and a wide view of the valley of Whale
River spread out before him.
The old man had reined in his horse, and sat meditatively munching
his tobacco as he searched for the thing he expected to find. He was
looking for McFardell’s newly-enclosed pasture somewhere there down on
the river bank. He found it quickly. Yes, it was there, away to the
east about a mile. And beyond that, just above the tree-tops, he beheld
the drift of smoke which indicated his clearing.
Lightning had left the farm and struck out as the crow flies. That was
the way of the man. He had avoided all trails, lest chance should bring
about an encounter with Molly in search of the lost cows. Just now she
was the last person he desired to meet. And the way he had chosen of
reaching McFardell’s homestead seemed to be the best possible in the
circumstances.
His satisfaction was considerable. It was now only a question of
the best point at which to cross the river itself. He knew Whale
River as he knew most of the region of the foothills. It was quite
as treacherous as were the mountain rivers generally. But there were
two fords. One was directly opposite McFardell’s homestead, and the
other----
A mounted figure had suddenly appeared on the far side of the valley.
It had just left the ex-policeman’s homestead, and was moving
straight for the river ford he had been contemplating. In a moment the
cattleman’s easy confidence was shattered, and replaced by a spasm of
agitation. He had recognised the rider. He had recognised the sorrel
and white of the pinto mare. It was Molly.
Lightning was badly shocked. But he remained where he was. There was no
fear that Molly would discover him. She was at least a mile away, and
her way lay over a trail that crossed the river and pressed straight on
up the slope and out of the valley.
So he watched the girl till she entered the bush that lined the river,
and the while sat nursing his feelings in furious silence. Once out of
view, he knew she would not reappear. He would need to give her time to
get away. That was all.
He calculated the time carefully. Not for a moment did he permit his
feelings to jeopardise his plans. Storm was raging behind his shining
eyes, but it had no effect on his purpose. At last he stabbed the
rowels of his spurs into his horse’s sides and moved on down towards
the river.
* * * * *
When Lightning was disturbed he was like the threat of an active
volcano, and just as liable to break out into violence. On the other
hand, he had unique powers of dissimulation when his passions were
sufficiently under control. In his crude way he was as cunning as an
old dog fox.
It was like that now as he sat on the box outside McFardell’s doorway.
It was the same box which had so recently supported the more delicate
burden of Molly. A bland smiling amiability had apparently replaced his
recent furious mood.
McFardell was again occupying the up-turned bucket, from which he
had gazed so hotly upon the appealing figure of Molly. He had made no
attempt, in the interim between the coming and going of his visitors,
to proceed with his promised chorework. For all his antipathy to the
man he had even found excuse in Lightning’s visit.
The old man’s announcement on arrival had been carefully considered,
and the manner of it had possessed a calculated sarcasm.
“We’re out after ‘strays,’” he declared, with a laugh. “Molly’s out one
way, an’ I’m out another. Our cows is missin’. Molly guesses they’re
‘stray.’ Guess you ain’t picked up a bunch around this valley?”
McFardell shook his head, while he searched the other’s grinning face.
“Not a sign,” he said.
Meanwhile Lightning had dismounted and loosened the cinchas of his
saddle, which was his way of forcing the other to offer hospitality.
“Have you eaten?” McFardell inquired without enthusiasm.
“Surely.” Lightning lied deliberately. He had no desire to eat under
this man’s roof. “But I’ll sit awhile,” he added quickly. “You see,
I ain’t on any party visit, an’ I ain’t guessin’ to locate them cows
around this valley. I’ve come right along to yarn some.”
McFardell turned and led the way across to his hut.
“Then we don’t need to waste time,” he said coldly.
Now they had settled down for their talk, with the drift of smoke from
the fire doing its best to counter the onslaught of newly-hatched
mosquitoes, and dispel the hordes of sticky cattle flies.
Lightning was talking expansively. He was talking with all the graphic
elaboration he was capable of. He was striving to create an atmosphere
of friendliness between them, which neither had the least genuine
desire for. McFardell saw through the other’s manner instantly, and
wondered. But he listened the more intently in consequence.
“You see, boy,” the old man grated, in his harsh way, “them cows is
no more strayed than you an’ me. I’m dead wise to the things goin’ on
around these hills, an’ you bein’ a police boy that was, I guessed I
need to hand you the stuff I got in my head. Molly, gal, jest don’t
know a thing. An’, anyway, she’d hate to think ther’ was cattle thieves
around. But there is. By gee! Ther’ surely is. An’ they’re at work
right here around us.”
McFardell removed his pipe from his heavy mouth.
“I see,” he observed. And his manner had swiftly fallen back to that
acquired in his police days. “What’s lying behind this, Lightning?” he
demanded sharply.
“Guess you haven’t ridden ten miles just to hand me--with my two
cows--warning. Well?”
The suddenness of his challenge suited Lightning’s more direct methods,
and, as a result, the questioner improved several places in his
estimation.
“It’s easy,” he said at once, chewing vigorously. “Dan Quinlan, up
there above us in the hills, has run a hundred an’ fifty yearlings
last year into Hartspool an’ Calford. Well, you can’t grow a hundred
an’ fifty yearlings out of ten mean cows that must have quit milking
when you couldn’t raise a crop of chin-whisker. Not in the same year,
anyway. Say, he runs a registered brand, too. ‘Lazy K.’”
McFardell glanced out over his clearing. His machinery held his gaze.
“I’ve heard about his shipments in Hartspool,” he said meditatively.
“You’d need to be deaf if you ain’t.”
“Yes. What then?”
McFardell’s eyes were levelled on the other’s, with a searching
half-smile. Lightning sustained the regard with superlative blandness.
“It’s police work,” he said meaningly.
“I’m no longer a policeman. I’m a farmer--like you.”
“You quit ’em--yes.”
“I was--‘fired.’”
“That don’t cut any ice. You know the play.”
McFardell shook his head, and Lightning saw the ominous snapping of his
eyes.
“Why should I help out police work?” he said. “Guess I haven’t a thing
to lose through cattle thieves.” He laughed. “Why, my stock wouldn’t
mean a thing to the craziest bunch of rustlers ever rode the prairie.
Anyway, I don’t see where Dan Quinlan’s duffing his yearlings.”
“Yet he’s passed in a hundred an’ fifty in one year an’ registered a
brand. Say”--Lightning’s eyes were just a shade anxious--“a boy don’t
need to register a brand if he ain’t keepin’ right to the business.
Maybe this year he’ll pass in more. Wher’ do they come from? I’d say
they don’t grow on the hill-tops, an’ you surely can’t fish ’em in the
criks.”
“No.”
McFardell smoked on thoughtfully for some moments. Lightning’s rough
argument was not without its effect upon a mind that had been carefully
police trained. But there was something else puzzling. Was the
cattleman genuine in his anxiety in coming to discuss the situation
with him?
“Maybe it’s as you say, Lightning,” he said after awhile. “I’ve heard
all this before in Hartspool. At least, I’ve heard them talking. But I
don’t fancy jumping in to worry out things for other folk. Why should
I? I got all the work, an’ more than I need, right here. No. It’s
police work, and I’m not yearning to help the Police.” Suddenly his
eyes lit with a feeling that swept him along with it. “No, by God, I
owe the Police nothing. Not a thing. You know there’s things a man
can never forget. You’re a cattleman. You gave your whole life up
to--cattle. I was a policeman, and gave my whole life up to the job.
Guess I’d sooner do police work than anything I know. If I may say so,
I’m dead cut out for it. I did it for years, and made good all along
the line. I’d a name for good work, and saw Easy Street coming my way
as a result. I allow I wanted nothing better. Then came bad luck--plumb
bad luck and nothing else. No fault of mine. Just luck. In a moment
discipline got busy. I---- Psha! It don’t matter. Here I am--‘fired.’
And with a ‘bobtail’ discharge. I’m sore on the Police, boy. I wouldn’t
do a thing to help their work, unless--unless----”
“You could get back to ’em with--a clean slate.”
Lightning was smiling fiercely, and his whiskered jaws broke into
renewed activity upon his tobacco. He took full credit to himself for
the channel into which he believed he had headed their talk.
“That’s how I’d feel,” he said insinuatingly. “Say, it’s sort of
hittin’ the other fellow a boost plumb in the neck. But I’d say it
would be mighty elegant settin’ the Police Commissioner squealin’.” He
laughed, and watched a smile dawn in McFardell’s eyes. “It would be a
real swell play to be able to roll in to Calford with a stacked deck
of cyards in your pocket. ‘See right here, Commish, I ken lay my hands
right on a bunch of hoss thieves, and pass ’em down to penitentiary. Do
you need ’em? Well, play the game. Set me right back where I was, and
wipe out the darn thing you got against me. I’d say that’s a play that
looks a’mighty good to me. Gee, it would be elegant!’”
The old man’s glee was consummate acting, and its very crudity carried
conviction. McFardell was completely deceived, and the thought took
hold of him against his better judgment. It was helped tremendously by
the long winter, most of which he had passed in Hartspool, and the
knowledge of the growing depletion of his finances, and the laborious
prospects which the coming summer opened up. But he shook his head at
the man who was tempting him.
“It’s surely all you say, but I can’t see putting it over,” he said a
little reluctantly.
“Not if you passed ’em the rustlers, an’ a right story to send ’em to
penitentiary?”
“Oh, yes, that way.”
McFardell knocked out his pipe, and put it away deliberately. The hint
was obvious, and Lightning was ready enough to accept it. He stood up,
and his lean figure towered over the other, who had risen from his
bucket.
“Wal,” he said, “mebbe it ain’t worth the worry. I guess you got
an elegant valley of sweet grass around you, an’ a swell outfit of
machinery to trim this place into a right farm. It’s tough work, but
good. You ought to be showin’ yourself a wage after the first five
years. It ain’t a deal of time when a boy’s young. Then you’re your own
boss, an’ if you fancy a time, why, you ken jest take it, an’ to hell
with work. An’ your machinery ain’t a worry so long as the season hands
you a right crop. If it don’t them boys’ll hit your trail good. Still,
you got a good patch of ploughing. Maybe you’ll get another fifty acres
broke this year. Gee, us mossbacks ain’t never through,” he finished up
with a laugh.
He moved away towards his horse feeding hay beside the corral, and
McFardell accompanied him.
“Guess I’ll get along,” he went on. “I jest felt I had to get around.
Dan Quinlan’s turned rustler, an’ by the looks of things our bum stock
don’t come amiss to him, I’d say you’ll need to keep an eye for your
team. There it is. The folks are talkin’ P’lice in Hartspool, and if
they get around I can’t help the notion it’s goin’ to be dead easy for
’em.”
They reached the corral, and McFardell thoughtfully watched the old
prairie man tighten up the cinchas of his saddle. Then, as the lean
figure leapt into the saddle, he nodded a casual farewell.
“Dan Quinlan’s quite a piece up in the hills south of you?” he inquired.
Lightning’s interest quickened.
“Twenty-fi’ south-west,” he said.
McFardell nodded.
“Maybe I’ll get a look around that way when I’m through seeding.”
“Mebbe it’ll pay you--feelin’ the way you do.”
Lightning picked up his reins, and his horse raised its head. Then he
nodded at the dark-faced man he disliked even more intensely than any
cattle rustlers.
“So long,” he grated, and swung his horse about.
“So long.”
McFardell watched the queer figure as it rode out of his clearing. Then
he went back to his fire, and the work of sorting his machinery was no
longer considered. Instead, he sat pondering the thing which Lightning
had just put into his head. So the afternoon passed, and he prepared
his supper. Then he hurriedly attended his horses and cows, and, when
the barest necessities had been seen to, he returned again to his
shanty.
Before he turned into his blankets that night, which remained just
as he had arisen from them that morning, his brain was seething with
the new idea. There was a chance, as Lightning had suggested. There
was hope. And the moment he admitted it the prospect grew to the
proportions of certainty.
Yes. He would certainly look into this thing up at Quinlan’s, and
then--and then--God, how he hated the prospect of breaking another
fifty acres!
CHAPTER XII
Dan Quinlan
In the years of Lightning’s service at the Marton farm he had only
penetrated the greater foothills to the south-west as far as Dan
Quinlan’s homestead on two or three occasions.
His real reason for avoiding Dan Quinlan was his cold opinion that the
man was unfit for white man’s association. The thing that was anathema
to his ideas of manhood was that Dan lived with a squaw. There were
always to be found loafing about his place a number of his wife’s
coloured relations; and then there were offspring which he claimed
no white man had the right to bring into the world--little dusky,
happy, laughing, wild creatures, with all the potentialities for evil
resulting from the mixture of colour.
Then his farm was such as no white man need take joy in. A log dug-out
on a hillside, overlooking a poor corral that was just sufficient
for his ten mean cows; a ramshackle barn which stabled a small bunch
of saddle choyeuses; and a patch of ploughing that barely provided
sufficient feed, with a few cabbages, and a supply of potatoes thrown
in. And, added to the rest, the whole place was completely overrun by
savage trail dogs.
In Lightning’s view, whatever he might choose to call himself, there
was only one designation to which Dan Quinlan was entitled. The man
lived by trapping and pelt-hunting, and any other means that offered
itself. He had become a white Indian. In short, he had “taken the
blanket,” and was no longer entitled to associate with white men or
claim their respect. Lightning’s opinion was characteristic, and in
consequence of it he had not been near the Irishman since the death of
George Marton.
Had he done so, the scene he would have discovered would still have
been, to all outward appearance, much about the same. There stood the
dishevelled dug-out, that was sufficiently stout, and supplied all the
man’s needs and those of his dusky family. The barn looked to have
been slightly enlarged, but had gained nothing else by the change. The
corral still accommodated the ten mean cows which grazed over the flat
of grass which filled the valley below. The wolfish dog pack still
beset the place.
But the change was there, and he would no doubt have discovered it.
It lay within the forest which clothed the whole hillside about the
dug-out. Less than half a mile from the Irishman’s home a clearing
had been made. It had a winding roadway cut through the trees. Four
ring corrals had been set up, and in connection with them was all the
paraphernalia of the cattle-raiser. There was the branding “pinch.”
There was the smith’s forge, and the searing-irons. There were great
stackings of hay for feed. And several soundly built huts of log and
thatch dotted the outer ring of the clearing for use in the work
amongst the cattle.
The place was basking under a blaze of spring sunshine that was only
little short of the full heat of summer. The forest had already set
forth its paler shades of green, and the stark arms of deciduous trees
were donning their delicate spring costumes. The mountain stream, in
the heart of the valley, was a boisterous, rushing torrent, and the
grass in the open was leaping by inches with every passing day.
Two men were standing near by, overlooking the work of branding the
cattle with which the corrals were teeming. The men in the corrals, and
at the forge, and working the cumbersome “pinch,” were not ordinary
cattlemen. They were not even white men. They were relatives of Cama,
the wife of Dan Quinlan, and the Irishman had pressed them into his
service without scruple.
Standing with his white-haired companion, Dan’s eyes were alight with
humour. His big body was clad in the buckskin which the faithful
Cama prepared for it. The only thing with which to distinguish him
from his dusky relatives by marriage was his white face, rugged and
weather-beaten, his enormous size, his mass of curling, fair hair, and
his laughing blue eyes.
“Say, Jim,” he cried, as he watched one of his many “in-laws”
struggling furiously with a roped steer, “I want to laff. I surely do.
Say, look at that guy hanging to that pore critter’s stumps of horns.
Now, how in hell does he guess that beast’s to reckon he wants it to
move ahead while he’s smotherin’ its fool head with his darn sight more
foolish body? Can you beat it?”
He moved off on the run, and laid a hand on the top bar of the corral
opening. The next moment he had vaulted it, and became lost amidst the
teeming throng.
Jim Pryse smilingly awaited his return. The Irishman amused him almost
as much as did his “in-laws.” And when Dan came back to him his face
was beaming with good-nature.
“Gee! They’re an outfit!” he cried, with a great laugh. “Did you ever
see such a play? They got a Dago bull-fight skinned to death. Get a
look at ’em. They’re the whole darn tally of Cama’s brothers, an’
cousins, an’ uncles. I feed the bunch, an’ talk Blackfoot to ’em from
daylight to dark. They’d eat that bunch of steers in a week, but it
takes their whole darn combination o’ brain to handle ’em right. I
surely want to laff. They guess they’re showing the white man. They’re
the queerest crowd of darn-foolishness you could locate outside a
bughouse.”
Pryse laughed delightedly.
“It’s no wonder they’re a dying race,” he said.
Dan nodded and chuckled.
“They’re Reserve-raised,” he said significantly. “They know all about
doctors’ dope an’ pie-faced religion. They can talk and read ‘white.’
They can count dollars to beat the band, but cents better. They got a
hell of a notion for soap they fancy looking at, but ’ud hate to use.
But set em to the work their old folk reckoned was natural to ’em, an
you’ve got ’em hatin’ it like the devil hates holy water. But they’re
a good crew, an’ I’ve got no kick comin’. They’d commit murder fer
me, an’ I sort o’ feel they’re like a bunch of silly kids that need
beating over the head with a club when they do wrong. Ther’ it is.
It’s the civilisin’ play of our races--the old dames who sit around
in steam heat figgerin’ out the best med’cine fer their own useless
souls. I’m tryin’ to make men of ’em. But it’s mighty hard work after
the missioners are through with ’em. I tell you, civilisation beats out
of a boy all those things God A’mighty set out as right fer him. An’
it drives home a bunch of sloppy junk that any man worth the name gets
worryin’ around to lose quick.”
“It was something of that set me yearning for Alaska seven or eight
years back,” Pryse chuckled quietly. “But you couldn’t lose it there.
The townships, even there, are up to their necks in automobiles, and
’phones, and wireless, and all the rest. Why, they got societies
up there for every darn thing, from a Chink Labour Union to an
Anti-Natural Fur Society. I guess the anti-fur bunch has tough work
ahead in Alaska.”
Dan drew a deep breath, and his eyes sobered.
“Give me these hills,” he cried. “It’s peace here, Jim. It’s peace
an’--if you ain’t yearning for fancy feeding--plenty. We’re out of it
all, an’ up against all the things God A’mighty reckoned was good
fer us. Taste the mountain air, look at the sun, see the grass grow,
an’ the woods packed with every pelt and feed a boy needs. There’s no
by-your-leave here. Ther’s no crazy say-so. Act the man or go plumb
under. If ther’s any kickin’ get after it quick. It’s peace here, the
only peace I’ve ever known. Ther’s folks in Hartspool an’ Calford, when
I get around with cattle, pass a whisper all the time. I know it. I
bin told. I’ve ‘taken the blanket.’ I’m ‘white Injun.’ An’ all because
I married Cama right, an’ she’s raised a dandy bunch of kids to me. I
don’t care a curse. Why shouldn’t I? Ain’t haf the whole world mongrels
of colour? If they ain’t they were oncet. Psha! I ain’t lookin’ fer
no halo. I got some three-score an’ ten to put in on this crazy old
earth, an’ I’m goin’ to do it the best way that suits me. I ken scratch
a livin’ right here fer myself an’ my whole bunch. I got Cama, an’
I’m happy. Ther’ ain’t a saloon fer miles, which is God’s blessin’
to a crazy Irishman like me. An’ then, things bein’ so, I’ll go down
when the time comes singin’ thanks to the good God who’s passed me
the peace an’ happiness I never found under the electric sky signs of
civilisation. Say, I’ll hold up this bunch till fall, an’ then run ’em
right over the border into Montana without making any pow-wow with the
United States border folk. We got to go slow Calford way. Folks there
are pushing their noses our way.”
Pryse’s interest in the branding had passed. Dan Quinlan had absorbed
it all. The man’s philosophy suited his own mood. Somehow he felt that
deep inside that burly ruffian dwelt a great, strong, human spirit--a
reckless, untamed spirit, whose genuine good almost completely
smothered the weakness he sometimes saw peeping out.
“I was wondering that way, Dan,” he said quietly. “The curiosity of
folk was one of the things I didn’t search closely enough. Yes, we must
surely spread our market. I’ve been thinking hard. Our bluff isn’t
all it needs to be. We’ve got to bluff harder. You’ve got your brand
registered. That’s all right. Now we must play right up to it with a
‘full house.’ Do you get me? We got to set up a swell sort of ranch
place right here for you, and your Cama, and her folk to live in. It
must be big and good. And we’ll need bloodstock ranging this valley.
Then, when folks get around, as they surely will, they’ll see the
meaning of things as we want ’em to see. You’ve built yourself into a
swell stock-raising proposition. Then they’ll rub their foolish eyes
and forget their talk of ‘taking the blanket,’ and they’ll lift their
hats to Dan Quinlan, and we can trade our stock all we please down at
Calford and Hartspool.”
Dan hawked and spat. He was watching an Indian approaching the
“pinch” from the forge. The man was flourishing a nearly white-hot
branding-iron. He let out a shout.
“What in hell?” he cried. “Quit it, Ash-te! Quit it, you seven sorts of
darn fool! Are you lookin’ to roast the poor crittur? Cool it down, you
crazy son of a goat. Fer the sake of Holy Mary! Ah, to hell wid ye!”
His moment of angry disgust passed, and his smile broke out at once.
And, as the Indian scuttled back to the forge, he turned again to the
man beside him.
“Sure an’ you’re right, Jim,” he cried, with a laugh. “You’ll set Cama
crazy fer joy building her a swell home. And these boys, too. Gee! I
wish I could lick ’em into the things they were before the missioner
got after ’em,” he added regretfully. Then: “How’s things going inside?”
Pryse laughed.
“Why, fine,” he said. Then he added significantly: “I got more hands
than I can pass work to. They come from the cities east, and west, and
south. They’re all sorts, from crook politicians right down to the
boys who’ve skidded on the main trail. It’s just wonderful. There’s
a great estate there, and well-nigh a settlement. And I’ve just had
to case-harden myself to hold a discipline of sheer steel. We’ll be
shipping grain this year as well as stock. And if nothing goes amiss
I’d say it’ll come in a flood. I must get right back now. It needs me
all the time.”
“Yep. I guess that’s so. Well, so long, Jim,” Dan said, as the other
turned to go. “I’ll start right in building--out in the open. We can’t
be too quick with it. I’ll stop right here now. I can’t leave these
fool boys. You’ll look in on Cama an’ the kids before you quit?”
“I surely will. So long Dan.”
“So long.”
Dan watched the white-haired figure till it was swallowed up by
the forest. Then he turned again to his hopeless task of guiding,
instructing, and blaspheming his dark-skinned relatives.
CHAPTER XIII
Silver-Thatch
Molly Marton sat leaning over the horn of her saddle. One elbow was
propped upon it, while her brown hand supported her chin. The other
hand was reaching down holding her mare’s reins, while the thirsty
creature buried its muzzle in the speeding waters of the creek.
The afternoon was well advanced, and the sun was already approaching
the crystal peaks of the more distant hills. Molly calculated there was
a good three hours to complete darkness yet, and she could reasonably
expect to reach home in less time than that. So far her search had been
fruitless. She had discovered no sign of her missing cows. But she was
quite undisturbed, and not a whit nearer agreement with Lightning as to
the meaning of her loss.
The excuse of her search, however, had served Molly well enough.
Ranging these hills, with Nature bursting into renewed life, was a joy
that never failed in its appeal. Molly loved it all with a youthful
passion. She loved the radiant sunlight--the immensity, the complete
solitude, of this world of forest, and hill, and sheltered valley.
The scented spruce came right down to the grass-grown banks of the
creek. Where she had entered the water was a boulder-strewn gap. It was
clearly the bed of one of those swiftly passing spring torrents. Now it
was almost dry, and had served as her approach to the shallow ford.
The happy waters surged about Rachel’s sturdy legs. Beyond, across the
creek, the hills rose sharply, clad with a woven pattern in every
shade of green. Molly had no intention of crossing the creek. Her
homeward way lay back over her tracks, and down through the endless
woods which lined almost the entire course of the creek.
But the girl had no thought just now for the beauty of her
surroundings, or the business of returning home, or even the object of
her search. She was all unconcerned that she had some fifteen miles
to cover before she again saw her snug homestead. She was thinking of
the dark, good-looking face of the man who had offered himself as her
escort to a real dance.
For long weeks, and even months, thought of Andy McFardell had
preoccupied her. There had been times when she had had no realisation
of how deep was the appeal he made to her. Then there had been other
times when she knew, and the youthful blood had swiftly swept to her
head, and a sort of delirium of longing had left her a little horrified
and ashamed.
There had been moments of doubt, when she had longed for the father
who was dead. But all these emotions had been passing, lost in her
healthy-mindedness. But now it seemed to her as if the whole combined
strength and weakness of those past moments had descended upon her in
an overwhelming rush. A passionate love for Andy McFardell was sweeping
through her. And she knew and understood the wonderful thing that had
befallen.
She knew none of the old earlier shame now. The woman in her had
suddenly become dominant. In a wondrous revelation, all the innocence
of childhood had been swept away like some obscuring mist, yielding
in its place that splendid spectacle of a golden love wherein every
emotion, every hope, every purpose in life, becomes definitely focused
upon one single glorified human creature.
Molly gazed out upon this vision while her pinto drank. A deep emotion
held her. Her unseeing gaze was upon the water-race. Her ears were deaf
to everything, but the rush of happy thought passing headlong through
her brain. She was ecstatically absorbed in her love for the man, with
his warm, dark eyes, his splendid courage in adversity, and she longed
for him. There were no reservations. In Molly there could be none.
At that moment no less could satisfy her than to yield everything to
him--everything that was hers, everything she herself might be.
The clatter of hoofs upon the boulders behind her left her wholly
unaware of any approach, and it was not till her mare flung up her head
that she awoke to realities. Rachel had quenched her thirst, and the
girl reluctantly turned her about to regain the bank.
Molly sat like a statue on her unmoving mare. Her dream had tumbled
headlong. She was alert and searching as she gazed upon the
white-haired figure of a horseman in the act of watering his horse a
few yards away.
She took the man in from head to foot, even to the last detail of the
splendid, coal-black horse he was riding. And the man returned her
stare with smiling interest. His wide-brimmed prairie hat cast a shadow
over his eyes, and so hid something of the strength that looked out of
them. Molly beheld the broad pattern of his tweed jacket, and the cord
riding-breeches which terminated in his soft-topped boots. She noted
that he was wearing a waistcoat; and, curiously enough, this was the
thing that perhaps attracted her most. Right across it stretched the
yellow links of a gold watch-chain.
Just for an instant a flutter of very natural apprehension disturbed
her. She was alone. She was still miles from her home in the heart of
the hills. Then she remembered. After all, these hills were her home.
She had been born and bred to them. A stranger, clad in garments such
as she associated with a city, need only excite her interest. Besides,
there was something very pleasant looking out of his eyes.
* * * * *
Jim Pryse had seen Molly as he approached the water on his way from
Dan Quinlan’s; but he had failed to recognise her sex until she turned
her pinto to return to the river bank. For a moment he had hesitated,
doubtful of the wisdom of revealing himself. Then he had dismissed the
thought. His horse must be watered, and this was the only suitable
place along the whole of the densely wooded river. So he had passed on
down to the ford.
Molly’s surprise as she faced him was no greater than that of the man.
Jim could scarcely believe his senses as he gazed into the pretty face,
with its big, grey, innocent eyes. He had been prepared for some rough
cattleman; he had expected such. In the coated, divided riding-suit he
had never for a moment looked for a girl. A white girl alone in these
hills was a thought that had never entered his head. Now he was glad he
had flung caution to the winds.
It was Molly who offered greeting, and it came in an impulsive
expression of surprise.
“Why,” she exclaimed, “I just hadn’t a notion----” And she broke off in
a little laugh of embarrassment.
“It doesn’t seem I had either, till--you turned your pinto around.”
Both were laughing. To Molly the man’s tone matched the expression of
his eyes. It was deep and resonant, and reminded her of the organ she
remembered to have heard at the Catholic church in Hartspool when she
used to visit it during her father’s life. To the man the moment was
one of sheer enjoyment. Beyond his sister, and the dusky wife of Dan
Quinlan, he had not encountered a woman in many months.
His horse flung up its head and investigated the pinto. In a moment the
man was forgotten in Molly’s admiration of the horse he was riding.
“My!” she cried. “What a lovely, lovely beast.”
Pryse leant over and patted the sweat-dried neck of his horse.
“Beelzebub’s quite a dandy,” he admitted, with smiling pride. “He
was raised on a race-track down Kentucky way. But say, they’ve both
finished watering, and the creek’s ice-cold.”
Molly nodded and urged her mare. And they both passed up the
boulder-littered bed of the mountain torrent.
Molly led the way, her sure-footed mare infinitely more nimble than the
other amongst the boulders. Neither spoke a word. Both were thinking
hard. Molly was quietly making up her mind to ascertain the stranger’s
identity, and then leave him while she continued her way alone. Jim
Pryse was, on the other hand, deliberately intent upon riding with her
just as far as she would permit him.
The girl drew rein at the edge of the forest, and Beelzebub gallantly
came to a halt beside the pinto and rubbed his muzzle against her white
neck.
“My way lies east,” she said quietly, as again she encountered the
smile of the man.
“Mine, too, for a mile or so,” Jim said casually. “Then I break west up
Three-Way Creek. There’s no get-out of this valley before that. We best
ride on. We’re mostly lonesome folk. Company’s swell when we happen on
it.”
Molly’s resolve was scattered to the winds. The man’s smile was
irresistible. Besides, there could be no harm. And, anyway, what he
said was perfectly true. This valley went on with only a break here and
there right down to her home. The creek was the same that supplied
the water-front on her farm, miles away on. If he were riding east, it
would be simply churlish to refuse to ride with him.
“You know,” she said, with a frank laugh, “I’d just fixed it in my mind
to quit you right here. You see, you’re a stranger.”
Jim nodded, watching the light in her eyes.
“That’s dead right, too,” he said. And then his eyes sobered
admonishingly. “It doesn’t do riding around these hills with stranger
men. Now you can’t tell. Maybe I’m a ‘hold-up,’ looking around for
young gals on the ‘stray.’ Maybe I’m a ‘two-gun’ man. Or a cattle
thief. Maybe I get around eating up any old thing in the human way all
the time. You surely can’t tell. The more I think of all the things I
might be the tougher it makes me feel. Now, say, hadn’t you best make
me ride ahead of you, and hand out my talk over my shoulder, while
you keep a gun pushed up against my spine? It ’ud help make things
safe--for you.”
Molly broke into a peal of happy laughter.
“I like fool talk,” she cried. “But you hit things right in a way, too.
Still, my gun, which is right here in my coat pocket, can stay where it
is, and we can ride aside each other. Let’s get on. I need to make home
by sundown. There’s all of fifteen miles of this valley to make. And I
haven’t located a sight of my fool cows yet.”
“Your cows?” Jim asked curiously, as his horse moved along beside the
sedate mare.
Molly’s gaze searched the distance through the tree-trunks as they
loped over the rotting underlay of the woods.
“Yes. I’m out after ‘strays,’” she said, in explanation. “They got
away two days back. The fool dears didn’t know better than to quit our
corral for the open and the timber wolves. It makes you reckon they
got no sort of sense,” she laughed. “Here we’re doing the best we know
for them; we’re handing them feed, and shelter, and water. Then--do you
reckon they’re thankful an’ pleased? No. It’s sure like us human folk,
isn’t it? We just must do the things we want, an’ not what’s good for
us. Lightning guesses they’ve been stole by rustlers. But----”
Jim listened to the girl’s explanation in wonder, and broke in as she
hesitated.
“Do you live hereabouts?” he asked quickly. “You got a farm? I hadn’t a
notion there was a soul around this valley but Dan Quinlan, away back
there where I’ve just come from.”
Molly turned, soberly speculative as she studied the face beside her.
“Then you surely must be quite a stranger,” she said. “Marton’s farm
has stood right down at the mouth of this valley twenty years. I was
born on it, and I’m twenty,” she concluded in her precise fashion.
Jim soothed the impatient Beelzebub with a restraining hand. As the
beast modified its gait he looked round.
“Marton’s farm?” he inquired, with an effort to conceal the excitement
he was labouring under.
Molly nodded.
“Yes,” she said. “That’s my name. Molly Marton. You see,” she added,
“father’s dead. He’s been dead two years now. I run the farm with
Lightning. He’s my hired man. At least, he calls himself that way. But
he’s more than that. He’s a queer old tough. He’s been a cattleman all
his life. He’s getting very old, but--he’s good to me. An’--an’ I guess
I couldn’t run the farm right without him.”
But Jim was paying no heed to Molly’s eulogy of Lightning. In a moment
his mind had leapt back to a time in his life when the name of Marton
had meant complete salvation to him.
“I hadn’t a notion,” he muttered. Then, as they galloped silently
down an incline towards a wide break in the forest that lay ahead,
he bestirred himself under the girl’s scrutiny and laughed. “And you
are Molly Marton?” he said. “And your father was George Marton a--a
French-Canadian?”
“Then you do know us?” Molly swung her mare wide to avoid a fallen
tree-trunk. But Beelzebub took it in his stride, and the girl noted the
ease of the man’s seat in the saddle. As they came together again she
went on. “Yes. He was my father,” she said, and waited.
Jim shook his head, and the silver whiteness of his bushy hair
fascinated the girl.
“It beats everything,” he said. “I’d forgotten George Marton had a
daughter. And yet I shouldn’t have,” he added, with an enigmatic smile.
“But I only saw your father once. I hadn’t a ghost of an idea his farm
was hereabouts.”
“Where did you know him?”
“That’s what I’ve been asking myself--months. It was somewhere around
this hill country. But the particular locality?” He laughed and
shrugged. “You can search me.”
Molly accepted his reply with all the trust of her unsuspicious nature.
She nodded.
“That’s the way of things,” she said. “We meet folks, and pass
right on. Don’t we? Then, when they happen into our lives again,
we--we--just sit an’ wonder, an’ guess we must be dreaming. Maybe even
you didn’t meet him in these hills at all. Maybe it was Hartspool,
or--or--Calford. He used to go there.”
“Maybe.”
Jim drew a deep breath. They were nearing the edge of a wide break in
the forest. Beyond lay a stretch of grass. Away beyond that the forest
continued, but there was a definite change in its nature. It was low
and sparse. Then away to the right of them lay the creek down which
they had been riding. Silver stretches of water showed up. The valley
was changing its course eastwards. Just behind an abutment of hill
ahead was the opening that would take him westwards. Jim knew that the
moment of parting was drawing near.
As they rode into the open Beelzebub strove fiercely to break into a
race. But the man held him down.
In this fashion they rode on in silence. Jim was absorbed in the memory
of a time when his fortunes had been at their lowest ebb, and he had
been running a neck-and-neck race with disaster, and even death. His
more spectacular association with Dan Quinlan had claimed his interest
to the exclusion of that other. And yet he knew he owed just as deep a
debt of gratitude to George Marton. This girl was his daughter--this
child, with her innocent eyes, her pretty, dark face. It was she who
had packed up that food that had kept him from sheer starvation for
days.
Again they were in full sunlight, which transformed the valley, and the
blue grass they were riding over, into something very wonderful. To the
man it was like an omen--an omen of delight. He abruptly checked his
horse, so that Molly came abreast of him.
“You know, Molly,” he said, using her first name without realising it,
“it’s queer the tricks life plays about us. You’ve told me something
I’m more glad about than I can say.”
“You mean--about father? Why?”
“Why?” Jim echoed. Then he shook his head. “No. It’s too long a
yarn now.” He pointed out ahead at the break in the hillside, where
Three-Way Creek debouched. “There lies my way now. Yours is ahead down
the valley. The sun’s dropping fast, and we’ll both need to hustle or
get benighted. Some time I’ll---- Say, look right down there amongst
those spruce bluffs at the river. What’s that moving? It’s--say,
there’s one--two--three--four--five--six. And they’re Pole-Angus cows.
Were yours Pole-Angus?”
Molly turned in the direction he was pointing. And instantly her face
became radiant.
“Why, say!” she cried. “Look at them! The foolish old dears! They’ve
handed me a nightmare. And there they are gawking around like a bunch
of foolishness eating stray grass in a spruce bluff when there’s all
this swell feed right here. No, they’ve no sense. They just haven’t.
Lightning’ll be crazy mad to think there’s no rustler around.”
* * * * *
Molly was alone with her truant cows. She was herding them before her
along the creek bank. She had driven them across the stream that came
out of the westerly gap with the aid of the white-haired man on his
black horse. Then, at her bidding, the stranger had taken himself off.
In the moment of the discovery of her lost cows the girl had forgotten
everything else. There had been the perverse work of rounding them up,
which mainly devolved upon her. Beelzebub had missed all that sort of
thing in his education. Then had come the passage of the creek. And
then a hurried farewell. It was not until she had lost sight of the
stranger that she remembered her unfulfilled purpose. She had let him
go. And she knew no more whence he came, or his name, or whither he was
going, than she had at the moment of their meeting at the water-hole.
It was absurd. It was something outrageous. She was angry with herself,
and not without resentment against him. For a moment she had thought
to recall him. But she restrained the impulse. No. Why should she?
She had been a fool. And he--he might at least have enlightened her
in exchange for the enlightenment she had so foolishly afforded him.
Evidently he could not have wanted to do so. Evidently he had no desire
to discover himself. Well, let him go, with his coal-black horse and
his queer white hair.
Her cows preoccupied her, and quickly enough her ill-humour passed in
the business of driving the foolish, hornless creatures, whose antics
so often made her want to laugh. Anyway, her long day had been more
than successful, and as the valley opened out, and the woods gave way
to the broad open as she drew near her home, the cows seemed to realise
whither they were being herded, and to welcome a return to the shelter
of their familiar corral. They hurried along almost frantically.
As she neared the end of her journey Molly’s thoughts were no longer
dominated by the all-absorbing emotions which had been inspired by the
man McFardell. It was not that they had undergone any change. On the
contrary. It was simply the natural claim of the life that was hers.
The solitude of the hills had been broken for her. A fresh interest had
suddenly tumbled headlong into it. And she found herself thinking of
the white-haired creature on his coal-black horse.
How came it that the stranger’s hair was so white? He was young--quite
young. She was certain of that. She had heard that trouble sometimes
whitened the hair. Yet there was no trouble in his smiling eyes. It
was all very strange. It was---- What wonderful hair! It was like
silver--polished silver. And as thick as a thatch.
She laughed aloud as she came in sight of the smoke rising from the
chimney of her homestead. A sudden thought had flashed through her
mind. It was a childish thought, that pleased her immensely. He
had refused to reveal his identity. Well, it was of no consequence.
She would very likely never see him again, and, anyway, she had
coined a name for him. It was a good name, too--better than he
deserved--Silver-Thatch.
CHAPTER XIV
The Heart of the Hills
Jim Pryse was leaning against one of the verandah posts of his home
in the Valley of Hope. And, just behind him, lounging in a low-seated
chair, was a red-headed creature, freckled, clean-shaven. He was a man
of perhaps thirty years. Certainly not more. And he was dressed in
somewhat similar fashion to Pryse himself. The difference lay in the
fact that he wore no coat or waistcoat over the yellowish silk shirt,
whose sleeves were rolled up to the elbow, and revealed forearms which
suggested tremendous physical strength.
“Talk it out, Larry,” Jim said, as the other broke off from his
half-laughing, wholly serious protest, and helped himself to a drink
from the Rye whisky and water that stood on the small table close
beside him. “Notions stick with me when I get ’em into my fool head.
They take a deal of shifting. Still, I always reckon there’s things
other folks can see that I’m mostly blind to, and I like to know about
’em.”
He gazed out over the shadowed, evening scene. It was as though the
wand of some magician had passed over the valley he had known some two
years back, when Hope and Despair had fought out their long battle in
his half-starved soul.
The mighty background of it all was unchanged. There lay the shadowed
forests sweeping up and about the giant hill-slopes, which helped to
hold secret the sweet grass pastures which flooded the heart of the
valley. There lay the calm, silvery winding path of the river that
had once provided him with his principal means of life. There lay
the unending pastures that had first inspired his imagination. It was
all there, just as he had known it in the days when Dan Quinlan’s
ministering visits had meant his moral as well as physical salvation.
But it was no longer simply a splendid picture of Nature’s handiwork. A
complete transformation had been wrought.
The outline of it all was still clearly visible in the last of the
daylight. Night shadows were gathering, and a few twinkling lights
dotted the fringe of the forest beyond the river. There were buildings
in almost every direction within half a mile of where he stood. They
were low, squat buildings of green logs and skilful thatch, and
represented human habitations for the unfortunate freight that had come
to people the valley. Nearer by stood a number of larger buildings.
They were barns standing in the vicinity of the corrals, which were
many and stout. Beyond these lay the rectangular outlines of fenced
pastures, which seemed to extend so far into the distance that they
became completely lost to view. Beyond that were several hundred acres
of fenced ploughing that were beyond his view.
The lowing of cattle came back to him from the corrals and the far
pastures. The night sounds of the river, where the frog chorus was
unceasing, no longer emphasised the desolation he had once known. The
whole valley was alive with all that which the human mind delights in.
There were occasional echoes stirred by human voices, and the friendly
yelp of dogs. And then there, where he was standing, was his own
beautiful log-built home, furnished as civilisation demands, and full
of human companionship.
His had been the controlling mind that had brought it all about. His
had been the wealth that had made it possible. And in the work of it
all he had been supported without stint by the loyalty of his sister,
and this cheerful, freckled creature who was revelling in one of his
occasional cautionary protests.
Laurence Manford laughed as he set his glass back on the table and lit
a fresh cigar.
“It’s not a deal of use, Jim,” he declared. “I haven’t a thing to say
against the notion of it all. It’s the sort of notion any feller who
knows you right would look for. It seems to me there’s boys born into
this pretty swell old world of ours with most of the juice you ought to
find in their heads running around the valves of their foolish hearts.
It’s not reasonable to figger a feller’s heart can think right with
the things inside it that don’t belong there. That’s your trouble.
Guess you were born with a heart that’s short-circuited your thinking
machine. Now, I’m the other way about. I start in to think at the right
end of me, and, when anything else butts in, just beat it over the
head till it quits. Being that way, I got a pretty wide view of this
enterprise of yours, and find myself guessing darn hard about the way
it’s going to end. We got forty crooks around this layout,” he finished
up significantly, “and some of ’em are pretty tough.”
“Well?”
Jim moved back to a chair and sat himself opposite his fiery-headed
friend. He was smiling contentiously, and Larry recognised that he must
make good his argument.
“If I know a thing, that’s just what it isn’t,” he said, sending the
ash of his cigar sprawling. “The forty-first blew in to-day with the
record of a sewer.”
“But we don’t take in folks with that sort of record,” Jim protested.
“Who sent him?”
“Your man in Vancouver.”
“Richards?”
“Sure.”
“What’s his trouble?”
“Smuggling Chinks. And with that goes the dope trade, if I know a
thing, though he don’t admit it. Then he beat the boy who arrested
him over the head with a lead pipe, and made his getaway. He didn’t
kill the feller, but--it wasn’t his fault. Richards reckoned because
he hadn’t killed him he could send him along. It looks like Richards
stretched a point in this boy’s case. And when that sort of thing
happens it seems to me there’s an ugly look in it. Do you get me? This
boy’s a real tough. You’ll see him in awhile.”
Pryse remained silent, and Larry went on. He pointed out across the
valley where the twinkling lights were shining.
“I took a walk around those bunk-houses just after the dinner hour, and
happened on some knife-play. You know that boy, Dago Naudin? Reckons
he’s French, ’an stinks of sage brush. He’d chewed off Slattery’s right
ear, and was yearning to disembowel him with a ten-inch knife that I’ll
swear has tasted the job before. Here’s the knife.”
He drew a vicious-looking weapon out of a sheath slung at the back
of his belt, and touched the edge of it with his thumb. It was horn
handled, and studded with inlays of what looked like gold and silver.
“Mexican,” he said, passing it across to the other. “And I guess that’s
his country, too. I jumped in to save murder, and nearly broke his
wrist to get that knife. He cursed me and mine, and you and yours,
in bastard Spanish. We’re going to get trouble with that tough. And
Slattery’s not a deal better. Say, did you ever figger just how we
stand right here? Do you ever remember Blanche? Oh, yes, I know. We got
boys around here who’re mighty glad and pleased to be here. They’re
boys we can count on good, in a way. There’s the Doc--Peter Lennox.
There’s that boy Lovell Taylor, who tripped up in his bank in Toronto,
and has hated himself for it ever since. There’s Jock Smith, who did
what he did to save a woman from the husband who reckoned to kill her.
There’s that queer soul Fingers, who, if he’s a crook at all, is a
merry son-of-a-gun, anyway. Oh, yes. There’s boys who deserve all we
can do for them. But there’s others----” He spread out his hands. “Dago
Naudin’s the worst of the bunch. And Slattery’s darn bad, too.”
“And what d’you think they can do?”
“Why, every sort of old devilment you ever heard of, from giving
this layout away to highway robbery, and murder of one Jim Pryse.
And--there’s your sister, Blanche.”
“And what are we doing when that play starts?”
“Why, bucking a game, with the chances ten and more to one with the
other feller.”
Pryse shook his white head, and smiled derisively.
“You know, Larry, one of the reasons--only one, mind--I was so almighty
glad when you wouldn’t stand for me running this layout without taking
a hand in the play yourself was that you’re the sort that looks all
round and through a thing, and, having looked that way, makes up his
mind and never shifts it. You’ve got a faculty I don’t know a deal
about, and I’m glad to have you hand out the things that faculty
suggests to you. But I want to say right here you’re seeing things just
now I can’t get a glimpse of. There’s going to be no highway robbery
and murder, with me for the victim. When it comes to that, I guess I’ve
a real good hand to play. And I’ll play it to the limit. But you’re not
thinking of Jim Pryse, boy. You’re just about as certain as I am that I
can beat the game at a show-down, especially with Larry Manford at my
elbow. It’s Blanche you got on your mind.”
Larry nodded, and there was no laughter in his eyes.
“I know,” Jim went on earnestly, “and I think the more of you for it.
Blanche is dead game to the bone, and--and she’s worth the love of the
best man in the world. And I want to say right here that when you and
she fix things to get married you’ll get nothing in the world from me
but my best goodwill and any old thing I can do to make things the way
you’d have ’em. I allow there’s quite a big chance that we’re taking
for Blanche. I saw that from the start--or, anyway, when I saw, and
began to realise, the make-up of the crook. Now I’m ready, with you,
to persuade her to beat it back to our home city. Do you guess she’ll
quit us? Not if we both wear out our knee-caps crawling at her feet.
She’s red-hot on this thing, and we’ve got to take the whole darn blame
if things should turn amiss for her. You can’t impress me a thing more
than I am impressed on this. I’m guessing all the time. And with men
like Dago, and Slattery, and this new boy you tell me of, your best
warning isn’t any too much. Knowing Blanche the way I know her, we’ve
just got to do the best we both know.”
Larry re-lit the cigar he had permitted to go out and finished his
drink.
“Sometimes I thought you didn’t realise, Jim,” he said. “You haven’t
said a deal before. But you do, and I’m glad. You’re right. But for
Blanche the worst of ’em wouldn’t matter a whoop in hell. But I’m crazy
for Blanche, an’ I’d go stark, raving mad if things happened to her.
No,” he finished up regretfully. “She wouldn’t quit. That’s the worst
of it. That’s what----”
“Sets you so almighty crazy for the greatest woman I’ve ever known.”
Larry’s eyes shone responsively as Jim stood up. He pulled out his
watch and looked at it. Then he, too, stood up, and for a moment gazed
out into the twilit valley.
“I’ll round up that ‘stray’ for you, Jim,” he said, and stepped off the
verandah.
* * * * *
Now a swinging oil lantern was shedding its warm light on the verandah.
Jim Pryse was sitting at the table which the whisky decanter had
recently occupied. A book like a ledger lay open before him. And Larry
Manford was in occupation of a chair near by.
A shortish, stocky man, clad in a city suit, was standing before the
table. He was black-eyed, with nearly a month’s growth of dark beard
and whisker on his face. His eyes were small and narrow, and twinkled
alertly, but without any amiability of expression.
“Name?” Pryse prepared to write. Then he added: “You don’t need to hand
any name but that by which you wish to be known.”
“It don’t matter a curse, boss,” the man retorted sharply. “If this is
the right joint folk reckon, names don’t need to worry. Richards knows
me, anyway. Pike--Jack Pike. That’s the name I’ve carried fer most of
ten years.”
“Wanted for?”
The man laughed softly.
“Yeller traffic, an’ spreadin’ out the cop who jumped in on me.”
“Richards sent you along?”
“Sure. He told me to make these hills, where I’d find the shelter I
needed fer awhile. I hoofed the railroad to Raeburn, as the feller
said, an’ waited around. Then I picked up a boy who put me wise.”
“Yes. Picked you up outside the depôt.”
“By the water-tank. That was how Richards said. I went there each day
at noon till he came.”
Jim took down the details, and the crook looked on with a shade of
anxiety.
“Say, what’s the game?” he asked sharply, eyeing the book and the man
beyond it without friendliness. “Ther’ ain’t no trick in this? If
ther’s cross work, I guess----”
“There’s no trickery.” Jim looked squarely into the man’s eyes, which
shone fiercely in the lamplight. His own were smiling without warmth.
There was something very compelling in them, and the man calmed at once
under their regard. “You best understand just how things are here.
Any man who’s up against the law in an ordinary way can get shelter
here for just as long as he fancies--under conditions. There’s crimes
I guess this place is no shelter for. Yours, as Richards has warned
me, don’t rank with those crimes. This book is a roaster of the folks
who come along. If you need our shelter--and you’re free to come or go
when you choose--you’ve got to work for your keep, and will be paid for
that work at the ordinary rate of pay. It’s farm and ranch work, cattle
raising and grain. If you need to hide years you can stop right here on
those terms. If you choose to quit to-morrow you’ll be guided clear,
after being blindfold, same as you were brought here. You can go east
or west or across the United States border. You’ll have to part with
those two guns you’ve got in your pants if you fancy stopping around,
though. There’s no need for guns here.”
The crook was on the point of sharp protest, but Jim’s voice
anticipated him.
“There’s no argument. You can’t shelter here one night with those guns
in your pants. Further, you’ll need to convince us you’ve no weapon of
offence on you. That’s all.”
“If I hand ’em over, will I get ’em again when I quit?”
“Surely. This is a shelter for boys like you, not a ‘hold up.’”
The stranger reluctantly drew a pair of heavy automatic pistols from
the two hip-pockets of his trousers, and still more reluctantly passed
them across the table, butt first. The latter detail had a significance
by no means lost upon those watching him. Jim took possession of them,
and placed them in the drawer of the table.
“That’s all right,” he said. “Now, just oblige by showing me the
linings of all your pockets--unless you are willing for my friend here
to go through them. We take no chances.”
The man laughed bitterly.
“No, you surely don’t.”
“No,” agreed Jim calmly. “Those pockets?”
The man turned them out. There was nothing it was necessary to relieve
him of, except some cartridge clips for his pistols. And he returned
his goods to their places, his narrow eyes twinkling with something
intended for a smile. As the last of the collection was replaced Larry
cleared his throat.
“You best unfasten your vest, boy, and hand over that knife,” he said
quietly.
The man turned like a tiger on the red-headed man, whom he had almost
forgotten.
“What d’you mean?” he cried.
“Just what I say. That knife,” Larry said, without moving.
“Do you think I’m going to herd around with a bunch like you got here
without----”
“We need that knife.”
Larry had risen from the chair, and the newcomer measured him with no
friendly eyes. Then, as though his estimate was conclusive argument, he
opened his cloth vest and produced a long sheath-knife and laid it on
the table, hilt towards Jim.
Jim nodded and glanced across at Larry. Perhaps there was a sign
passed between them. At any rate, Jim turned on the crook.
“I think we’re through. My man Despard’ll pass you on to your right
bunk-house, and see you get the blankets, and feed, and anything in
reason you need. You can buy smoke and most anything else you need from
him. Even a certain limit of booze. Work starts at daylight. You’re
welcome here so long as you behave like a reasonable citizen. And if
any danger from outside comes along, you’ll get ample warning. I want
you to get this, and get it good. This layout is run dead right. It’s
a sheer shelter from the things that worry you outside. We guarantee
that. We call it the ‘Valley of Hope’ because it gives folks like you
a chance of a getaway from what’s chasing you, and the chance of a
fresh start. What we ask in return is work, and that you can act the
reasonable man while you’re here. If you don’t, we can deal with any
breaking of our rules. Stop around as long as you fancy, and you’re
welcome.”
Completely disarmed, Pike’s whole attitude seemed to undergo a change.
He drew a deep breath, and glanced from Jim’s snow-white head to the
fiery red of Larry Manford. And quite suddenly his eyes twinkled with
genuine good-nature.
“You two guys are pretty bright,” he grinned, “an’ someways I don’t
feel sore about it. Well, you got me wher’ you need. I don’t guess I
could put up a scrap worth callin’ with a skippin’ lamb. I’m to get
right after mossbackin’. I’m goin’ to run a binder, an’ cut hay, an’
cordwood. Gee! Me! I want to laff. But it’s good, too. It surely is to
a boy whose spent most of his time in the dark corners of the city, and
only works overtime when there’s no moonlight to worry with. I’m only
lookin’ fer shelter till the noise dies down. Then I’ll beat it over
the United States border. Meanwhile I’ll chew those reg’lations good,
an’ put ’em through. I’m surely goin’ to be a real peaceful mossback
in this layout. Say----”
Jim waited. He wanted the man to talk. The psychology of the crook was
a never-failing source of interest to him. The man flung out an arm,
and the gesture was comprehensive.
“It kind of leaves me guessing, this,” he declared, and his eyes took
in the wide, single-storied house, and passed on to the remotenesses
of the valley. “You boys ain’t any religious bunch. You don’t seem
the kind of junk them queer folks who run fancy societies are made
of. This gent here,” he went on, indicating Larry, who was still
standing, “looks the sort that belongs around a prize-ring. I’ve seen
a deal worse’n him in a first-class sluggin’ match.” He chuckled in
his throat. “I’d surely need all that knife, an’ them guns, if I got
up agin’ him.” He shook his bullet head. “No. It beats me. You ain’t
askin’ dollars. Only work. An’ you reckon to pay for that right. Well,
what then? You got a swell ranch place. I’ve seen it in daylight. I
guess it’s a business proposition of sorts.”
“Yes. It’s a sheer business proposition, and needs to pay.”
“Then why in hell get boys on the crook around to run it?”
The man’s question came sharply. Jim smiled up into the furtive eyes.
“That’s our business,” he said. “Your concern is, it’s a safe shelter
just when you need one. You’ll be up with the daylight and in your
blankets before ten o’clock. And you’ll be well paid for the work you
do. You’ll eat good, and just live the way you feel, and, after awhile,
the air and work’ll have cleaned out your vitals and made life seem
good to you. For the rest, it doesn’t matter to you. There’s Despard
waiting behind you. I’ll say good-night.”
Jack Pike glanced over his shoulder and discovered a burly white man
standing immediately behind him. He had approached without a sound, and
the stranger was unpleasantly startled at the vision. He looked into
the man’s face, studying him with suspicion uppermost. But he said no
word. Then he turned back to the man at the table, and his eyes were
full of unvoiced questioning. He glanced round at the silent vision of
the red-headed Larry. Then he shrugged his shoulders.
“So long,” he said curtly. And to the man behind him; “Lead the way,
boy. This is the queerest joint I’ve lit on in years. But it don’t
matter.”
CHAPTER XV
Brother and Sister
It was a delightful apartment, lit by carefully-shaded lamps. It was
furnished and draped with the inspiration of a cultured woman labouring
under the difficulty of remoteness. The walls and ceiling were of
polished red pine and the floor was of narrow-cut, polished hardwood.
The whole scheme was clearly that of a woman’s boudoir, with the
reservation that men-folk would share in its comforts.
There was a characteristic display of carefully-selected bric-a-brac.
The floor was carpeted with expensive rugs and skins. The chairs
were well upholstered, covered, and flounced, low-seated vehicles of
comfort, and there were two deep rockers capable of resting the bodies
of large men. In one corner of the room stood a modern piano in an
ebony case, and, in another, a specially designed wood-stove.
Brother and sister were seated before the latter, which was radiating a
pleasant warmth in the chill of the mountain evening. They were alone.
Larry was somewhere out on the ranch administering the discipline under
which the enterprise was carried on, and of which his was the chief
control. Blanche was engaged upon a piece of simple fancy-work. It was
part of her evening habit.
Jim was lounging in the biggest rocker. He was smoking a large briar
pipe which by no means seemed to fit with his surroundings. Then his
feet were thrust up on the polished steel rail of the stove in an
attitude of sheer comfort. His half-closed eyes were watching the
movement of the girl’s nimble fingers.
Blanche looked up, and surveyed the snow-white head.
“I guess you’re tired, Jim,” she said, with more than usual feeling.
“You two boys never seem to get rest in this thing you’re doing. You’ve
been out in the hills all day, and----”
“I wouldn’t have missed this day’s work for a whole bunch of rest,” Jim
broke in, with a laugh of deep satisfaction. “It’s been the best day
since we came to this valley.”
Blanche’s interest quickened. And because of it she bent over her work
again, and her needle laboured on.
“You were up at Dan’s, weren’t you?” she asked.
“Ye-es.”
Jim thoughtfully pressed the charred tobacco down into the bowl of his
pipe.
“How’s Dan making out? And Cama and the kiddies?” Blanche laughed
softly. “You know, I want to laugh every time I think of those dusky
little creatures, with their beautiful mother, and that queer, crazy
thing, their father. My, they’re just sweet!” She sighed. “But they’re
half-breeds. And--and they’ll grow up like all--half-breeds. It makes
me more sorry than I can say.”
Jim shook his head.
“Don’t worry for them, Blanche,” he said seriously. “Does it matter?
They’re plumb happy. They’ll grow up men and women. Life’ll be to them
just what life is anyway. What more can they ask? It’s we folk who’re
wrong, feeling the way we do about half-breeds. They’re just as much an
expression of Nature as we are, and anything else is. The world’s no
better or worse for their happening. I love those queer darn kiddies.
I love ’em for themselves, and I love ’em for Dan’s sake. And even
Cama’s. I wasn’t thinking of them, though. Something like a miracle
happened to-day. And, as usual, I want you to help me out.”
The girl laughed.
“That’s what I like to hear,” she said contentedly.
“What? I want you to help me out?” Jim asked. “That’s the way of it,
isn’t it? We men are all mighty clever. But I notice most all the time
we’re wanting some women to help us out. First it’s our mothers. Then
it’s our sisters. Then, later, it’s some other feller’s sister. But I
surely need your help right now. You know about Dan, who helped me in
my bad time. You’ll remember there was another boy who did all he knew
for me. Marton--George Marton.”
Blanche laid her work aside.
“Yes. I remember,” she said. “You happened on him on his farm, and----”
Jim nodded.
“Hadn’t a notion where I was,” he said. “You see, I’d been wandering
these hills more than haf dead.”
“Yes.” Blanche sighed. The terror of his story of that time still had
power to affect her deeply.
“Well, that boy’s dead. I’ll never locate him now.”
Blanche’s gaze was searching.
“I seem to remember there was someone else there. He hadn’t a wife. It
was a daughter. She fixed some food for you.”
“Which kept me alive more than a week.”
“Yes. I remember.”
“Well, his farm’s about forty miles from here as the birds fly. It’s
down at the mouth of the valley where Dan’s place is. Only he’s
twenty-five miles higher up in the hills. Since George Marton died his
girl’s alone on that farm with a choreman she calls Lightning. She’s
alone--running that farm to scratch a living. Do you get all that
means? A young girl, as pretty as a picture. Then think of all I owe
him--her.”
“You’ve seen--her?”
Blanche’s instinct stirred.
“Yes.”
“Tell me of her.”
Jim bestirred himself. He sat up, and leant forward in his rocker. His
pipe had been removed from his mouth.
“She was down at a water-hole on the creek,” he said, speaking
deliberately, and with obvious appreciation. “She was riding a pinto
pony. Sorrel and white. She was fixed in a riding-suit of brown, and
rode astride her pony as dapper and neat a sight as you could wish for.”
He paused. Then he drew a deep breath, which the girl interrupted in
her own fashion.
“When she turned and I saw her face, say---- It was roundish, and
tanned with the weather. It was fresh as the russet of a beautiful
apple, and studded with a pair of big, grey, laughing eyes, all fringed
with dark lashes. She had dark hair and--and---- My, Sis, she was just
as elegant as a swell ripe peach. And that girl helped to save my life.”
“And you talked with her?”
Blanche’s interest had become consuming. Her eyes were alight with a
smile. Here was the thing she had always looked forward to. In all the
years of her life she never remembered to have listened to the glowing
description of a girl from Jim.
Jim’s eyes widened.
“Talked? I should say I did. I talked with her, and rode with her, and
helped her round up her lost cows.”
Then a deep note of concern crept into his voice.
“Say, Sis, she’s poor and struggling. She’s dead poor, and fighting a
battle only fit for a strong man. She didn’t say it. No. She’s grit.
But I could see it. It was lying back of all she said. I want to help
her. I want you to help me help her. Say, that girl’s life’s got to be
made easy. And--and I’m going to make it that way.”
Blanche laughed softly. She was sitting with her hands clasped in her
lap. Never in her life had she enjoyed herself as she was enjoying
herself now. A little tender raillery shone in the eyes that were
gazing so affectionately upon her brother.
“You’re going to do more than that, Jim,” she cried triumphantly. “If I
know you, I know what your help means. You’ve fallen for this ‘prairie
flower’--or should I say ‘mountain flower’? You’re going to marry her.”
She shook her head as the man’s eyes widened at her challenge. “It’s no
use, boy. You can’t deceive me. I--I know the signs too well.”
Jim laughed a little self-consciously.
“Can you beat it?” he inquired, appealing to the stove. “Isn’t that
a woman all over? Tell her of a girl, another girl; show her you’re
interested, and mighty grateful, and want to help her; and right away
you’re plumb in love, and mean to marry her. Say!”
“Deny it, boy,” Blanche cried teasingly. “Deny it, and I’ll believe
you.”
Jim shook his head, and refilled and lit his pipe.
“I’ll deny nothing, Sis. I won’t hand you that satisfaction. But you’re
going to tell me right here and now that you’ll help me to help Molly
Marton.”
“Molly Marton? So that’s her name.” Blanche laughed again. “Oh, I’ll
get all the story directly. Molly. I like the name.” Then, quite
suddenly, her teasing passed and her eyes sobered.
“Jim, dear, there’s not a thing in the world I wouldn’t do to help
pass you the happiness you deserve. Molly Marton shall get all the
friendliness I know how to show her. And if she’s the girl you reckon
her to be, I shan’t regret a thing of our time in these hills. Say,
this is the most exciting thing I’ve known in years. Help? You’ve only
got to start me right. Just tell me the thing you need me to do. And
I’ll do it--to the limit.”
Jim smiled and glanced around as the door opened to admit the
red-headed figure of Larry Manford. Then his eyes came back to the girl
who had risen to welcome the late-comer.
“I knew you would, Blanche. Thanks.”
CHAPTER XVI
Two Women
It was a well-sheltered patch of ploughing. To the south a fringe of
woodland bounded it. Then came a narrow opening. And then again, on the
eastern side, a wooded hill rose up to protect it from the bitter east
and north-east. To the north stood an extensive stretch of tamarack and
pine woods, beyond which lay the farm, while its western boundary was
formed by the creek which watered the farm. There were approximately
two hundred acres of open, and the last of the ploughing had just been
harrowed down.
Lightning stood beside his team gazing over his completed work.
The man’s fringe of whisker was thrust aggressively. His eyes were
unsmiling. His gnarled, brown hands were thrust in the top of his
soil-stained trousers.
He was regarding his work with a curious contempt. It was the contempt
of the cattleman for the industry of the simple farmer. He was nursing
his memories of past glories, when his skill with both rope and gun,
and in the saddle, were bywords with the men who were as ready to fight
as drink themselves to death. How he regretted those wonderful days!
Blue Pete flung up his fiddle head, and Jane was gazing out to the
south-west. Lightning spoke a sharp word in the harsh tone the beasts
knew so well. And the break in his thought brought him back to the
meaning of the things about him.
Oh, yes. Those days were past, and he had no real right to complain.
They were days of irresponsibility. Now it was all different.
Responsibility was with him, and something more. He knew that. And he
was glad. He regretted the cattle days, but his work now was for Molly.
And Molly needed all the help he could give her.
For all she had returned home the night before with the lost cows he
still retained his obstinate conviction that there were cattle thieves
about. Who was the white-haired man she had told him she had met? The
man had learned all the information she had to supply, and had given
her in return no inkling of whence he came, or his business in the
hills, or even of his name.
Then she had told him the man was riding a coal-black horse from the
race-tracks of Kentucky. That sort of thing was by no means new to him.
Every cattle thief prided himself on his horseflesh. Doubtless the
horse had been stolen. Then his city clothes. That was sheer bluff,
only to deceive a simpleton. Disguised as a city man! Why, it was a
game that was a good deal older than he was.
No. The facts remained. She was surrounded on the one hand by a bunch
of cattle thieves who were located around Dan Quinlan’s, and on
the other lay the threat of a good-looker bad lot, who had somehow
contrived to dazzle her innocent mind. She certainly needed all the
help he could give her.
He made a sound in his throat like a chuckle. He felt he had by no
means done badly by Mister Andy McFardell. He had sown the ground well,
he felt. Set him after the cattle-thieving bunch up at Dan Quinlan’s,
get him playing the police game which belonged to him, with the
prospect of getting back into the Force as a result. The thing would
get right hold of him, and, if it succeeded, it might well rid the
neighbourhood of his detested presence. Then Molly would forget him.
But would she? Women were queer. He remembered Sadie Long, who once
chased him half-way across the States. Anyway----
His reflections were interrupted, and he thrust up a hand to push the
loose brim of his hat clear from his eyes. His startled gaze was fixed
on the approach of a horseman on a big, raking sorrel. He was emerging
from a gap in the bush lining the bank of the creek, which he had
apparently only just crossed. In his quick way Lightning also realised
that the horseman must have come from somewhere out of the south-west.
Maybe from--Dan Quinlan’s!
But as the horse came on an ejaculation of surprise broke from him. It
was not a horseman at all. The rider was a woman! A woman clad in city
clothing, and riding on a man’s saddle, with the horn and leggaderos
and stirrups which he recognised at once as of Californian make!
Blanche Pryse reined up sharply. And her greeting came with a disarming
smile. Lightning’s hat was torn from his head, to reveal the shock of
grey hair which looked never to have known the use of a comb.
“I’m looking for some place I can get feed for my horse,” Blanche
cried, “and a bite of something to eat for myself. You see, I came
further than I ought, and--and got rather mazed up with the hills
around here. I saw you with your team, and reckoned you must have a
homestead near abouts.”
Lightning’s grinning face was transparently reassuring. Had the
stranger been a man, there would have been a difference. He cleared
his throat, and, out of respect for a woman who was obviously a lady,
and a stranger, he spat out his chew of tobacco, and trod the result
underfoot.
“I’m real glad you come along, ma’am,” he said cordially. “You surely
hev come to the right place fer feed. The barn’s back o’ them woods,”
he added, pointing in a northerly direction. “An’ Molly gal’s right
to home, an’ll feel good if you’ll eat with her. I’m just quittin’ fer
feed myself, an’ making home, an’ I’ll be mighty pleased to give you a
lead.”
Lightning’s effort was in his best manner, for he was gazing up into a
face which, even to his suspicious mind, could have no association with
cattle thieves.
“Why, that’s real kind of you, and--and I’m very grateful.”
Blanche gazed interestedly down upon the tall creature. She knew him
at once. There could be no mistake. This was the Marton farm. So
this queer, grey-whiskered creature must be “Lightning” she had been
told about. The man impressed her. There was something tremendously
purposeful in the hard lines of his weather-beaten face. There was
something compelling in his eyes, and in the aquilinity of his
nose. Then there were his old guns on the belt at his waist. He was
startlingly picturesque.
“You’re the owner of this farm?” Blanche suggested shrewdly.
“Hired man, ma’am.”
“Oh. Then Molly’s not your daughter?”
Lightning shook his head, and his gaze wandered regretfully towards the
farm.
“Can’t just say she is, ma’am,” he said. “I work for her. She hires me.
But if you’ll kindly foller right along I’ll lead the way to the farm,
where Molly gal’ll be right glad to welcome you.”
* * * * *
Molly saw Lightning and the stranger approach from the doorway of the
house. She was washing out some garments, revelling in the wonderful
spring sunshine. There were already a number of articles drying on the
near-by bushes, and the iron bath, over which she was standing, was
a-froth with a lather of soap-suds.
She left her work at once and came down to the barn. The impulse was
irresistible. The sleeves of her shirt-waist were rolled up, displaying
a pair of beautifully rounded arms, and a linen sun-bonnet enveloped
her neat, dark head.
Curiosity and amazement were struggling for place in her mind. Even at
a distance she had recognised the stranger was a woman. Then, too, her
horse was so different from the bronchos she was accustomed to. And
instantly her thoughts flung back to the white-haired, city-clad man
on his black thoroughbred. Could this woman by any chance be connected
with Silver-Thatch? It must be. Where else could she have come from?
Her eyes were full of the questions in her mind as she gazed into the
stranger’s face.
“Howdy.”
A curious awkwardness had taken possession of Molly. She wanted to say
something cordial. But, strangely enough, the best she was capable of
at the moment was a simple, almost meaningless “Howdy.”
A mental reservation warned Blanche that Jim’s description of Molly
Marton had by no means been a man’s exaggeration. The sweet, shy face
gazing out of the sun-bonnet at her struck her as a picture such as she
had never before beheld.
“I’m just dying to eat, and so is Pedro,” she said with a laugh,
patting her horse. “You’re Molly Marton. He told me your name,” she
went on, indicating Lightning still waiting in the background. “Mine’s
Pryse--Blanche Pryse--and I guess I’ve ridden farther than I ought. May
I off-saddle?”
Molly thrust out a brown hand. She felt that the girl’s introduction
demanded it. And, in a moment, it was clasped in the two gauntleted
palms with which Blanche took possession of it.
“Why, surely,” Molly cried, all her shyness suddenly swept away before
the frank manner of the city woman. “But you don’t need----”
She broke off. Lightning was already at the cinchas of Pedro’s saddle.
In a moment the saddle was on the ground, while the old man passed an
appreciative hand over the creature’s back.
“That’s a rare bit o’ hossflesh, ma’am,” he commented shrewdly, as
Blanche turned about to him. “He’s the bellows of a forge. Legs? Gee!
They’re elegant, an’ as clean as young saplings. That plug can beat
a hell of a gait, or I ain’t wise. Look at them pasterns. An’ he’s
ribbed, too. Short-backed an’ ribbed to his quarters. You could ride
the prairie all day an’ night fer a week, an’ he wouldn’t blow a
lucifer out when you’re through.”
Molly laughed quietly.
“He’ll hand out that stuff all day if you listen to Lightning,” she
said. “There’s just one thing he’s crazy about. Don’t worry for your
Pedro. Lightning’ll treat him like a babe. Will you come right up to
the house? Food’s most ready. There’s nothing fancy. The beans are
right, an’ there’s good dry hash. But it’s not too bad if you feel like
eating.”
All the warmth her greeting had lacked was in Molly’s invitation.
And Blanche stepped towards her, and linked an arm under the girl’s,
and let her fingers clasp themselves on the forearm which the rolled
sleeves left bare.
“My dear,” she cried, as they moved off together, “you don’t need to
worry a thing. Food’s food. And the food that’s filled out your pretty
cheeks, and built up the swell muscles of this arm, is more than good
enough for a woman like me. Laundering?”
Molly nodded. A sudden feeling of interest and liking for Blanche
was already stirring. The way she had of saying things was quite
irresistible.
“Yes,” she said. “I’ve been at the wash most all morning.”
Blanche laughed happily.
“You know, I’m crazy over a wash-day. It’s been that way always. Why,
when I lived home in New York City there were times when you just
couldn’t take a bath for the laundry I’d got drying in the bathroom. My
brothers used to get mad, and bundle things out of the way, and hide
them. There isn’t a week goes by but I have an elegant laundry.”
Molly laughed.
“Now?” she cried, eyeing the quality of the girl’s riding-suit. Then
she raised her other hand and touched the fingers clasped about her
arm. There were rings on them containing beautiful stones. The fingers
were tapering, and carefully manicured, and she felt ashamed of the
roughness of her own beside them. “With these hands?” she asked
incredulously.
Blanche released the girl’s arm and spread out her hand, palm upwards.
For all their condition of care there were lines indicating utility in
them.
“Surely. And they’re strong, too. Nearly as strong as yours. Oh, yes. I
never let them get afraid of work.”
Molly sighed.
“They’re real beautiful,” she said. “Oh, I’d just love my hands to
be like yours. But they aren’t, an’ never will be. You can’t plough,
an’ milk, an’ fork hay, an’ do the chores of the farm, an’ keep swell
hands. But, my,” she went on, with a little firm setting of her lips,
“it doesn’t matter. Those things don’t really matter, do they? You’ve
got to make good in these hills, and you can’t do that right without
using the hands God gave you.” She laughed a little self-consciously.
“You know, I never used to think about hands, and feet, and pretty
fixings. I can’t think why I do now.”
They were nearing the house, which Blanche was regarding interestedly.
But now she turned, and her eyes contained all the twinkling humour of
her brother’s.
“When a girl suddenly gets worried about those things she hadn’t
bothered with before there’s mostly--a beau around,” she said slily.
Molly half halted, and turned her startled eyes upon her companion.
“How--how? I never thought that way. I----”
“Then there is a beau?”
Molly linked her arm through the other’s again and squeezed it.
“I--I like you, ma’am,” she cried impulsively. “But,” she added, with a
note of real regret, “you don’t belong around here.”
* * * * *
Blanche was lounging in the old frame rocker, with its rawhide seat,
which, years ago, George Marton had designed for his own comfort. It
was capacious beyond her needs, for all she was tall and of shapely
proportions. Molly had insisted. She had set Blanche there while
she went about her business preparing the meal which stood ready on
the cook-stove. Molly was happy. A sense of delight in this woman’s
presence thrilled her. And she chattered and laughed as she went about
her preparations, with a light-heartedness that entirely captivated the
other.
Ordinarily Lightning would have shared the meal with the girl. But,
in the circumstances, Molly knew the old man would not put in an
appearance if he waited for his food till the evening supper. The
cattleman had definite notions about eating as he had about most
things. He disliked the observation of strangers. Perhaps he realised
that years of bunk-house life had by no means added to his limited
stock of table manners. And Molly was relieved and glad.
Blanche surveyed the simple furnishings of Molly’s living-room, and
sought to learn something of the girl from her surroundings. It was
Molly she had come to see. And for the moment nothing and nobody else
mattered.
The smell of cooking was appetising. The sight of a boiling kettle on
the stove, and the warming teapot beside it, were a positive joy to
Blanche. And, rocking herself leisurely, and listening to the girl’s
chatter, she contemplated the thing she had yet to do. She knew that in
a few moments she must resort to subterfuge. It was worse than that.
It was downright lying. And to her frank nature it was an outrage.
The more so that the victim of it was a girl of such transparent
simplicity. But it could not be helped.
Molly had passed over to the stove to ladle out the hash and beans into
the hot dish prepared for them.
“You haven’t asked me yet where I come from, Molly,” Blanche said
gently. “Maybe you’re not interested. Is that so?”
Molly turned hastily. She wondered if she had displeased.
“I surely am interested,” she protested. Then the colour mounted to her
cheeks. “I just didn’t feel I’d a right to ask. You hadn’t said.”
Blanche experienced a further feeling of contrition. But she smiled and
shook her head.
“Say,” she cried, “if I lived around this farm I shouldn’t have such
scruples. I’d be scared to death of strange faces. I certainly should.
Do you know, Molly, I should always have a gun tucked somewhere handy
in my skirts. And when a strange face got peeking around I should
‘draw’ quick. It would be ‘Name!’ right away. ‘Where from?’ and ‘Why?’
Now, if you’d acted that way to me I should have told you my piece like
answers to a catechism. I’d have told you I was stopping around on a
visit to friends the other side of Hartspool. That I was on a holiday
trip from New York, my home city, and a place I get sick to death of,
and am ready to quit most any time. I should have said I had all the
things a woman mostly needs except a husband, and that these hills are
so fascinating I don’t even worry about that. That I’ve been riding
around gawking like a personally conducted tour, and didn’t guess how
far I’d come till I got yearning for dry hash and those beans you’re
fixing for us. Doesn’t it all sound dreadful? I just can’t keep my
thoughts from food. But there it is, and I guess it’s mostly human.”
Molly joined in the laugh with which Blanche finished up, while her
eyes twinkled slily.
“I knew you weren’t married,” she said.
Blanche noted the prim pursing of her lips.
“How did you know that?” she humoured her.
Molly set her dishes on the immaculate table, and glanced over it to
see that everything had been provided for.
“Guess ther’ isn’t a wedding-ring on your left hand,” she smiled
triumphantly. “Only beautiful, beautiful diamonds.”
“Well, say! Did you guess anything else?”
Molly set the chairs ready, and stood grasping the back of one of them.
Just for a moment there was hesitation.
“I--I thought someway you belonged to--to Silver-Thatch,” she said.
“Silver-Thatch? Who’s Silver-Thatch?”
Molly laughed at the look of surprise she beheld in the other’s eyes.
“Oh, it’s just my fancy,” she said. “The name, I mean. You see, he
didn’t hand me his name, an’ I felt mean about it. So I called him
‘Silver-Thatch’ to myself, just to punish him.”
Blanche stood up. Her eyes were smiling very softly.
“You queer child!” she said. “Tell me about him.”
“Oh, it’s just nothing. I was out after my fool cows yesterday. They’d
strayed, and Lightning guessed the cattle thieves had them. I was at a
water-hole along the creek, away up towards Dan Quinlan’s. While I was
there a man came to water his horse. He looked like a city man, an’
he’d a gold watch-chain, an’ a check coat and vest, an’ riding-pants,
an’ boots, and--and the whitest hair you’ve ever seen. It was just too
lovely. And he’d blue eyes that--that smiled like yours. Well, he rode
a piece with me, and when I’d located the cows he passed me a hand
rounding them up. And--and then he quit up into the hills westward. And
then I remembered I’d handed out my talk to him like a fool kid, and
he just hadn’t said a thing of himself. So--so I got mad to myself and
called him ‘Silver-Thatch.’ But he didn’t know.”
Blanche took her seat at the table, and her eyes regarded the meal set
ready.
“Silver-Thatch,” she said. “It’s--a pretty name. Why, Molly,” she
laughed, “I guess your notion of punishment would have delighted him.”
“Oh, it wouldn’t if he’d known how mad I was with myself.”
Molly helped her guest with a lavish hand. And Blanche set to work with
a will to reduce her overflowing plate. She felt it was no moment for
protest. She had no desire to upset this girl’s ideas of hospitality.
Besides, she was really hungry.
For some moments the two ate in silence. Then Molly poured out tea, and
her eagerness would no longer be denied.
“You’re the first girl I’ve seen sitting at this table, ma’am,” she
said, as she passed a cup to Blanche, and set milk and sugar near to
her hand.
Blanche looked up.
“My name’s Blanche,” she said.
Molly blushed.
“It seems queer saying ‘Blanche’ to you.”
“But you must. I called you ‘Molly’ right away.”
“But it’s diff’rent.”
“Is it?” Blanche shook her head. “It isn’t. You and I are going to be
friends. Good friends. I shall certainly be around all summer, and
maybe longer. And I’m going to see you whenever I can. So I’m ‘Blanche’
to you, and only the other to folks I don’t know and don’t care about.”
Molly’s eyes lit with delight.
“You’re goin’ to be around all summer--Blanche?”
“I certainly am--Molly.”
Both laughed happily, and Molly went on:
“Then maybe you’ll be at the swell farmers’ dance in Hartspool?”
“Dance? What dance? I--hadn’t heard.”
“Why, it’s the annual dance,” Molly cried, with a little dash of awe.
“It’s--it’s awful swell. Folks come in from all around to it. They
have a big supper--a real sit-down supper, with ice-creams, and--and
everything. I’m going to it. I--I made up my mind yesterday. Oh, I do
hope you’ll go. My, you’d be the belle of the ball. You just would.”
Blanche shook her head.
“Not with Molly Marton there,” she said. Again she saw the colour mount
to the girl’s cheeks. “But it’s a long way for you. What is it? Twenty
miles?”
Molly had finished eating, and sat with elbows on the table. She was
gazing out of the window, through which the noon sun poured on to the
whiteness of the cotton tablecloth. A surge of excitement was driving
through her young body. She was thinking of Andy McFardell, and an
irresistible desire was urging her to tell this wonderful new friend
the story of the thing that had just come into her life. She yielded
to the impulse. She flung discretion to the winds. She--she must tell
someone. And Lightning, the only other person, was denied her by reason
of his hatred of Andy.
“I’m not going alone,” she said quickly. “I’m--I’m----”
She broke off in confusion, and Blanche urged her gently.
“Yes?”
“Andy’s promised to take me. He’ll drive me in, and drive me out again.
He’s----”
“Yes?”
There was no smile in Blanche’s eyes now. They were urgent, and
something of their calm had gone. She was thinking of Jim. She was
thinking of the possible meaning of this man, Andy, whoever he was,
driving Molly into the dance.
But just on the brink Molly drew back. That which she had been about to
say remained unspoken. Instead she laughed.
“Oh, Andy’s a neighbour. He’s ten miles down the creek on Whale River.
He’s only just started his homestead about two years. He’s a great
worker, and he’ll make good. You know, Blanche, the boy who’s got the
grit to start right up on bare ground, without capital, an’ make good
farming, gets all my notions of a man. Think of it. These hills. The
awful, awful winter. It’s us folk know what it means. You don’t; you’re
a visitor. My it’s--it’s just ter’ble.”
The girl’s effort at concealment was sheer revelation.
“I must try and get to that dance,” Blanche said, avoiding the subject
of the man deliberately. “I’d just love to see you all fixed up in
your party frock. What’ll it be? Let’s see, you’re dark. And those grey
eyes of yours. You mustn’t wear white. It’s too ordinary for you. Pink?
No,” she went on critically. “It mustn’t be dark, either. I should
rather think the palest of pale blue. You can’t go wrong that way. Say,
have you a nice frock?”
Molly’s face was a study. While Blanche was talking it passed from
happy laughter to the gravest trouble. And as the older woman put her
final question she shook her head almost dejectedly.
“I’ve never been to a--real party,” she said.
“No. You live so far away from a town.”
“Oh, it wasn’t that. You see, father didn’t just think dancin’ was
right. An’ then there was always the farm. Mother died when I was a
small kid. But I got my Sunday suit,” she added, brightening. “Maybe
that would be too heavy, though. It’s black, and it isn’t a party
frock. Then I thought of a skirt and a waist. I could fix up a waist. I
got one that’s real silk. Only that’s black, too.”
A thrill of intense pity flooded Blanche’s heart. To her the pathos
of the thing she was listening to was beyond words. Their meal was
finished. They were only sitting over their tea. Suddenly she stood up,
and a joyous smile lit her eyes.
“Here, Molly,” she cried, “stand up, and let’s measure. I believe we’re
the same height.”
The girl obeyed her with a wondering smile. They stood back to back,
and Blanche measured with her hand.
“Exactly,” she cried. Then she turned and studied the girl for some
critical moments. “Yes, and just about the same build. Here,” she
hurried on, “put your foot against mine. That’s it.”
“Sure, sure,” Blanche exclaimed, as the two feet came into contact. “My
shoes will fit you, too. Oh, this is bully. My word, but you shall be
the belle of that farmers’ ball, I promise you. Sit down, my dear, and
I’ll tell you about it.”
Blanche sat again, and they gazed across the table at each other. Molly
was all smiling hope and expectation, and Blanche was happy in the
opportunity which chance had afforded her.
“Listen, Molly. I’ve got the sweetest forget-me-not blue dance frock
you’ve ever dreamed about,” she cried impressively. “It’s just the
latest thing, made by a swell New York house. I’ve--never even worn it.
I got shoes to match, and lovely, lovely silk stockings that’ll set
all the other women crazy with envy. My, you’ll just look sweet in it.
And then I’ve a beautiful fur-lined wrap. You can wear that on your
journey, under a coat. Now, when’s the dance?”
“Why soon--very soon. When seeding’s through. But----”
Blanche was in no mood to listen to any protest. She had come to see
Molly because Jim had asked her. The thing she had in mind now was out
of her own impulsive liking for the girl herself.
“It’s useless, my dear,” she laughed. “My mind’s quite made up. You’re
going to the dance in that frock, if I have to come and dress you
myself.”
The light in Molly’s eyes was ecstatic.
“But--but if I muss it?” she cried, in sudden alarm.
“Muss it? Why, you dear, simple child, that’s right up to you. It’s
a--a present, silk stockings, and shoes, and wrap, and all--with my
best love.”
* * * * *
Lightning and Molly were standing together down by the barn. The door
stood wide open. Blanche had just ridden off on her Pedro. The old man
was observing the creature’s gait with all the admiration of a real
horseman. The rider interested him far less.
Molly, too, was gazing after the departing visitor. But the horse
held none of her interest. She was thinking of Blanche. She was
contemplating again those smiling eyes. And a great joy was surging in
her heart. The whole thing seemed to her like some fairy-story, or some
happy dream from which she would surely wake up.
She drew a profound sigh, and Lightning promptly withdrew his
fascinated gaze from the departing horse.
“Ther’ ain’t nothing better’n the whole darn world than them four
legs, an’ a bar’l like that,” he said. “That plug’s worth fi’ thousand
dollars.”
Molly’s smile searched the old man’s eyes.
“An’ the girl on its back’s worth--a million,” she said decidedly.
Lightning spat.
“She’s surely an upstander,” he admitted. “But she ain’t a circumstance
beside her plug. I ain’t ever seen a human that could be. Ther’ ain’t
nothin’ better. Not in the world.”
He spat again to emphasise his opinion.
“I know something better.”
The girl’s eyes were dancing with delight. She was dying to proclaim
her good fortune and happiness to all the world. As nothing better was
to hand, Lightning would serve.
“She’s going to hand me a present of a swell gown, an’ real silk
stockings, an’ shoes, an’--an’ a fur-lined cloak. It’s for the dance.
An’ she says I’ll be the belle of the whole ball.”
“Dance? What dance?”
“Why, the farmers’ ball in Hartspool.”
The old man’s face was a study. His expression passed from astonishment
and incredulity to frank contempt and disapproval.
“Ball? Say, Molly, gal, you ain’t goin’ to that bum hoe-down?” he cried
almost desperately.
Molly’s eyes widened with resentment at the man’s contemptuous tone.
“It’s not a hoe-down,” she cried hotly. “It’s--it’s a swell ball, an’
you know it. Sure I’m going to it. And the suit’s forget-me-not blue,
and the stockings are real silk--to match.”
Quite suddenly the eyes of the old man hardened fiercely.
“How you goin’?” he demanded almost roughly.
Perhaps it was the tone. Molly was looking straight into the eyes of
her loyal old friend, and a spirit of mischief prompted her.
“Why, Andy McFardell’s going to take me. He’s getting tickets.”
There was a moment of deathly silence. Then Lightning thrust a gnarled
forefinger into his mouth and hooked the chew of tobacco out of his
cheek. He flung it on the ground and trod it underfoot. Then he hunched
his shoulders and turned away.
In an instant contrition swept through Molly’s heart.
“You haven’t eaten, Lightning,” she said gently.
The old man paused and glanced round.
“Eaten?” he echoed. Then he shook his head. “No, Molly, gal,” he said
almost dejectedly. “Guess I don’t feel like eatin’--now.”
CHAPTER XVII
A Golden Moment
Andy McFardell’s drift was infinitely more rapid than appeared. The
current of indolence was strong in him, and, to a nature such as his,
it was irresistible. Since the day of the visit of Molly Marton to his
homestead, and, later, the infinitely less welcome visit of Lightning,
not another rod of seeding had been done, in spite of the week of
perfect weather that had passed over his head.
The simple truth was that Andy McFardell belonged to a type to which
discipline is an essential, to which it is sheer salvation. Robbed of
the iron rule of the Mounted Police the man had quickly degenerated
to the condition of a storm driven, rudderless, derelict. Inclination
swayed him like the yielding grass on a wind-swept plain. The sturdy
resistance of the forest tree was impossible to him. His moods
impelled, and he drifted before them.
The drift had set for sheer and growing indolence where his farm was
concerned. The fierce enthusiasm which had first supported him, had
died out like the fitful blaze of an unfed camp-fire. And with its
passing only the ashes of all that was best in him remained behind.
Two purposes dominated him entirely just now. The one was the thing
which the shrewd mind of Lightning had suggested. And the other was the
storm of passion which Molly Marton had set stirring in his selfish
soul.
Molly’s visit had served him with further excuse. It had served him
with another three days of respite from the work of his farm; with
another three days of Barney Lake’s hotel at Hartspool; another three
days of the allurements of its poker game and Rye whisky. He had
forthwith ridden into the township to obtain the tickets necessary for
the farmers’ dance.
On his return home there was not the smallest pretence of making up his
leeway of neglected work. He was glad enough to continue his drift. He
had obtained the tickets. He must forthwith convey the news to Molly
and obtain her definite reassurance that she would let him take her to
the dance.
He found Molly in her hay corral. She was at work in sun-bonnet and
cotton overall, clearing the ground with rake and fork, and making
ready for the new cut of hay, which operation was the next in the
routine of the year’s labours.
He had ridden hard. And when he drew rein at the corral fence the horse
under him was pretty badly tuckered. It was caked with sweat and dust
on the matted remains of its thick winter coat, and looked generally
the mean thing that McFardell’s neglect had reduced it to.
Had the rider been any other, the smiling eyes under the girl’s
sun-bonnet would have been full of serious condemnation. But with Andy
McFardell’s coming the girl’s heart was beating high. She was concerned
only with the portent of his visit, and thinking of the wonderful
secret which lay between her and that kindly, generous, stranger-woman,
Blanche.
“Why, Andy,” she cried. “I just hadn’t a notion you’d get along so
soon. Is--is it all--fixed? The dance, I mean? You--you got the
tickets?”
The man laughed as he slid out of the saddle. Molly was all eagerness.
“Doesn’t that beat it?” he cried, in mock amazement. “Say, I’ve ridden
hell-for-leather, worried to death guessing. You see, I’d paid for two
tickets and hadn’t definite word from you I was to take you along in
to that dance.”
He laughingly threw up his hands, and Molly came to the corral rail and
rested her folded arms upon it. She was more than content.
Andy was good enough for any woman to gaze upon. In the saddle he had
none of the horsemanship of Lightning, in spite of the latter’s sixty
years. But he had the military seat of the Police. He was clad in a
loose cotton shirt, with sleeves rolled above the elbows. His breeches
were the uniform breeches of the Police, with the yellow stripe
removed, and they fitted closely over his sturdy limbs. His top boots,
too, belonged to his police days. So, too, the heavy, rusted steel
spurs upon his heels.
But it was neither his clothing, nor his horsemanship which concerned
Molly at that moment. It was his good-looking face, the sturdy breadth
of his shoulders, and the fine muscles of his arms which stirred her
simple heart so deeply.
She ducked under the rail and came to him.
“Why,” she laughed slily, “my mind was fixed directly I quit you.”
Andy shook his head.
“But not before. You left me guessing,” he said reproachfully. Then he
glanced swiftly about him. “Where’s Lightning?”
Never in her life had laughter more impelled Molly. She felt somehow
she wanted to laugh all the time.
“Out on the ploughing,” she cried. “He’s breaking a new five acres.”
Andy pulled an envelope from the pocket of his shirt. He opened it
and drew out the contents. And the while he was watching the play of
interest and expectancy on the girl’s expressive face. He passed her
the gaudily got up tickets, and waited while she read down the letter
press.
“Fi’ dollars!” she breathed in consternation, as she came to the price
of the ticket. Then she looked up incredulously. “You paid fi’ dollars
for each? Fi’ dollars for--me? Oh, Andy!”
The man laughed.
“Why not?” he cried, a hot light leaping into his eyes. “I’d do more
than that any day. I’d hand out everything, if it left me without a
cent in the world--for you. You see, little girl, I want to hand you
a real swell time. Dancing don’t mean a lot to me. With a girl it’s
surely diff’rent. Say, Molly, you just don’t know the thing you’ve
been to me around these hills. I’d never have got through or made good
without you. Say----”
The man’s words had come quickly. His tone rang with a sincerity which,
at the moment, was completely real. And as he made a sudden movement
towards her, a movement which there could be no mistaking, the passion
in his dark eyes was an expression of the stirring of his whole manhood.
The girl stood like some simple, defenceless, fascinated creature. And
only a wealth of rich colour dyed the soft roundness of her cheeks, and
a shy responsive gladness lit her big eyes. Coquetry was impossible to
her. So, too, was any girlish, unmeant denial. The passion of love she
had nursed ever since her great realisation well-nigh suffocated her.
It completely robbed her of all power for connected thought and speech.
For Molly the next few moments were filled with a wild rush of confused
emotions, and unutterable happiness. It seemed to her that life could
never again afford her a moment of delight comparable with that through
which she was passing. She hardly knew; she certainly did not pause to
think. For one wild moment she was caught and tightly held in the arms
which had never failed to stir her admiration. She seemed to feel, in
the delirium of it all, the strong beating of the man’s heart against
hers. Then came those kisses upon her lips, her cheeks, her eyes, her
forehead. And as she abandoned herself to them her young heart was
driving fiercely to make return.
Then--then--it was over. She had released herself, and she knew not
how or why. Her returning senses revealed to her his passion-lit eyes
gazing down into hers. Her bosom was heaving in a tumult of emotion,
and every limb of her body was a-shake. But happiness, supreme
happiness that was well-nigh exaltation, thrilled her. Life seemed at
the very pinnacle of its amazing beauty.
In that brief, delirious moment of spiritual expression Molly’s
whole world had somehow become transfigured. Everything was changed.
Her whole life had changed out of the even, unemotional calm she
had hitherto known. It seemed as if a great new light were shining
somewhere deep down in her soul, diffusing wonderful rays to the
uttermost extremities of her being, lighting a path of unspeakable
joy down the channels of her senses. The golden sunlight of the day
about her had intensified. It had become doubly brilliant and more
full of meaning. The old homestead, so full of the calm beauty of her
childhood’s sheltered happiness, the very trees and hills about it,
all these, everything, had doubled the depth of their concern for her
innocent mind.
Then the man with his passionate eyes, his strong arms, and sturdy
body. He, too, had shared in the transformation. No longer was he the
struggling object of her girlish pity; no longer was he a creature who
had played the cruel rôle of fortune’s shuttle-cock. All that was wiped
out. It was all brushed away by the gilded artistry that had re-adorned
her vision of life. He was the golden superman of her soul, crowned
with the sublime halo of her young love.
They both stood speechless. Then at last it was the man who broke the
silence.
“You--aren’t mad with me, Molly?” he asked, still holding her by the
hands that were so soft and warm in his. But his tone was without the
doubt his words implied, and his smile was full of confidence.
Molly shook her head. Then she released her hands which moved in a
queer little gesture that told so much.
“Oh, Andy!” she cried. And the exclamation seemed to set loose the tide
of her surging feelings. “Mad with--you? You? Oh, no. How could I be?
I--I love you, Andy. Why,” she added with innocently widening eyes, “I
guess I’ve loved you right along always, just always.”
The man’s gaze had been averted as though something of the girl’s
innocence abashed him. But in a moment it came back swiftly, hotly.
His hands were flung out, and he caught Molly up again in his arms. He
held her crushed closely to him, and talked between the kisses which he
rained upon her up-turned face.
“I just know, little girl,” he cried thickly. “I surely know it all. I
been through it. It’s been the same here, right from the first, when
you happened along with me opening out my clearing. I haven’t ever been
able to forget. I didn’t want to anyway. I----”
He broke off in a fashion that startled the girl in his arms. And a
sudden twinge of alarm shot through her senses. She looked up into
the face she loved, and realised that the whole expression of it had
changed. The eyes were cold and hard, and they were searching the
distant bluff round which the grass-trail to the ploughing skirted.
It required no second thought to tell her the meaning of the change.
Besides, there was a sound upon the warm air, the sound of the rattle
of chain harness and plodding hoofs.
“It’s Lightning,” she said, recovering herself.
Andy’s arms fell from about her. And together they stood searching the
bluff. Presently they beheld Jane and Blue Pete appear from amongst the
tree-trunks. And Jane’s capacious back was bearing the grotesque burden
of the old choreman with his guns. He was sitting sideways on her vast
expanse of rounded breadth, and his heavily-booted feet were dangling.
Molly spoke quickly, anxiously.
“It’s just dinner, Andy,” she said. “You’ll stop around an’ eat?”
She knew Lightning’s antagonism, and she wanted to make sure before the
old man came up.
But Andy shook his head unsmilingly.
“I just can’t stop around, little kid,” he said quietly, his eyes still
on the team with its queer burden.
“Why?”
Molly was disappointed, and her disappointment found expression in her
monosyllable.
Andy shrugged. Then he moved over to his horse and busied himself
at the cinchas of his “condemned” police saddle. He spoke over his
shoulder.
“No, sweetheart,” he said quietly, but decidedly. “It’s no use. I got
to get right back to work. If I stop around to eat the day’ll be gone
before I make home, and ther’s the--seeding. Besides----”
“Yes?”
Andy indicated the choreman who was crossing the open towards them.
Then, quite abruptly, he turned from his saddle and held out his hand
in farewell. He was smiling, and his smile told Molly that his action
was for the benefit of the man who was observing them as he came.
“No,” he said, in a tone intended for Lightning’s ears. “I won’t stop
around to eat. You see, I just got along to fix things with you, and
tell you I’d got the tickets for the dance. There’s a week. Just a
week for you to fix your party frock in. You’ll fix it good, eh?” he
laughed. “You see, we hill folks need to show the town dames. I fancy
you being a real show-up to ’em.”
He had swung into the saddle, and Molly laughed happily. He had said
the one thing that gave her the opportunity she needed. In spite of
her feelings and emotions of the moment the memory of Blanche’s visit,
Blanche, with wonderful generosity for all she was a stranger, still
stood out in her mind a matter of tremendous moment. Her femininity was
abounding. Nothing in the world, it seemed, was left that could add one
tittle to her happiness.
Her eyes were dancing as Lightning came up, and the great team halted
of its own accord. The old man remained where he was on the mare’s
back, while some form of greeting passed between the home team and the
stranger. He barely even responded to Andy’s nod of greeting.
“Don’t worry, boy,” Molly cried airily. “I’ll sure be fixed right. I’ll
be wearing a swell gown. I certainly will. When’s the day?”
Lightning spat out a chew, and took a fresh bite at a fragment of plug
he drew from his hip pocket. But his hard old eyes remained fixed on
the other man’s face as though he were reading him down to the depths
of his very soul. He uttered no word. Not a single word.
“Thursday. I’ll be along with the spring wagon.”
Lightning’s jaws chewed harder as Andy made his reply. There was not
the flicker of an eyelid to indicate that which was passing behind his
stony regard.
Molly was becoming uneasy at the old man’s silence. She wanted to force
him into speech. But she refrained, fearing the result.
“So long, Molly.”
Andy raised a hand in salutation, and his horse stirred as he lifted
his reins. “Thursday--sure.”
Molly gazed smilingly up into the man’s face under the cold gaze of the
silent Lightning.
“Thursday--sure,” she responded. “So long, Andy.”
The horse moved off, and Andy McFardell glanced round at the choreman.
“So long, Lightning. I’m going after that matter--after Thursday.”
But the old man still made no reply. He sat there on his old mare’s
back stolidly intent and watchful. His unfriendliness was adamant. And
Molly became completely alarmed.
Andy rode off. His way took him up past the barn, and he disappeared
beyond it, round the lean-to workshop, and headed eastwards for his
home.
The moment he had passed out of view Molly turned on Lightning who had
slid down from Jane’s broad back. A flush dyed her pretty cheeks, and
an angry sparkle lit her eyes.
“I--I won’t stand for it, Lightning!” she cried, stamping her foot on
the hard, dusty ground. “It’s mean. It’s so mean I can’t believe it.
He’s been right into Hartspool and paid five dollars for my ticket.
He’s paid that for me! Just to hand me a swell time. I----”
“Don’t ’ee do it, Molly, gal. Just don’t ’ee do it.”
Lightning was transformed. All the stony light of his eyes had changed
to one of humble pleading as he stood before the child he loved better
than life itself. His lean face seemed suddenly to have become more
deeply lined, and his tatter of whisker looked more than usually
grotesque and pathetic. His hands were outheld in appeal.
“Fer the love o’ yer dead father, Molly, don’t ’ee go fer to do it,” he
went on. “He’s bad. He’s rotten----”
“Don’t dare say it, Lightning! Don’t ever dare say it. He’s not bad.
He’s--oh!”
Molly broke off with an exclamation of supreme disgust and helpless
indignation. And she fled headlong towards the house as though
Lightning’s very presence were something she could no longer endure.
The old man gazed after her. Then the yearning in his eyes gave place
to an expression which no thought of Molly could have inspired. He
turned to his team, and it was the comfortable, gentle Jane he led, and
addressed, as he moved towards the barn.
“It ain’t no use, old gal,” he said, with a shake of his grizzled head.
“I’ll sure jest hev to do it one day.”
He hunched his shoulders in the fashion peculiar to him.
“Guess I ain’t blind yet, an’ my nerve’s dead steady, an’ I’m surely
glad that’s so.”
CHAPTER XVIII
The Spy
As Andy McFardell rode home from the Marton farm two definite channels
of thought preoccupied him. And curiously enough that which had his
passionate infatuation for Molly for its inspiration made by far the
lesser claim upon him.
Perhaps it was the result of his confidence. Had Molly been more
difficult, had she been less of the simple child she was, had she had
knowledge and experience of the world of men, or realised something of
the physical charm she exercised, doubtless she could have transformed
his confidence into an agony of doubt, and plunged him into a vortex of
maddening suspense that would have made any other interest impossible
to him.
As it was his dominating concern had become the obvious antagonism
of Lightning. He had left the farm under no misapprehension on the
score of the old choreman’s regard. The cattleman had displayed his
displeasure at his intrusion without any attempt at concealment, and,
deep in his heart, McFardell understood the reason.
The reason of it left him undisturbed. And he smiled to himself as he
wondered what the man’s attitude would have been had he been witness to
that which had taken place just before his return from work.
But the attitude of Lightning brought back to his mind that other
matter, when the old man had been at such pains to seek him out,
and impress upon him the opportunity held out to him. It looked to
McFardell like a foolish bluff in the light of Lightning’s unvarying
antagonism. Yes, he felt sure it was a bluff--in a way. The man was
anxious to be rid of him. He was anxious and worried to death about----
He laughed softly to himself. Then of a sudden his mood became deadly
serious. He dismissed Lightning’s purposes from his mind. It did not
matter a thing to him what the cattleman’s object might be. Molly and
he understood each other, and---- But he knew that every word Lightning
had said about Dan Quinlan was right. He had heard all the talk in
Hartspool. And Hartspool was very much given to plain speaking on
matters concerning cattle and grain.
He had told Lightning he would look into the matter after the dance in
Hartspool. But long before he reached his home his mind was definitely
made up. Quinlan’s was thirty-five miles or so away up in the hills
from his place. Well, it would help to fill in the week before the
dance if he outfitted himself for a few days on the trail. He would pay
his promised visit to the queer Irishman and spy out the land--before
the dance. In fact--right away.
So it came that two days later McFardell found himself on the trail,
or--as he preferred to think of it--on patrol. It was useless to
make pretence that he was anything but the police officer he had
always been. He was on patrol, that work he had always loved in the
days before his disaster. And as he rode the tangled country of the
foothills his spirits rose, and he found himself almost thankful to the
old man who had prompted him out of his own secret purposes.
It did not matter a thing. Lightning was old and well-nigh decrepit,
and his antagonism need make no difference. He, McFardell, would do the
thing he contemplated just as it suited him. And meanwhile the hills
around Quinlan, and Quinlan’s place itself, would be investigated very
thoroughly before he returned on the day of Hartspool’s dance.
* * * * *
The watcher moved stealthily through the forest. Eyes and ears were
alert. They were tuned, by long years of training, to the hush of the
woods. He was afoot. And his movements gave out no sound as he passed
amongst the myriad of bare tree-trunks, supporting their well-nigh
impenetrable roofing of sombre foliage. His feet were moccasined, and
they padded softly on the rotting carpet beneath them.
Far down the aisles of the forest he could see a sunlit clearing
beyond. And the voices of the cattle came back to him something muffled
by the intense forest hush. The sharp barking of dogs left no other
doubt in his mind than that of the chances of his own discovery through
canine scent and inquisitiveness. That, however, was in the lap of the
gods. He was not unduly concerned. He was moving up against the wind,
which in the shelter of the forest was almost indistinguishable, and
his position he felt to be more than favourable.
As he neared the forest limits the wide expanse of the clearing opened
out to his astonished eyes. And so his progress slowed down and finally
ceased altogether. There was no need to go farther. He had no desire to
court disaster. Besides from where he had halted he could see all that
he needed and study it at his leisure.
It was an amazing sight. He had looked for the squalid hiding-place
of a secret cattle camp, where the thief could secret and re-brand
the beasts he had stolen. He had looked for the ordinary thing which
Police work had taught him to expect. But that which he discovered was
altogether different, and left him impressed and--disappointed.
There were corrals whose extent astounded him and left him
metaphorically rubbing his eyes. They were stoutly built and of a
permanent nature, and they were literally teeming with cattle amongst
which a large number of men were busily at work. Beyond the corrals
were other buildings. There were log shanties, and barns, and all the
equipment of an extensive ranch. The place was literally a hive of
industry, and bore no resemblance whatever to that which he had looked
for.
The human figures amongst the cattle interested him deeply. At the
distance he got the impression that they were mostly Indians, or, at
least, half-breeds. But without doubt there were white men amongst
them, and two particularly caught and held his interest.
One was a powerfully built man clad in typical buckskin, while the
other looked to have very little relation to the hill country at all.
Furthermore, judging by the mass of snow-white hair he discovered under
the brim of his prairie hat, he was an old man. But clearly these two
were supervising the activities in progress.
He remained where he was until the last detail of the thing he was
gazing upon had been well photographed and tabulated in his mind. Then
he withdrew. He would have been glad of a closer view of the two white
men, but caution deterred any further approach.
He moved away and presently again became swallowed up by the shadows
of the forest. And the direction of his going was southerly, where he
looked for a view of the valley below.
When he reappeared again it was at a break where an undergrowth walled
the limits of the woods, and he pressed through it till he came to the
final screen. He held the foliage apart while he peered out beyond.
Below him lay the valley of grass and woodland bluff, and it was alive
with grazing cattle.
Now his interest quickened. It was not the sight of the cattle. That
had been expected. There was something of even greater importance
within his view. Away to his left on the sloping, hither side of the
valley, and, he judged, somewhere adjacent to the clearing he had
recently overlooked, a wide field of building operations looked to have
been just begun. There were the cuttings ready for the foundations of a
big barn or house. There, too, lay a wealth of hewn logs hauled ready
for building. And even as he watched a four-horse team appeared from
the woods, farther down the valley, skidding a load of freshly hewn
lumber. He drew a deep breath.
Lightning was wrong. So, too, was Hartspool. All the tittle-tattle
going on in that place was miles wide of the truth. Here was no
cattle thief’s encampment. The extent of the organisation he had been
so secretly observing could have only one meaning. How it had been
achieved was something beyond his understanding. Where Dan Quinlan had
obtained his capital to invest in such an enterprise it was impossible
for him to suggest. The one outstanding fact remained. Here, away up in
the heart of the hills, was a great and thriving cattle industry, and
Dan Quinlan was the man who had created it.
* * * * *
McFardell’s discoveries at Quinlan’s were a source of bitter
disappointment to him. They were the shattering, the complete
shattering of his dream. He cursed himself bitterly that he had
listened to Lightning’s suggestion, and the idle talk of Hartspool. It
was always the way. Folks jumped to absurd conclusions out of suspicion
of anything that was beyond their understanding. He knew he had been
thoroughly fooled, and since Lightning had helped in his befoolment
most of his bitterness was directed at him.
But his long training in the Police had deeply impressed his mind.
And, furthermore, the idea of somehow blackmailing his way back into
the force had taken desperate hold of him. His inclination had been all
for returning home and letting Lightning know the fool he had made of
both himself and Andrew McFardell, but his training prevailed.
He asked himself the meaning of Quinlan’s rise to fortune, and
determined to see the thing through to the end. He would explore to
the limit of his time, and look for any other secret these hills might
discover for him. So he went back to his camp, deep hidden from all
chance discovery by Quinlan, and planned out his further campaign.
* * * * *
Andy McFardell was returning home after complete failure. He was
moodily contemplating his wasted effort. He had done everything
possible; he had left nothing unexplored, sparing neither himself nor
his horse; and now there was nothing left but to return again to the
life which he had learned to hate and detest.
His way lay down the same valley where recently Molly had sought and
found her missing cows. He was travelling over almost the identical
ground which her pinto had covered. He had found the same water-hole,
and his weary horse had refreshed itself at the same stream that came
down from the cold recesses of the far-off hills. The day was hot, and
the air swarmed with flies and mosquitoes. But these things made no
impression upon him, and only his horse suffered.
The net result of his five days’ work was a final conclusion that his
chance of buying his way back into the Police was practically nil. The
whole position was clear enough. While he could discover not a tithe of
evidence that the Irishman and his band of Indians were on the cross,
yet there was much that needed explanation. The renegade was no longer
the white Indian, simply existing in his miserable home in the hills by
trap and gun.
No. That may have been his original case. But it was so no longer.
He was ranching on a big scale. And furthermore his stock was mainly
highly bred Pole-Angus cattle, the numbers of which suggested a capital
value running into anything over fifty thousand dollars. Where had the
money come from? But more important still, how had that industry grown
up without other outside evidence than the sale of young stock in the
Hartspool and Calford markets? In spite of the shattering of his dream
of getting back into the Police Andy McFardell felt that the position
was still not without possibilities.
Moving down towards the creek his horse flung up its head in a startled
fashion. He was riding over the stretch of blue grass, at the very spot
where, so short a while since, Molly had finally discovered her cows.
Ahead lay the bush-clad banks of the stream. And away to the left of
him the slope of the valley opened sharply into the gorge where Molly
had parted from the man she called Silver-Thatch.
McFardell was concerned at once. He knew the meaning of his horse’s
pricked ears, and the faint sound of its whinny. Another horse was
somewhere in the vicinity, and, since the Marton farm was something
less than five miles on, he searched the direction of his horse’s gaze
for a sight of Molly. To his mind it must be she. Lightning would be
likely to have moved out from his work on the ploughing.
There were only a few yards of the open left and he bustled his horse
on. The beast moved with eagerness and passed into the bush. Then, in a
moment, Andy flung himself back in the saddle and jerked his horse to a
standstill.
He was face to face with a horseman on a superb black beast with the
small broad head and diminutive ears of a thoroughbred. But he at once
became absorbed in the rider. He was the white-haired man he had seen
in the clearing up at Quinlan’s.
The stranger had drawn rein. He sat quite still, contemplating the
dishevelled appearance of McFardell and his tuckered horse. Then a
slight, inscrutable smile lit his eyes, and he nodded. The next moment
he lifted his reins, and the eager creature under him moved off like a
flash and disappeared into the bush ahead. It was almost uncanny. Not a
word of greeting had passed; scarcely a sign. The man had smiled, that
was all, and--vanished.
Andy stared after him where the bushes had closed behind him. He made
no attempt to follow. His dark eyes were frowning with heavy thought.
And it was not till the last sound of the hoofs of the stranger’s horse
had completely died away that he bestirred himself.
Then it was that he suddenly became transformed. His eyes blazed with
a fury of excitement. He lifted his reins and jammed his spurred heels
into the flanks of the beast under him, and rode straight at the bush
where the other had disappeared.
“God!” he muttered. “It’s Jim Pryse!”
CHAPTER XIX
The Moment
Lightning was squatting on a box beside the doorway of the bunk-house
that had sheltered him for years. The dawn was just beginning to break.
A low, yellow tinge was spreading over the eastern horizon, and the sky
was cloudless. The stars were still shining to the west, and south,
and north. But their brilliance was past, and they were fading slowly
before the dawn.
The chill of the hills was in the air, but it made no impression on the
tough old body of the squatting man. Like everything else in Nature he
was indifferent to it.
The man’s lap was spread with a grease cloth. On the ground beside him
lay the belt that was usually about his waist, with its holsters, two
long, three-strapped open holsters. One of his two guns was in its
place in its holster. The other was lying in pieces in his lap.
The old man’s mood was one of content. His night had been long and
wakeful, but with the first streak of dawn he had crawled from
under his rough blankets and sought the sure solace of his present
occupation. He was cleaning his beloved guns, handling them with
something of the mother love for her child.
The contemplation of these priceless friends of his early days never
failed to lull him into a quiet, assured confidence and content. When
trouble beset they were his whole resource. And just now trouble was
looming heavily.
It was the dawn of the day of the farmers’ ball in Hartspool. So he saw
to it that his guns were ready. Their carefully filed hair-triggers
needed little more than a breath of wind to release, the beautifully
adjusted ivory sights were without blemish, and the seven chambers
contained not one single speck of rust.
With these things so, ease relaxed the tension of his troubled thought.
He hated the day that was dawning. He hated the folk who had designed
the farmers’ ball. But more than all he hated, with all his untamed
soul, the man who had stolen Molly’s peace of mind and transformed her
into a woman.
“Two-gun” Rogers snapped his second gun to. He opened it again. And
again he closed it. Then, with a deep, satisfied breath, he stooped
over and replaced it in its holster. Then he folded the grease-stained
cloth and thrust it into his hip pocket, and, stooping again, picked up
his belt. He stood up from his box, tall, and lean, and vigorous. And
the process of adjusting the belt about his waist preoccupied him.
A moment later he turned and stared out at the golden prospect of
the sunrise. The sun had cut the horizon and its fiery rays rent the
heavens with slashes of furious fire. It was almost intolerable to gaze
upon. Yet the man stood before it with the unflinching gaze of an old
eagle.
He kicked the box he had been sitting on back within his doorway. And,
with a hunch of his shoulders, he moved on quickly in the direction of
the house. The cook-stove was waiting his attention. In all his years
Molly had never been permitted to light it.
* * * * *
The cook-stove remained unlit. Lightning had not yet passed into the
house. He was standing just outside the door, and his eyes were gazing
down upon something which seemed to bar his way. It was two securely
lashed sacks bulging with their contents, and the old man’s gaze was
speculative as he studied their contours, their lashings, and the loose
attached labels which gave them the appearance of having been delivered
by mail.
After a profound study, which could not possibly have yielded
enlightenment, Lightning resorted to the next most obvious procedure.
He bent down and examined the labels. There was one to each sack. They
were addressed in a clear, bold handwriting to “Molly” at “Marton’s
Farm.” But they gave no indication whence they came and the old man was
left to his own resources.
For awhile these looked to be distinctly barren. Then, slowly, a
change of expression heralded inspiration. After a few more moments he
gingerly stepped over the mysterious bundles and passed into the house.
* * * * *
Molly’s week had been passed in excited anticipation and growing
anxiety. And in the end anxiety supervened over every other emotion.
At first happiness had well-nigh intoxicated her. Life, the simple
daily life of her farm, had been transformed with everything else.
The labours that were her routine were accomplished in something like
a dream, a dream wherein the good-looking face of a man was always
near to her, looking on, encouraging, and smiling his approval of her
efforts.
In her the great love that had swept into her young life was no sickly,
unwholesome sentiment. It inspired her. It supported her. It gladdened
every moment of her day, and stimulated her spirit. She dreamed her
dreams as she went about her simple duties. She dreamed, in the fashion
of every other woman, of the home she would make for the love with
which she had crowned her man. And the home which Molly contemplated
was the home she had always known. She had yielded her love, and with
it went all she was, all that was hers. There were no reservations. No
less than her farm could be the setting wherein her love should find
its home.
Every day she looked again for the man without whom the meaning of life
would be completely lost to her. She did not expect him, but she looked
for him. She knew. She understood. It was spring, and he was far too
good a farmer, she told herself, to neglect the season. No, she did not
expect his coming, but she looked for it, and her yearning was deep,
and full of a profound content.
Then there was that other. Each day with her first waking moments
expectancy leapt. Her trust was without question. An assurance,
whithersoever it came, was an assurance. A promise would be fulfilled,
or why should it be made? Life for Molly had no deceit. So each day she
looked for the coming of Blanche, or of her messenger.
She yearned for the coming of Blanche’s promised party frock as she
yearned for nothing else in life. Blanche had promised that she should
be adorned as no farmer’s wife in Hartspool could possibly be adorned.
And adornment, at that moment, meant something to her it had never
meant before. It was for the eyes of her man to gaze upon. It was for
the added attraction she might possess for him. It was that he might be
proud of, and pleased with, the love she had so abundantly yielded him.
So each day she looked for Blanche’s fulfilment of her given word,
and with the passing of each she reassured herself of the morrow. And
so came the night before _the_ day, and the promise still remained
unfulfilled.
That night the climax of her anxiety smote her. She said not one word
to Lightning. She uttered no word of complaint. But the smile was less
ready in her eyes; there was a curious, deep sinking of her buoyant
spirit, and, for the first time, she contemplated the possibilities of
the non-fulfilment of the promise she had relied upon.
She had prepared to retire to her bed that night in a dejection of
spirit which Lightning was swift to realise. And for all his hatred
of the thing the coming day meant, his manner of parting from her was
infinitely gentle.
“That swell dame couldn’t lie,” he declared spontaneously. “Ther’s
surely eyes you ken look into, Molly, gal, an’ see right through to the
truth back of ’em. Her’s was that way.”
And as he prepared to take his departure for his bunk-house, his hand
rested encouragingly upon the girl’s soft shoulder.
When Molly entered the living-room at sun-up the next morning, and
found Lightning completing his task at her stove, she was without her
customary greeting for him. Lightning glanced up from his labours and
discovered the anxious searching of her gaze. He smiled. It was a
curious, twinkling smile that never got beyond his eyes. But those it
lit in a fashion that must ordinarily have seemed impossible.
“Say, Molly, gal,” he observed, with a studied contortion of his
features intended to express physical pain. “Guess the rheumatiz’s got
my left hinge some. I’d take it kindly fer you to dump the ash bucket
for me.”
He finished up with another fierce contortion as he rose from his knees
before the stove. And, in a moment, Molly was all sympathetic concern.
“Why, I’m sorry, Lightning,” she cried. “I’ll fix the hoss oils right
away. You haven’t had a touch of that a whole winter. It surely is the
ploughing. The flat’s damp with the spring freshet. I’ll fix a good
bottle before I eat.”
She seized the bucket of ashes standing ready as the crackling of the
wood in the stove developed into a roar of flame up the iron stove pipe.
She moved towards the door, and Lightning’s voice followed her.
“Them iles is mighty good dope, but I don’t guess them’s my need. It’s
the saddle. It’s the saddle I was raised to. And I bin weeks on my
feet. The saddle’ll fix it better’n hoss dope.”
The girl had flung open the door to pass out, but she stood stock still
where she was, the heavy bucket firmly grasped in one hand. The old man
watched her, and his eyes had strangely softened. He beheld a flush
of excitement break out upon her soft cheeks, and then--and then the
bucket fell to the ground and overturned its whole contents upon the
immaculate floor.
“Lightning! You knew!”
* * * * *
The living-room was littered with the ravishing contents of the
carefully packed bundles. The ashes had been swept up by the willing
hand of Lightning, while Molly’s deft, excited fingers dealt with her
treasure. Gone for the while was all thought of the breakfast that
should have been in preparation. Gone was every other consideration,
swept out of mind by that supreme moment of gladness.
What else could matter? Two great bundles in their waterproof
wrappings, enclosed in stout sacks. The contents? Ah, those wonderful
contents. The fairy godmother had done her work with due regard for
the conventions of magic. She had waved her wand, and transported her
burdens to the sheltering storm doorway of Molly’s home in the night.
That was understood. It was clear enough to the simple minds of these
two children, the one so far travelled on the journey of life, and the
other standing at the very threshold of the age of joy.
The messenger, whoever he was, had travelled with a pack horse. That
was clear enough. And his instructions must have been very, very
definite, and carefully considered. Clearly he had been admitted to
the secret of it all. He must arrive in the night, when the world was
wrapped in slumber, with only the twinkling eyes of the stars to see,
and the full moon smiling down her beneficence. He must steal upon the
silent house and deposit his friendly burden all unseen. Then in the
morning, then--then---- In her heart Molly felt that only Blanche could
have planned so heavenly a surprise.
It seemed well-nigh impossible that the sacks could have contained all
that wealth of delight. The first of the two to be opened was given up
to the afterthoughts of a generous mind. It was a delicious collection
of creature comforts that had nothing to do with apparel. It was food
delicacies such as no ordinary store in Hartspool could have provided.
And here again was shown the consummate purpose of the sender. The
whole thing was designed without a hint of charity. It was a present of
only those things which no money could have provided out of the stock
of a prairie store. There were candies that must have come from some
big city. There were bottled fruits of a quality Molly had never seen.
There were foreign preserves in wide variety. There were sauces and
flavourings for preparing food. Even Lightning’s appetite was whetted,
and he forgot the occasion of it all. No, there was no charity in it;
only a supreme kindliness.
Then the second bundle, softer and infinitely lighter than the first.
The girl’s cheeks reflected an almost painful excitement as her fingers
fumbled with the fastenings. When the last of the covers was torn aside
Molly drew such a breath that Lightning forgot the amazing display of
luxurious garments that lay revealed. He watched only the hungry eyes
devouring greedily all the beauty of tone and texture which the girl’s
fingers were moving amidst. The whole thing was beyond him.
Molly looked to be in a sort of trance. The beautiful fur wrap she
almost ignored. It was fur, something she understood, something, in
however inferior a quality, that had long since entered her life.
Beneath it, enfolded in tissue paper, lay the party frock. It was gauzy
and diaphanous, and of such a colour and material that was quite beyond
her wildest dreams. Molly raised it gently, tenderly. It was so slight,
and so--so delicate. It seemed to her her hands, those hands that were
used only to her work, must inevitably crush and completely ruin it.
But with its removal a quick intense exclamation broke from the
girl. Beneath it lay something that held her completely spellbound.
It was several layers of garments of the most exquisite silk and
crêpe-de-chine. They were those delicious things which are the dream
of any and every woman’s life, whatever her station. Something so
irresistible that, once possessed, life becomes impossible without. And
the warm fingers, accustomed only to the homeliest materials, moved
amongst them, fondling them, and telling the old man looking on an
emotion which was utterly outside his crude understanding.
There was everything there, everything even to the shoes and those
necessities of the girl’s dark hair which the sender had deemed
essential. Blanche’s promise had been fulfilled, her pledge had been
redeemed with a prodigal generosity that almost dazed the simple farm
girl.
Molly sighed deeply. It even seemed to involve an effort to raise her
eyes from the fascinating spectacle set out upon the well-scrubbed
table.
“I can hardly believe, Lightning.”
The girl’s words came scarcely above a whisper, and the old man watched
her closely. In a moment his mind had leapt back to the meaning of it
all. The smiling enjoyment of Molly’s delight passed out of his eyes,
and they hardened again to their natural glitter.
He remained without reply, and the girl roused herself. Quickly and
deftly she replaced the garments and enfolded them in their wrappings.
And she talked the while.
“Lightning,” she cried, and the excitement of it all was still
thrilling in her tones. “You got to help me. This is my day. My day,”
she repeated almost tenderly. Then she went on quickly and almost
sharply. “You’re mad about Andy. You’re mad because he’s my beau.
Remember this, and get it good. I love Andy. I just love Andy with my
whole heart. Whether you like him, or whether you don’t one day he’s
going to be boss around this farm, just the same as he’s boss right
in--here.” She pressed her hands over her gently swelling bosom. “Since
father died I guess you’ve been real good to me. You been so good to
me I just can’t tell you about it. Well”--she drew a deep breath--“you
aren’t goin’ to quit being good to me because of Andy?” She shook her
head. “You surely aren’t. You see, folks can’t just help these things.
I mean--I mean I--I love Andy. I can’t help it. I wouldn’t if I could.
Won’t you help me still? Won’t you quit hating him?”
The suddenness, the earnestness of Molly’s appeal almost caught the
old cattleman off his guard. And he stood staring down at the refolded
bundle she was about to remove to her room while he prepared his reply.
Then, very deliberately, he shook his head, and gazed at her out of his
framing of loose whisker and grey hair.
“Andy’s your beau all right, Molly, gal,” he said, in his harsh way.
“The thing I feel fer that boy don’t matter a’ curse. You can’t help
the way you feel about him. Wal, I don’t guess I’m no diff’rent.
Leave it that way. I ain’t no sort of archangel, or any pie-faced
psalm-smiter. I got one notion in life. That’s you. I’m goin’ to see
you fixed right if hell itself throws a fit and busts up the throne o’
glory. If Andy’s the boy that’s goin’ to fix you right I’m right behind
him waggin’ a banner, with a halo around my thatch, an’ a pair o’ dandy
wings dustin’ the sand out o’ my eyes, an’ talkin’ pie like a Methody
Meetin’. But if he ain’t? If that boy sets you worryin’, if that boy
hands you a haf-hour o’ grievin’, why, I’m after him like a bitch wolf
chasin’ feed in winter. That goes, Molly, gal. Don’t you worry a thing.
Sure, this is your day, gal. It’s yours, all of it. An’ I’m ready to
weep around that boy’s neck same as if I’d no more sense than a blind
sheep at lambin’ time.”
* * * * *
It was long past the midday meal that the sun of Molly’s day reached
its meridian. The afternoon was well advanced. Lightning had betaken
himself to his labours, and the manner of his going had been
sufficiently characteristic.
“Guess I’ll quit you now, Molly, gal,” he had said. “Ther’s things in
life as I see ’em it ain’t no good trying to boost the way you’d fancy
’em. With your notion fixed that way ther’ ain’t no sort of sense ’cep’
to leave ’em alone till they hurt you. Your Andy, boy’ll get along, an’
when he comes I don’t guess you’ll be yearnin’ to hev the remains o’ my
life joinin’ in your party. So I’ll beat it right now to my ploughing.
Hev a time, kid. Hev a real, swell time with them dandy fixin’s, an’
when you need me, why, I’ll just get around.”
So Molly had the afternoon to herself and the heaven of dreaming her
young soul yearned for. She was more than content with Lightning’s
going. He was right enough in his estimate of her mood. There was
nothing, and no one, must come between her and the wonderful thing that
was hers.
From dinner to the time of Andy’s arrival with his team and spring
wagon was none too long for all Molly had to do. It was perhaps the
most beautiful three hours in her life. For all that had gone before
when the man had taught her her first meaning of love, these hours in
contemplation of herself, and the beautiful garments that had been
showered upon her by the generous hand of Blanche, were perhaps her
real awakening to the meaning of her womanhood. The whole thing was so
deliciously expressive of her ardent youth.
In her precise little way she had promptly decided there should be
no half measures. Nothing but completeness could satisfy her. So it
came that a great boiler was set on the stove, and the iron bath, in
which her weekly laundry was done, was made ready. Nothing would have
induced her to defile the precious finery with a body that had not been
specially prepared.
Her bath was an expression of wonderful restraint, but she went through
with it with a resolve that was quite beautiful in its self-denial. The
whole time of it was one of infinite anticipation and yearning for the
array of beauty laid out awaiting her in her bedroom.
At last the great moment came, and the joy of it all was beyond words.
She lingered in a state of ecstasy over each detail of her dressing.
Some of it was easy, even to her untutored mind; some of it was fraught
with such bewilderment that she came near enough to despair. Inside
out, wrong way round, the girl found herself well-nigh frantic through
her lack of knowledge. But patience served her truly in the end, and
her little mirror reassured her.
The transformation was complete. No Cinderella was ever more richly
endowed. She gazed for minutes that swept swiftly on at the wonder
which Blanche’s wizardry had created. Her eyes shone with delight as
they gazed at the beautiful picture they beheld looking back at her
out of the old mirror. Blanche had judged rightly. Their figures were
almost identical, so the delicate blue frock revealed itself in its
most ravishing aspect.
Yes, the eyes gazing back at her were like twin stars in the velvet
setting of a moonlit sky. Her carefully coiled hair, shining with
satin-like sheen, was surmounted by paste brilliants which had been
selected with such care and taste by the woman who had sent them.
And the string of pearl beads about her soft, white throat were an
adornment incapable of increasing its beauty. The straightness of the
cut of the frock itself entirely disguised the soft contours of her
youthful figure, and the arms, bare to the shoulder, were white, and
soft, and round, with perfect formation of her trained muscles.
Then her feet, and the length of silk hose below the edge of the duly
shortened skirt. The fascination of these things was something that
left the girl almost bewildered at the change. The hose revealed the
ivory tint of the flesh beneath and her diminutive feet, usually
encased in heavy highlows, or gum boots or even buckskin moccasins
that made them look broad and flat, seemed, in their beautifully
shaped covering of silver tissue, utterly incapable of supporting the
substantial burden for which they were designed.
The rattle of Andy’s spring wagon pulling up outside her door sent
the warm blood rushing into Molly’s cheeks. Her moment had come, that
moment for which for seven anxious days she had waited, and of which
she had dreamed. Her inclination was to rush out and greet him, and so
reveal to him the wonder of her physical transformation. But she denied
the impulse.
Just for a moment a little smiling reflection looked back at her out
of her mirror. Then she glanced round her bedroom. She left the fur
wrap unheeded on the bed. No power on earth at that moment could
have persuaded her to hide up her splendour beneath its folds. So
she passed it by, and moved slowly and restrainedly out into the
living-room, and, with all her woman’s delighted vanity, she waited.
She heard his voice. He was talking to his team.
“You’ve a big piece to make before the night’s through,” he said. “Get
that feed into you. You’ll sure need it.”
She heard him moving about. He was probably removing the horses’ bits,
and maybe easing the straps of the neck-yoke. Then his footsteps
approached the door, and the girl’s breath came quickly, and her colour
deepened.
Then his voice came again. This time it was she to whom he was
addressing himself.
“Ho! Molly!” he cried.
There was a pause. Just an instant’s pause. Then the door was flung
wide.
Andy stood framed in it. He was clad in a dark suit, with a light, thin
raincoat buttoned over it. He made no attempt to cross the threshold.
He remained just where the vision of Molly revealed itself to him, and
abruptly bared his head. His dark eyes were alight with amazement.
“Molly!” he cried. Then, with a little gasp: “By Gee!”
The girl had her reward. It was truly her moment. It was the moment of
her life.
CHAPTER XX
The Home-Coming
Lightning resettled himself upon his box. He was leaning forward in
an attitude of alert concentration, his arms folded across his knees,
with an elbow grasped in the palm of each of his hands. He remained
unmoving, except for the inevitable chew of tobacco which engaged the
rusty remains of his teeth. His mind was correspondingly active.
Midnight had long since come and gone. The night was brilliant, and
little enough was left for the shadows of night to conceal. The
farm and its surroundings were in full view from where he sat. The
bluff beyond the grass-trail was sharply silhouetted, a deep, black
background to the south and west. Away to the right of him the corral,
where the cows were peacefully slumbering on the accumulations of
despoiled hay feed, was sharply outlined. So, too, with the hay corral,
that stood nearly empty and ready for the new season’s grass. The barn
beside him rose sharply against the night sky, where its thatched
ridge lifted above the sturdy log walls. And then, beyond that, the
whispering tree-tops of the bluff stood up, where once the dead George
Marton had confronted the emaciated figure of the starving fugitive
from justice.
The air was cool with the threat of ground frost. But Lightning was no
more concerned with temperatures than he was with the claims of a weary
body. He was awaiting Molly’s return from the party, and, if necessary,
he would remain there until day came.
The drift of the man’s thought went on without pause. There was
speculation in a hundred directions. There was impatience. There was
anger that was even directed at the girl he desired to protect. His
mood was one of restlessness and disquiet.
A prowling coyote howled its mournful crescendo. Its melancholy cry
died out. The man scarcely noted it. The deep bay of the timber wolf’s
reply, with its harsh threat, sufficiently impressed itself. In a
moment it focused Lightning’s mind upon the keen, dark eyes and narrow
face of the man he felt to be something of a human wolf where women
were concerned. He stirred and spat viciously.
He strove to dismiss the personality of McFardell from his thoughts.
His understanding of the way things stood with Molly was all
sufficient. He was logical enough, even temperate enough, to know he
had no right to interfere. But he was equally determined that, at the
first sign of what he deemed to be necessity, he would interfere. He
would interfere in just such manner as his savage mind prompted.
A grim light shone in his cold eyes as they searched the moonlit scene.
His barbaric ruthlessness was astir, contemplating a “short-circuit” of
the whole situation as he saw it. If he permitted his guns, which he
felt to be yearning to play their part for him, to execute their due
mission, it would save so much precious time in preventing the disaster
he saw lying ahead.
Molly--Molly would be broken hearted for awhile. Yes, that would surely
be so. But he prided himself on his knowledge of women. He remembered
the case of a woman in his Arizona days. He had contemplated piloting
her through the shoals of life as a more than desirable companion.
Tess. She was a swell creature--a real “upstander.” Hair like black
silk. A skin like satin. Then she’d those queer, big eyes that set any
real man yearning for the trouble that ought to be lying around her
anyway. Yes, that was a case in point. When Tug Lennox, her beau, got
in front of his guns, and had no time to get away before they went
off, what happened? Tess was nearly crazy for one day. Then she beat
the trail across the border with Dago Pete, while he, Lightning, was
getting over the elegant souse the boys had handed him for ridding
Arizona of one of the worst toughs that ever shot up a peaceful
township. Yes, Molly would be all in. He was sure of that, but----
He turned suddenly to windward.
No. It wouldn’t last. Those things in a girl were like a summer storm,
or--or horse colic, or something. Sunshine got busy and dried things
up, and the colic passed swiftly, and left a horse feeling it hadn’t
eaten for two days. It seemed to him if he went after Andy McFardell
with two guns it would be the best for all concerned. Certainly best
for----
He stood up alertly, his sense of hearing directed to the hither drift
of the night air. The intensity of the silence had again been broken.
This was no skulking wolf or coyote. It had nothing to do with the frog
chorus at the creek. It was a sound that came to him down the trail
from the north-east. It was the familiar sound of the wheels and hoofs
he had been awaiting.
He stretched his weary limbs. He yawned. Then he spat out his chew, and
bit into a fresh one. Then he kicked his box into the doorway of his
hut, and moved off somewhere in the direction of the house.
* * * * *
Lightning waited. The murmur of voices came to him, but the words
themselves were indistinguishable. He intended that to be so, but he
hated the necessity. Driven by headlong impatience, he felt himself to
be something like a traitor to the charge that was his. But for the
life of him it was impossible to break in upon the scene he knew to be
enacting in the moonlight at the door of Molly’s home.
No, he must just stand by. He was yearning to drive the man headlong.
He had the means to his hand, for all he was an old man and the other
was in the full vigor of his youth. The savage in him was urging all
the time. But even the savage was powerless before his love for the
girl, and his reluctance to wound the heart that found happiness in the
smile of McFardell’s dark eyes. He was torn between head and heart. And
so he stood waiting, waiting until the farewell had been said.
The spring wagon was drawn up before the storm door of the house. The
man and the girl were standing together somewhere in the shadow of
the doorway. They were standing closely together, and Lightning was
maddeningly conscious of that which was passing between them.
He translated it in his own way, inspired by all that was human in him.
He felt that Molly was tightly clasped in McFardell’s arms. The girl
was lost to everything, even to the wonderful finery which had set her
nearly crazy with delight when she first gazed upon it. That was the
way of women, he argued. No, she had no thought for anything or anybody
but that--that--the man he hated.
There were moments of profound silence. Then there came moments when
indistinguishable words passed between the two. Lightning wondered what
they were saying, and would have hated to have known. Oh, he knew well
enough. And as the sound of voices died out he understood that their
words had been swamped by the passionate silence that fell so readily
between them.
His witness of the scene was brief enough. Then, suddenly, the tones
of Molly’s voice became raised, and something strident.
“You must go now, Andy,” Lightning heard her say, and a thrill of
satisfaction gladdened his heart. Then there was added urgency. “Oh,
you must go. Please, please! I--I can’t bear it. I sort of feel haf
crazy. I don’t know--I---- Oh, Andy, please, please go--now.”
The appeal of the girl’s tone drove the hot blood to Lightning’s head,
and his hands rested on those twin friends of his early days that
lolled heavily at his waist. But he remained unmoving, waiting--waiting
in desperate suspense for the man’s reply.
He heard McFardell’s voice, but not his words. They were low and
persuasive, and they went on for some time.
Then the girl spoke again, and it seemed to Lightning that something
akin to terror rang in her words.
“Before God?” she cried, and it sounded like an echo of that which
McFardell had said. “Before summer’s out? Oh, Andy! Sure? Sure?”
The man’s low tones replied. And after that Molly’s voice, full of
excited happiness, rang out, so that no word was lost in the silence of
the night.
“Yes, yes,” she cried. “In Hartspool. At the Catholic church. Say it
shall be the Catholic church. I was raised to father’s religion. Oh,
Andy!”
Lightning raised a hand, and his lean fingers raked their way through
his grey hair as Molly’s final exclamation died out. The snatch of
talk he had been forced to listen to told him the simple truth. The
thing he dreaded most in the world was to happen. There was only one
interpretation possible to the thing he had heard--marriage. McFardell
was to marry Molly before summer was out. Molly was to belong to
that man before summer was out. Molly! A paroxysm of voiceless hate
consumed him, and he moved a step forward.
But he got no farther.
“So long, little girl,” he heard McFardell say. “It’s just too bad.”
He laughed. “Why need I go? You’re mine. Just all mine. We’re---- All
right, little Molly. I’ll beat it. So long.”
Lightning drew a deep breath. McFardell was going. He saw the man
approach his team and pass around it. Then he saw him turn back to
Molly, who had emerged from her doorway. The next moment Lightning saw
him bend over her up-turned face. Then McFardell climbed into the wagon
and the horses moved off.
Molly stood there in the moonlight clad in her beautiful fur wrap,
gazing after the departing team. Lightning saw her hand raised in
farewell. Then she turned sharply and passed into the house. And the
door closed behind her.
* * * * *
When Lightning thrust open the door he discovered Molly seated at the
table. She sat there a ghostly little figure, still wrapped in her
fur cloak, with the shaft of moonlight pouring in through the window
falling athwart her. Otherwise the room was in complete darkness.
Lightning gazed at her in some alarm. Perhaps it was the moonlight that
had transformed her. Her face was pale almost to ghastliness. It was
pathetically drawn, and her eyes gazed up at him so wide, so helpless,
so piteously. She had raised her head at the old man’s intrusion, and
something like reproach was in her silent greeting.
Lightning left the door open and came to the table. His eyes were
smiling softly, and he stood for a moment regarding the queer, huddled
figure, while his mind searched for the greeting that would not betray
him.
“Guess you had a swell time, Molly, gal?” he said. There was no reply.
The girl sat still--so still. Her elbows were thrust upon the table,
and her small, clenched hands supported the oval of her cheeks that
looked so ghastly in the moonlight.
Lightning moved up to the table. Then he glanced about him in the
darkness beyond the moonlight.
“Best fix the lamp,” he said.
“No, no!”
Molly’s denial came almost fiercely. And instantly the man abandoned
his search.
“You can’t see to----”
Lightning’s protest got no further. There was a cry--a cry such as
the old man had never heard pass the girl’s lips before. It was half
fierce, half laughing. It was something that smote him deeply, for
there was pain, horror, and despair in it.
In a moment Molly’s bare arms were flung out full length on the table.
Then they were spasmodically drawn up. Her head drooped forward, and
her face was buried against her own warm flesh, and a flood of tears
broke forth.
CHAPTER XXI
Out of the Past
“Poor little soul. Well, anyway, she’s had her dance and all it means
to her. And I guess that’s quite a lot.”
Blanche sighed as she turned from the verandah post, against which
she had been leaning, and moved to the chair beside a squat-legged
table. She flung herself into it, and smiled as she contemplated the
white-haired brother spread out full length in the lounging chair in
front of her.
The man withdrew his gaze from the scene of activity below him.
The population of the ranch was preparing for work after an early
breakfast. In the distance a horseman was riding towards one of the
great barns. There was no mistaking that figure. Its flaming head
of bright red hair stood out like a beacon fire in the sunshine. He
would be up at the house shortly. There were other figures, mounted or
afoot, moving among the corrals, the ploughings, the pastures. It was
so in almost every direction. The activity of it all must have been
pleasantly encouraging to the man responsible for it. Yet somehow the
expression of Jim Pryse’s eyes suggested no particular heartening.
For a moment he regarded his sister. She was full of that charm which
had drawn the red-headed Larry Manford like a magnet to the heart of
the mountains. Jim was by no means insensible to his sister’s beauty,
and even in that preoccupied moment he found it pleasant to gaze upon.
“It was last night, eh?” he said. “The dance, I mean? You know you’re
a good sort, Blanche,” he went on, rousing himself. “I’ll bet you fixed
her right.”
“Fixed her?” Blanche laughed happily. “It’s a safe bet there wasn’t a
woman around that dance that didn’t just about hate Molly Marton. It
was a frock I hadn’t had a chance of wearing up here, and the---- It
was one I’d had made just before I quit New York. I guess it’s out of
date now. But it wouldn’t be in Hartspool. What a child! Just a simple
kid that you wouldn’t fancy had a notion beyond her cook-stove and the
farm. My, it makes me grieve to think about her. There she is, all
alone, except for that queer old tough she calls Lightning. There’s not
a soul nearer than ten miles. Do you get what that means to a young
girl, Jim?”
The man linked his hands behind his white hair, and gazed abstractedly
out down the valley.
“It’s tough, Sis,” he said with a sigh.
Blanche shook her head.
“Tough isn’t the word, Silver-Thatch, my friend,” she said with a
light laugh. “If you’d seen that little girl’s face, if you’d watched
her breath come and go as I talked ‘frock’ to her, I guess I’d surely
have had a new sister-in-law in a week. You--you big, soft-hearted
old thing, you couldn’t have stood up to the pathos of it all for a
half-hour. You’d have loosened your bank-roll right away, and whisked
her off where there was life and such pleasure as that poor little kid
has never known. I’m glad you owe her something, Jim. And I’m glad
you’re going to let me help you pay it.”
The man nodded.
“And Larry did his share,” he smiled.
“Like a jewel. Isn’t it queer? He was most like a kid about acting a
sort of Father Christmas. Oh, he planned the way of it. He planted my
goods right in her doorway, and quit without a soul getting wise. It
cost him a night and more from his bed, but he was glad enough to
do it. And, anyway, I’d threatened him. But she was sore on you in
her little queer way, Jim. I think she was feeling bad you’d quit her
without handing her a name. But I had to smile at her name for you. I
just love it to death. Silver-Thatch! That goes with me all the time.”
Blanche laughed. Then her expression fell serious again and her even
brows drew together.
“But you couldn’t have risked your name with her. I know that. So it
would have meant lying the same as I had to lie. Not about my name, but
where I’m located. You know, Jim, it’s a pretty terrible thing to lie
to innocence like that. It’s like lying to your own child. I’ve acted
a lie once to that kid, and never again. I had to do it for your sake,
old man. And I did it as I’d do most things for you. If we’re going to
help Molly Marton it must be done without lying. I’m sorry, boy. But
I’ve been thinking it a week now since ever I first set eyes on that
child. Now you want to think, and see how it needn’t happen again.
Maybe none of us can get through life without lying. I’m no better
than anyone else. I can lie all day to folks that don’t matter. The
whole world of society needs to lie, or things would break up in five
seconds. But I can’t have innocent child eyes looking up into mine,
full of trust and truth, and know I’m lying.”
Jim dropped his hands from behind his head, and one of them removed the
empty pipe from his mouth.
“There’ll be no need to lie any more,” he said. “It looks to me it’s
only a matter of time before the whole game’s up, anyway.”
He looked up. There was an easy smile in his eyes that was no pretence,
for all the significance of his words. Blanche was startled. She was a
little terrified. The “game” being “up” could only have one meaning for
her. It meant discovery of Jim’s hiding. And discovery of Jim’s hiding
meant a movement towards the penitentiary to fulfil the sentence that
had been passed on him.
“Hadn’t you best tell me, Jim? All of it?” she said, and settled
herself back in her chair.
The woman watched the man’s fingers as they manipulated the tobacco
into his pipe. But all her instinct, all her understanding and courage,
were desperately alert. Where her men-folk were concerned these things
were ever at their service. Larry Manford, with his flaming head, was
her epitome of what manhood should be, but her brother Jim occupied a
place in her heart that was very, very close to that which was reserved
for motherhood.
Jim refolded his pouch and returned it to his pocket.
“Say, be a dear an’ get me a match,” he said easily. “And while you’re
gone I’ll figger out how best to tell you. It’s--amusing.”
“Amusing?” Blanche stood for a moment. Then, as she moved off to do his
bidding: “I’m glad,” she said. “I hadn’t thought it was that way.”
When Blanche returned, she struck a match and held it to the man’s pipe.
“Well?” she said. “We’ll need to be quick. Larry’ll be up along in a
while. And food’s nearly ready.”
Jim spread out his hands.
“It won’t take long,” he said. “The police boys are getting around
Dan’s place.”
“Why?”
“That’s easy. Hartspool and Calford are worried. It’s our sales of
cattle. But it’s not that. I’ve seen a--spook.”
Blanche made a little impatient gesture.
“Cut out the spooks, Jim, and tell me the story quickly.”
“Sure.”
But Jim smoked on for a few moments longer.
“No. It was no spook. We can cut them out,” he said at last. “What
I’ve seen was real human flesh and blood. And it was the one person I
wasn’t yearning to see, or who should see me. I can’t get his name. I
only heard it once. But it was that police boy who was toting me along
down for a rest cure in penitentiary when I made my getaway. I saw him
two evenings ago as I was beating it back here from Dan’s place. Yes.
He wasn’t any spook, but just the boy I recognised right away, for
all he wasn’t wearing uniform. And he recognised me, even though my
hair’s as white as a summer cloud. It wasn’t near Dan’s place either,
so I can’t say for sure he’d been along up there. But he was heading
from that direction.” He laughed. “Queer, eh? I mean the chance of it.
We hit head on to each other right down there on the creek in Dan’s
valley. It was a few miles up from that little girl’s farm, where we
turn off up into these hills at the mouth of Three-Way Creek. If he’d
been a half a minute before, or I’d been the same later, we’d have
missed. And in these hills, too, where you could lose an army like
nothing. Makes you wonder about Fate, doesn’t it? Makes you feel like
two cents trying to fix things the way you need ’em.”
“Did you speak to him?”
“Nope.” Jim’s smile deepened. “But somehow the whole thing tickled me
plumb to death. I just had to grin. I grinned into his queer dark face,
and----”
“That’s when he recognised you.”
The man laughed outright.
“Maybe,” he admitted.
“Of course it was.” In spite of her anxiety Blanche was forced to
smile. “Your silver thatch, as Molly calls it, wouldn’t save you. It
wouldn’t save you if you were all covered up with the flowing beard of
a patriarch. No one who’s ever seen the grin on your foolish old face
is ever going to mistake it again. And you think he’d been up around
Dan’s place? You guess he was a patrol? In plain clothes? And he was
the result of Hartspool and Calford being worried?” She shook her head.
“That doesn’t sound good to me. I don’t know much of the ways of the
Police, but why would he be out of uniform? And why would they send the
particular boy who lost you? And, anyway, why worry with Dan if there’s
been no cattle stealing going on around the hills? What could his place
tell them?”
“Dan’s place could tell them a deal,” Jim protested at once. “You’ve
got to see with their eyes. Dan’s been known to be living a trapper
life years. Suddenly he registers a brand. Then he starts in to trade
stock big. He and I have talked this out. We’ve foreseen it. That’s why
we’ve started his building.”
Again Blanche shook her head.
“You haven’t answered a thing,” she declared keenly. “You’ve got Dan’s
work on your mind. Look around outside it. The thing I’m looking at
is the identity of that boy. Being the boy you got away from, I’d say
he’s more--a deal more--interested in--you. I’d say if he was looking
for anything, he found it when he found you. Remember, you didn’t find
him up around Dan’s. You found him at the start of our highway. Isn’t
that so? Has he discovered that highway, and is wondering who uses it?
Eh?” Again came the woman’s shake of the head. “The notion of Dan’s
place leaves me cold. There’s no cattle stealing going on, no one to
pass a complaint. Molly Marton is his nearest neighbour, twenty-five
miles away. She’s lost nothing. After her, another ten miles nearer
Hartspool, comes that boy Andy, the new settler who took her into that
dance. No, Jim, he was looking for you. And he’s found you.”
Jim removed his pipe from his mouth.
“This boy Andy?” he said inquiringly. “Andy--who? It’s Irish, isn’t it?”
Blanche laughed. She thought she recognised asperity in the man’s
tone, and interpreted it in her woman’s fashion.
“Maybe. Scottish too, Andy’s short for Andrew.”
Jim started. In an instant his unconcern had fallen from him. He sat
up, and his booted and spurred feet came down on to the woodwork of the
verandah with a clatter. He swung round squatting on the side of his
chair.
“Hold on, Sis,” he cried. “Andrew? That was that police boy’s first
name. I got it now. And--it’s given me the rest. Corporal Andrew
McFardell. That’s the name I’ve been yearning to get. And that’s the
man I saw,” he cried in triumph, beating the palm of one hand against
his forehead. “I wonder?”
“What?”
But Jim remained maddeningly silent. And it was not till a restless
movement on Blanche’s part finally reminded him of her presence that he
looked up into her face with a dawning smile.
“It might be,” he said. “It surely looks that way. I guess it must be.
He wasn’t in uniform. But his cloth riding-breeches looked like police
breeches with the yellow stripe gone. Now, what would have happened to
him after my getaway? Guess they’d sort of court-martial him. Sure.
Maybe they’d ‘fire’ him. What then? He’d need to scratch a living some
way. You can’t quit the Police with a wad on the cents they get. That’s
it. That Andy is-- Say, Sis, we got to locate that boy Andy, and get to
know about him. You can do that. Molly can hand you his story. You----”
He broke off. Blanche’s face had suddenly paled. A great apprehension
was looking out of her eyes.
“I told Molly my name was--Pryse,” she cried, aghast.
Jim laughed outright.
“That beats it,” he cried. And Blanche suddenly felt like shaking him.
“What a play! If our little Molly knows your name’s Pryse he’ll know
it, too. If her ‘Andy’ is my ‘Andrew’ it won’t have him guessing more
than a year that Blanche Pryse has to do with one Jim Pryse, who’s
caused him a whole deal of trouble. And, having located Jim Pryse down
at the creek, right by our highway, what then? It’s easy. Maybe he’s
‘fired’ from the Police. It doesn’t matter a thing. There’s a chance of
getting back on the feller who’s queered his job. Sis, we’re going to
get half the Mounted Police hitting our trail before we’re many weeks
older or--or I’m-- No.”
He shook his head decidedly. Then he flung himself back into his chair
and gazed out down the valley. He raised his eyes to the eternal snows
crowning the peaks which rose up in almost every direction about
him. He scanned the dark glades of the forest which clothed their
lower slopes. Then his gaze came back to the little world of his own
creation. That shelter he had designed for erring souls, who, like
himself, had fallen by the wayside of life. His amusement was dead, and
he promptly negatived his hasty conclusion.
“No, Sis,” he said. “We don’t need to worry a thing. There’s no police
boys’ll ever locate this ranch. Dan Quinlan chased these hills ten
years before he lit on this valley--by chance. There’s only you, and
me, and Larry knows the way in and ways out of it. And there’s fifty
miles of hills, and gorges, and mountain streams, like a Chinese maze,
for any feller who don’t know what we know about Three-Way Creek before
he can locate us. No. Don’t worry. But things have changed. We need to
reckon with that boy. We need to watch out. I’ll have to put Dan wise.
And you--why, you must keep tab on little Molly. I owed her father, and
I’ll need to pay his little girl. Nothing’s going to stop that. You
must see her as soon as you can. If you run into him, why, you’ll not
be worried losing him in these hills. And you’ll be the best one to
locate the thing he’s doing. Here’s Larry coming along with a big eat
look written all over his freckled features. I’ll have to tell him.”
CHAPTER XXII
The Awakening
Molly was sitting up in her bed, with the grey daylight searching the
night shadows that still lurked in the little bedroom that had known
her from her earliest days.
Under the small window was the old drawer-chest that supported a
painted mirror, before which the girl was accustomed to dress. Near by
stood a home-made chair with a rawhide seat. In one dim corner of the
room the folds of a cotton curtain hung down over the few garments of
which her outer wardrobe consisted. And against the far wall, opposite
the end of the bed, was a trunk, surrounded and adorned by a flounced
covering of large-patterned cotton. The board flooring of the place had
some of its bareness disguised by one or two home-made rugs. Yet, for
all its bare comfort, the room had always contained for Molly a wealth
of content and happy memory.
She was in her homely night apparel, with her knees drawn up under the
well-worn bed-covering. Her arms were clasped about her knees, and she
was staring hopelessly into the slowly receding shadows.
The silence was intense. As yet not even the wild-fowl on the river
were stirring. And no sound of any sort came up from the slumbering
kine in the corral.
Molly was alone with the dawn and her waking thoughts. She was alone
with memory. And, strangely enough, never in all her life had she known
such a profound dispiritedness. Slowly her eyes filled with tears. Her
lips moved, quivering spasmodically. Then the storm of grief overflowed
down her cheeks.
For some time her face was buried in the coarse sheeting of her bed.
Then, with a quick movement, her head was flung up. She clad herself
hurriedly in her working clothes. She bathed her face and hands,
and adjusted her hair before the little mirror which reflected just
sufficient light for the process. Then she moved to the chest with its
floral-patterned cover.
For many minutes she moved about in her moccasin slippers. The lid of
the chest was propped open, and her busy hands were at work folding and
packing, bestowing inside it the delicate garments which only a short
day ago had afforded her such delight. Somehow her mood was completely
reversed. And there was not a moment in which she paused to contemplate
the wonderful texture, the softness and delicacy, of the things she was
packing. It was almost as if her work could not be accomplished with
sufficient speed.
The last garment had been folded and bestowed. The silver tissue shoes
had found their place in the chest. The cloak, with its fur lining, had
been laid on the top of the others. Then the commoner garments, that
had their ordinary home in the chest, were replaced on the top of all,
and the lid was re-closed.
It was as though Molly’s glory of yesterday was a thing repugnant to
her; as though she were endeavouring to shut out the memory of it from
her mind. As the lid of the chest closed, and the cover was re-set in
its place, the girl stood for a moment before it with bosom heaving and
a light of panic in her eyes.
The dawn had broadened towards full daylight when Molly at last turned
away and passed out of the room.
* * * * *
Lightning moved up to the house engrossed in thought. That which he
had witnessed of the parting at the storm doorway had troubled him.
The girl’s subsequent flood of tears had shocked him out of all his
confidence.
The earlier episode had been comprehensible enough. The disaster he had
feared had happened. Molly had promised marriage. The man he felt he
could never work for was to become the master of the Marton farm. For
him, he knew, it meant the end of all things. And the thought that he
would be driven to part from Molly froze his heart and left him groping
helplessly.
It was Lightning’s way to drive straight to the heart of things. But he
was not prepared for the scene he discovered in the living-room. The
cook-stove had been lit. The breakfast had been set. And Molly was at
work frying the pork, and browning the beans.
Molly glanced round as Lightning thrust the door open, and he caught a
glimpse of a pair of forlorn eyes darkly ringed as a result of hours
of tearful wakefulness. Instantly the man’s rougher mood melted. His
desire to delve to the heart of things evaporated. A great wave of
foolish sympathy set him yearning to say something, to do something,
that would banish the look of trouble he beheld.
But inspiration failed him, and his greeting was a jarring complaint.
“Say, Molly, gal, I bin workin’ around here since you was knee high,
an’ I ain’t known the man or woman that set light to that darn ol’
stove but me. It’s a measly bet I can’t set a lucifer to a bunch
o’ kindlin’ for you the mornin’ after your party night. What’s got
you, gal?” he went on, with a grin intended to help things. “Feelin’
restless? Your fine fixin’s got you worried they’d sort o’ quit you
come mornin’? I sure feel bad sun-up wa’ant early enough to light your
stove.”
Again the girl turned from her work at the stove.
“Does it matter, Lightning?” she asked, in a voice that lacked all its
usual cheer.
“Come to that, I don’t guess it does,” the man returned on the instant,
feeling he had no right to any complaint that could cause her distress.
“You surely must ha’ been plumb beat dancin’ around at that hoe-down,
though. Then ther’ was all o’ them fine fixin’s. They’d get most any
woman all worried to death with notions an’ things. Ther’ ain’t nothin’
like notions to get you so used up you can’t sleep nor nothin’. Now I
was reck’nin’ to leave you sleepin’ till noon. I’d figgered to fix my
eats myself, an’ hev you a real swell feed ready by noon. Then you’d
get up an’ around, an’ hand me all the joy stuff your party showed you.”
Molly dished out the beans, and set a layer of fat pork beside them
on the platter which was to serve Lightning. The man’s transparent
kindliness was not without effect upon her. A ghost of a smile
dispersed something of the woe which so distressed Lightning.
“You would figger that way,” she said kindly. “That’s you all the time.
Well, this time I’ve done the figgering. I’ve figgered you need a
breakfast right away. So sit around and eat, Lightning, and don’t worry
that I lit your stove for you.”
The old man glanced at the heaping beans and bacon. Then he looked
again into the face of the girl, who had made no attempt to help
herself. He made no move to sit in at the table. He shook his head, and
set himself to the task which he knew must be fulfilled without delay.
“You’re goin’ to marry him, Molly, gal?” he said abruptly.
Molly turned to the stove.
“I’m going to marry Andy--before summer’s out,” she said in a low tone.
Lightning passed a hand over his unbrushed hair.
“Then I won’t be needed--after harvest,” he said, with a curious
dullness.
Molly turned back on the instant. All the woe had passed out of her
eyes. She stood up, tall and very pretty in her white waist and homely
cloth skirt, and a gleam of hope reacted in Lightning’s eyes.
“Lightning!”
Molly paused on her exclamation. Then:
“Lightning, you sure won’t quit me, because--because of Andy?” she
cried. “Oh, you--you just couldn’t! You wouldn’t! Why? Why? I’ll need
you more than ever. I shall. I could never do without you. You’ve been
everything to me. You’ve--you’ve been father to me ever since--ever
since father was killed. Want you? Oh, you don’t know the thing
you’re saying. I know. You just hate Andy. And--and you want to quit
me because of him. If you could only know the thing he is to me you
wouldn’t feel that way. You surely wouldn’t. Say you won’t quit me. Say
you’ll stop right along when Andy comes, just the same as--as now. Say
that, Lightning. You must say it. You’ll--you’ll set me crazy if you
don’t.”
Lightning’s harsh voice jarred the silence of the room.
“Then he’s comin’ right here! That feller!” he cried. “He’s comin’
along to own this pore darn farm your dead father built right up
fer--_you_! He’s goin’ to claim it all! He’s goin’ to claim--_you!_”
The old man’s voice had risen almost to a shout. But with his final
exclamation he seemed to realise whither his fury was driving him. And
he stood silent, with his thin nostrils dilating, and with grim lips
tight pressed.
Molly stared at him. Then, slowly, she raised her hands in mute but
infinite appeal. There were no words, no angry retort, no argument.
Lightning capitulated. He inclined his head in surrender, and the hate
passed out of his eyes.
“Fergit it, Molly, gal. I’m crazy mad, sure,” he said.
Then he glanced down at the steaming food, and a sound escaped him like
a laugh of self-derision.
“Surely I’ll stop around, little gal, with you needin’ me,” he went on.
“If you need him here, you must have him. If you figger to hand him
over your farm, you must hand it. If he’s your man, then that’s surely
so, an’ I ain’t another word. If he acts right, an’ treats you right,
may the good Lord be good to him, an’ so’ll I. If he don’t-- Say, I’ll
eat that feed right away, little Molly. An’ I’ll try an’ remember I’m
your hired man, an’ fergit some day I’ll hev to be his.”
CHAPTER XXIII
Blanche Learns the Truth
It was noon when Blanche rode up to the barn, to be greeted by a glance
of genuine admiration which the old cattleman divided between the
golden sorrel and its rider.
She nodded with great friendliness as Lightning bared his head. Then
she lightly slipped out of the saddle, and looked up into the keen old
eyes.
“Molly gotten back from her dance?” she inquired.
Lightning took possession of her horse. Stooping, he ran a
comprehending hand down the creature’s forelegs.
“She surely has, ma’am,” he said. “She’s by the house. An’ I’d say
she’s most like a pore tired kid yearnin’ for a play game she don’t
know about.” He straightened himself up. “I’d say, them legs is clean
as a gun bar’l, ma’am.”
Blanche nodded. Lightning’s downright love of horseflesh appealed to
her.
“He surely is a gentleman,” she laughed.
“A king, ma’am,” the old man corrected. “I’ll hand him a rub-down an’
feed him good,” he went on. “You’ll be makin’ the house right away?”
His gaze passed to a thoughtful contemplation of Molly’s storm doorway.
“I guess you’ll feel most like sayin’ a piece that’ll set Molly, gal,
in sperrits?”
Blanche smiled into his earnest face.
“I surely will,” she said, turning and passing on up to the house.
* * * * *
The thing lying behind the old cattleman’s words was soon made apparent
to Blanche. It was there in the troubled eyes of Molly as she struggled
hard to smile a warmth of real welcome.
Molly was at work. She had spent the morning in almost feverish effort.
And it was an expression of a mind that was endeavouring to escape from
itself. Molly was full of simple gratitude to this stranger who had
so suddenly and even mysteriously, come into her life. And almost her
first words were of thanks.
But the girl’s appearance shocked Blanche. She was wholly unprepared
for anything beyond the reaction of a glorious social adventure. Molly
looked ill. And it seemed to Blanche that all the sunny enthusiasm, all
the happy youth, of which she had carried away such a vivid impression
after their first meeting, were entirely lacking. To her mind, if Molly
had encountered some terrible grief rather than participated in the
riotous delight of her first dance, her spirits and appearance could
not have suffered more.
Her concern found almost instant expression.
“Why, child,” she exclaimed, “you look like a little ghost.” Then she
shook her head. “The belle of the Hartspool ball never looked like that
last night, I’ll wager. Was the floor bad? Was the music a dirge? Did
your frock get mussed? Tell me.”
Molly denied with so much vehemence and endeavour to convince that she
completely failed to allay the other’s apprehension.
But Blanche had come there with a very definite purpose in her mind.
She had come to learn all she could from Molly of the man who had taken
her into the Hartspool dance. But she was too much a woman for that to
be the whole object that had entailed many miles in the saddle over a
territory that was without trail or track of any sort. No. Her visit
was for the girl’s sake, too, and for the sake of the gossip and happy
chatter of the glorious time she had helped to provide her with.
But Blanche was foredoomed to disappointment. Molly’s dispiritedness
was so intensely real that she became more gravely concerned than she
knew. It was not that Molly was not ready to talk of the dance. On the
contrary she talked of it almost too eagerly. It was not that her smile
was lacking. But to Blanche neither her talk nor her smile were such as
she had looked for. There was no spontaneity in either. They were both
the result of obvious effort. They lacked all naturalness. And all the
time there was something looking out of the girl’s eyes that intrigued
and troubled her, and left her wondering.
Blanche was again sitting in George Marton’s chair. She was sitting up
in her neat riding-suit, with her hands held out to the warmth of the
stove in spite of the summer heat. Molly was preparing the midday meal
for her guest, neglecting nothing, meticulous in her care that the meal
should be the best she could provide for her new friend.
“Is this Andy of yours a good dancer, Molly?”
Blanche was observing the figure bending over the stove. She was
watching, with the closest interest, the girl’s care in her work. When
she put her apparently casual question she saw the bending figure
start. Then, as it straightened itself up, she realised that the hand
grasping the pepper-box, with which she was seasoning the jack-rabbit
stew was trembling. Instantly a mental reservation warned her where lay
the key to Molly’s grievous mood.
The girl steadied herself with an effort. Then she laughed a little
uncertainly.
“Why, I guess he’s no sort of dancer,” she said. “But then,” she
added quickly, “I wouldn’t know the diff’rence. You see, I haven’t
learnt any swell dancing. I just sort of know the things you do at
‘sociables.’”
Blanche’s laugh came readily.
“I guess you don’t need to be a swell dancer to have a time. If your
boy’s right, and you’re looking good, and the folks are all in to enjoy
things, the dancing doesn’t matter a deal. This Andy--you didn’t say
his other name to me--he’s a farmer like you?”
There was a moment of hesitation before Molly replied. It almost seemed
as though she had forgotten the stew on the stove. She was still
grasping the pepper-box, but a far-away, unsmiling look was in the sad
eyes, that were turned upon the sunlight pouring in through the open
window.
“He’s your neighbour, isn’t he? Ten miles east?”
Blanche was urging the girl in the gentlest fashion. At the sound of
her voice Molly turned sharply back to her stove. She bent over her
work again and spoke rapidly, without even glancing in her friend’s
direction.
“Yes. He’s Andy McFardell, and he’s set up his homestead along down the
creek ten miles east of here. I’m--he’s going to marry me. We’ll be
married--before summer’s out.”
There was just the shadow of a break in the girl’s final announcement.
Blanche noted her attitude, and a wave of pity she could not account
for stirred her deeply.
“You’re engaged? You’re going to be married? Why, Molly, you hadn’t
said a thing. Tell me. Just tell me all about it. I’m surely dying to
know. Is he a good-looker? Has he a swell farm? My!”
Blanche was acting. She condemned herself for it. Her enthusiasm was
sheer pretence. She remembered that the man Molly had said she was
going to marry was--Andrew McFardell.
The girl’s reply came with a rush. It came with all the spontaneity
which Blanche had missed before. And all the time Molly was talking
Blanche felt that every word she was speaking was in some measure
defensive, not against her, not against any individual, but against
some feeling, in conflict with some emotion of her own.
“Maybe you won’t understand,” she cried. “How could you? Nobody could
understand the way I feel. I guess I just love him to death.” She
laughed a little meaninglessly. “I love him so he could beat me, so he
could walk all over my fool body. I just can’t think what things would
be without him. The thing he says goes all the time, and when I hear
him I can’t even think for myself. Do you know how I mean? Of course
you don’t. It’s love, I guess. There isn’t a sun in the sky to compare
with his smile. With him around I just want to sit an’ listen, an’ do
the thing he says. Oh, Blanche, it’s awful, just awful, when you feel
that way. I think it sets you crazy. Yes, yes. That’s it, plumb crazy.
If he said he was goin’ to kill me I’d be glad. If he said I was a fool
girl I’d know I was. It wouldn’t matter what he said or did--so long
as he didn’t quit me. Oh, I want him, and--and he’s goin’ to marry me
before the summer’s out. Think of it, Blanche. When summer’s through
he’ll be along here. I’ll have him with me always. Every day I’ll wake
to find him near by, to listen to his voice, to see his eyes smile deep
into mine. It--it’ll be heaven--just heaven. Oh, how I’ll work around
to make this farm a home to him! His homestead’s a poor sort of place.
He’s been working lone-handed. You see, he’s only had it come two
years, since he quit the Police. He hasn’t had a good time. No. They’ve
surely been cruel to him. But it don’t matter now. I’ll make that all
different. Think of it, he’ll be all mine to work for, an’ to make
happy. An’ this farm’s good, and some day he’ll be well fixed. And--and
I’ll have helped to do that for him.”
She drew a deep breath and stood up straight. And Blanche saw the
wonderful light shining in her eyes.
“It’s--it’s all just wonderful to think that way, Blanche,” she went
on. “It makes me feel--it makes----”
Suddenly the light in her eyes faded, and she turned again to the stove
in some haste, and went on with her work.
Blanche made the response she felt she must make. She had listened
to the outpouring of the soul of the girl. She had been invited for
one brief moment to peer into the inner recesses where the fires of
simple human love burned fiercely upon the altar of sacrifice. And her
responsibility burdened her.
She simply dared not pursue the matter in the light fashion she had
intended. Then there was that feeling that the girl had been pleading
in her own defence. And it was a feeling she was powerless to shake off.
It was not until food had been prepared and set ready on the table that
Blanche found it possible to shake off the weight which the girl’s
confession had heaped upon her. But at Molly’s invitation to “sit in”
her lighter mood returned. The change was wrought by the change which
her confession seemed to have brought about in Molly. The girl seemed
easier in her mind. Her smile was less forced, and talk came more
readily.
They talked through the meal, and as time went on Blanche’s constraint
passed altogether. They talked of everything that interested, and by
the time the meal was finished Blanche felt that Molly had actually
benefited by her visit, and she herself had learned all, and far more
than she had wanted to know concerning the man who had once been
Corporal Andrew McFardell.
When the time for her departure came, Lightning brought her horse to
the door of the house, and stood apparently engrossed in his admiration
of the golden creature.
Inside the house the two women made their farewell.
“May I come again, Molly?”
Blanche’s smile was full of warmth. And Molly’s eyes widened at the
superfluousness of the question.
“Why, Blanche, I’m crazy for you to come along all the time. Next to
Andy I want you most.”
Blanche shook her head admonishingly.
“Say, my dear, some day I’m going to be married myself,” she said, and
her manner was very, very gentle. “I love the man I’m going to marry
with all my foolish heart. He’s not a good-looker like your Andy. And
he’s got a mop of scarlet hair and a bunch of foolish freckles. But I’m
not going to let him set me crazy. It’s not good to get too crazy that
way. I--I may come to your wedding if I’m around here when the time
comes?”
Molly nodded, and her smile was one of sheer exaltation.
“Surely, Blanche,” she said. “It wouldn’t be right without you.”
Blanche took the girl by the shoulders and kissed her on both cheeks.
“Good. So long, Molly,” she said.
* * * * *
Molly was standing at the open doorway. Blanche had ridden away. She
had long since vanished round the bluff where the grass-trail followed
its outline in the direction where her father had been in the habit of
hewing his cordwood. Lightning had been into the house for his meal.
He had eaten it and returned again to his work. Molly had seen him
moving out with his team, heading for the hay slough. Her own work was
awaiting her.
The last shadow of her smile had passed. And the cloud of
dispiritedness had resettled itself in the pathetic depression of
her brows. The interim of relief had passed with the going of her
mysterious friend. Once more she had fallen back into that distressing
mood which had inspired the cattleman’s appeal at Blanche’s coming.
CHAPTER XXIV
At Haying Time
Jane and Blue Pete were doing their best. Their massive bodies were a
sumptuous feeding-ground for the swarming mosquitoes, which transformed
their cheerful roan coats into something drab and dismal. The air was
hot and heavy in the depths of the slough, but the grass was luxuriant,
and the hay cut was heavy.
Perched on the iron saddle of the mower, Lightning had no complaint
to make against the conditions of his work, or the result of his
labours. The heat, and the flies, and the mosquitoes, left the
man unheeding. The toughened pores of his skin refused to exude a
perspiration that could cause him discomfort. As for the flies, they
made no more impression on him than if he had been a brass image. Even
the blood-lust of the mosquitoes was little enough likely to obtain
satisfaction from his hardening veins. But his temper was more than
usually uncertain, and it found expression in a wealth of invective
which he hurled at the heads of his devoted team. He sat there like
some ragged, bewhiskered vulture, lean, aggressive, alternately
cursing and coaxing. Lightning was worried. He was irritated. He was
desperately unhappy.
Lightning’s ill mood had been steadily growing for three weeks, ever
since the night of Molly’s party. It seemed like an eternity to the old
man since that night which was only three weeks ago. He seemed to have
lived through an age of disquiet and anxiety. And the depression of it
had long since passed the stage when explosive blasphemy could afford
him any relief.
With Molly’s unremitting assistance he had been cutting, and hauling,
and stacking hay for days. But he had found in the work none of his
customary satisfaction. In happier times each accomplished item in
the round of his seasonal labours signified something achieved in the
interests of the girl. Every detail of improvement in the progress of
the Marton homestead had been a source of complete satisfaction to
him. But that was when he knew it was all for Molly. That was before
the thought of Andy McFardell had become the disturbing element of his
intolerant mind.
But now that disturbing element had given place to something a
hundredfold worse. It was Molly who had become his gravest anxiety.
Again he knew that it was the man who was the source of the trouble.
But it was in a different fashion. Hitherto Lightning had deplored and
hated the man’s presence anywhere near the farm. Now he was desperately
concerned at his absence from it. Andy McFardell had not been near the
farm since the night of the party.
The change in the girl immediately following the dance had been bad
enough. Whatever his regard for Andy, Lightning had felt that the
girl’s distress, her obvious unhappiness, was altogether wrong and
unaccountable. She was going to be married. It was her own choice. She
was crazy about the wretched man. Well?
The first day had passed without relief. But with the second day it
seemed that the work of time and youth would surely tell. Molly’s
silence was less unbroken; her work was carried on less feverishly;
even a shadow of her smile returned. Then came the moment when he
discovered her returning from the trail by the creek, and he knew
she had been there watching for the coming of her lover. His relief
developed into something like joy, and he was amazed to find the
contemplated coming of Andy McFardell could so affect him.
But the man did not come. Neither the next day, nor the next, nor the
next. And now three weeks had passed without his having put in an
appearance. Each day the old man had seen the girl move out down the
trail looking for his coming. And each day the time she remained seemed
to lengthen.
The change in Molly had become almost calamitous. She rarely left
the house except at Lightning’s express call for her assistance. She
laboured silently in the hay corral when the old man brought in a load
of newly-cut hay. But she always returned to the house the moment the
work was finished. Her eyes had the look of sleepless nights. Her
cheeks had lost their happy roundness, and a pathetic down-drooping of
the corners of her mouth told the troubled old man their own tale of
dreary unhappiness.
Then came that memorable night when Lightning had recklessly ventured.
Molly had eaten little at midday. She was eating less at the supper
she was sharing with him. He had been observing her closely while he
noisily consumed his hash with an appetite wholly unimpaired. Molly was
gazing out of the window, her food scarcely touched, watching the play
of the evening sunlight upon the foliage of a distant bluff. It was
realisation of unshed tears in the girl’s eyes that robbed the old man
of his caution, and flung him headlong.
“Ain’t you eatin’ your hash, Molly, gal?” he asked kindly, although at
the moment his own mouth was filled to overflowing. “It’s real good,”
he went on, with a smack of his lips as he swallowed. “You surely hev
got the onions good in it. You didn’t eat at midday. An’ you ain’t
eatin’ now. There’s a heap o’ work around this layout needs swell
muscle, even in a gal like you. Best eat.”
Molly shook her head without withdrawing her gaze. And Lightning could
restrain his impulse no longer.
“He ain’t been round, Molly, gal,” he said. “Ain’t you lookin’ fer him
to come along?”
Molly sighed pathetically. Her gaze was studiously held to the window.
Lightning realised the struggle she was making. Then, when she spoke,
her voice was low and unsteady.
“I guess he isn’t through,” she said. “He’ll be haying, too. He’ll
surely be haying. You see, he’s such a boy for getting back of his
work.”
Lightning could have shouted blasphemy when Molly spoke of her lover’s
devotion to work. But, instead, his voice came very gently.
“Sure, he’ll be haying. That’s so. That’s why he ain’t been around.
You couldn’t want him to get around when the grass is ripe, and the
season’s good. Say”--he passed his plate for another portion of the
hash he approved--“why not get your pinto out an’ get a breath of good
air, gal? You sure need it. I guess it won’t worry me stackin’ the
grass I haul. Beat it over to that boy’s place an’ see the way he’s
makin’ out.”
Lightning needed no better reward than the look that responded to his
grin. He watched Molly pass to the stove to replenish his plate. And
as she passed it back to him, he listened to the reacting hope which
sounded in her voice.
“I surely could do that,” she said eagerly. “Maybe it would help him,
too. You see, he’s alone. It isn’t the same with him as it is with us.
You don’t need to haul to-morrow, anyway. Just cut. That way I could
ride out and----”
Lightning felt he had really done a wonderful thing.
“Don’t say a thing, Molly, gal,” he cried. “I’ll fix all that. You
get your pinto an’ ride over to-morrow mornin’. Guess you’ll tickle
that boy to death comin’ along. An’, say, quit this foolishness with
your food, gal. You got me so worried I don’t feel I could swaller a
mouthful right. An’ ther’s Jane an’ Pete worried about it, too,” he
grinned. “That’s it,” he cried, as Molly made a serious attempt to obey
him. “You don’t know the thing you’re missin’ in this darn hash.”
That night had been the one bright spot in the whole of the three
weeks. But it was only the forerunner of darker days. Molly went off
the next morning. She went off in spirits she had not displayed for a
week. She returned in less than three hours. It was her return that
brought Lightning’s structure of hope crashing about his unfortunate
ears.
He encountered her at the barn as she rode up. Her pinto was blowing,
as though the tireless creature had been flogged every mile of the
journey home. But all hope had fled at sight of the distracted girl,
and his heart sank to zero.
“Wal?”
Lightning’s voice had never rasped so harshly.
But there was no reply. It is doubtful even if Molly heard. Her mare
propped to a standstill and she leapt from the saddle. The next moment
she was gone. She had fled to the house, leaving the pinto to its own
devices.
Since that time another two weeks had passed--two weeks of worry which
the old man had hardly known how to endure.
After Molly’s return he had contemplated having the whole thing out
with her at the first opportunity. But the girl settled the matter
herself that very night. She met him in the doorway as he went up to
the house for his supper.
He was astonished and further alarmed at the sight of her waiting for
him. Her eyes contained not a sign of that which had filled them on
her return at midday. They were calm--quite calm--like the eyes of the
dead father he so well remembered. But they had a coldness in them that
utterly forbade the intrusion he had contemplated.
As he came to the door the girl spoke.
“You fixed my mare?” she said sharply. “That’s all right,” she went on,
as the old man reassured her. “We’ll get right on with the haying. The
seasons don’t wait around for any foolishness. Do you get me? There’s
going to be no more foolishness. Not a thing more, and not a word about
it.”
So the evening had been passed without any explanation. He was never
likely to forget that evening. Molly seemed suddenly to have grown
years older. She ate her food and went about her work silently,
deliberately. When he spoke to her, she replied sufficiently, in
unemotional fashion. She never once smiled. It seemed as if all her
youth had gone from her, as though an icy coldness had frozen up the
last drop of the warm springs of her young heart.
Now Lightning was engaged upon the last of the haying. He was also
engaged upon something else. At long last he had determined to discover
the thing that had happened between the lovers from the other end of
the affair--that end where no delicacy or scruple need be displayed.
He was perfecting his plans. He had thought them out in detail, and the
result, in his view, was all he desired. This was the last cut of hay.
To-morrow he would announce to Molly that the team must be re-shod. He
would take them into Hartspool, and, on his way, he would call in at
Andy McFardell’s homestead, and be prepared to deal with the man as he
saw fit. He would certainly discover the thing that had happened.
* * * * *
It was nearly noon the next day when Lightning drove his team into the
clearing of Andy McFardell’s homestead. He had had no difficulty in
putting his plans into operation. Molly had agreed, after inspection of
the lengthened hoofs of the team. So the old man had driven off, with
his treasured guns carefully concealed in the wagon-box. Once beyond
all chance of Molly’s observation, the weapons were taken from their
place of concealment and adjusted about his lean body.
He gazed eagerly about him as he dodged the tree-stumps at the entrance
to the clearing. The thing he expected to find had never been clear
to him. But that which he did find was certainly the last thing he
expected. Andy McFardell’s homestead was derelict. It was abandoned.
He drove his team right up to the miserable barn and got out of the
wagon. The door of the building was nailed up. He stood for a moment
considering it. Then he raised one heavily-booted foot, and launched
it, sole first, against the crazy boarding. It gave on the instant,
splintering and cracking. A second effort flung it open by the simple
process of tearing it from its rusted hinges. He passed within.
A few moments later he returned into the full sunlight. Just for one
moment he glanced at his drowsy team. Then he glanced round at the
other buildings, all of which had been lightly boarded up. Finally
he sought the hay corral. There was a small scattering of loose hay
littering it, otherwise the place was empty.
He collected an armful of the hay. It was the best offering he could
make to his team. He had tried the barn for feed, but had drawn a
blank. So he came back to his horses, removed their bits, and, leaving
them busily devouring the hay, passed on to complete his investigations.
He spent a full hour at his task, and when he returned to his wagon to
water his horses, and feed them from the reserve of oats he carried
with him, it was in the full knowledge that Andy’s farm was abandoned
for good.
There was not a living thing to be discovered anywhere. The man’s
horses were gone. His two cows. His spring wagon, harness, and even the
wealth of implements he had acquired from the machine agent. There was
not a spade, or fork, or axe, or saw, about the place. The house, too,
was similarly bare. Such items of furnishing as the place had possessed
had vanished. Blankets, pots, and crocks--all had been swept away. And
the answer to it came to him without even an effort. The man had given
up, and either sold up, or been sold up--the man who had promised to
marry Molly before the summer was out.
He had fixed his team and seated himself in the shade of his wagon,
prepared to eat such food as he had brought with him.
The full significance of the thing he had discovered slowly took
possession of him. And he found in it the looked-for answer to the
latest change in Molly. Oh, yes, it was clear enough to him now. The
whole thing must have been in contemplation, even exactly planned, at
the time when--yes, that was it. Molly had found the same as he had
found. What did it signify? Was it that the man reckoned he would no
longer need the place with Molly as his wife? It looked that way. Then
why had he not shown up in three weeks?
The old man sat there eating, and labouring heavily with thought. He
saw the whole thing in its own light. He contemplated it from the
viewpoint of his own experiences of men. Deliberately, definitely, his
mind fixed itself on the night of the dance, and his whole focus became
preoccupied with the girl’s breakdown after McFardell’s departure on
that night.
Why? Why? Why that flood of tears? All the rest receded into the
background. That one detail stood out above all others. And as he
considered it, as he translated it in the only fashion possible to him,
a sickening horror took possession of him.
CHAPTER XXV
The Beginning of the Harvest
The things Lightning discovered at McFardell’s homestead and later
learned in Hartspool instantly suggested headlong action. He wanted to
fling everything to the winds and get after the “gopher police-scab”
with his old guns primed and a supply of bullets in his pockets.
But there was something, some subtle claim that was infinitely
stronger, holding him back. He felt he would be serving Molly better by
remaining at her call on the farm. Since that hour or so of meditation
in the shade of his wagon at McFardell’s there had steadily grown up
within him a conviction that, whatever his devotion might prompt in
Molly’s defence, his place must be near her all the time now. He felt
that never in all her young life had Molly had so great a need of him.
The thing he learned in Hartspool of Andy McFardell while his team
was being shod came from the township’s best-informed gossip. Barney,
at Lightning’s first introduction of the subject, was only too ready
to pour out an opinion that never at any moment brooked disguise. He
nodded a toast at the old cattleman, at whose expense he was drinking,
swallowed his modest “two fingers” of Rye, set his glass in the
water-trough under the counter, and, leaning forward against the bar,
with arms folded upon it, let loose his story.
“That junk?” he said contemptuously, with a laugh that failed to
reach his shrewd eyes. “Wal, the only thing makes me feel good about
_that_ is he’s stung McCrae, the implement boy around hyar, good an’
plenty. That guy McFardell’s a shyster. But it don’t make me feel
more bad about him that he’s stung McCrae. I ain’t no kind o’ use fer
the machinery bosses o’ this country. It ain’t I’ve a grouch against
machinery. It’s their ways o’ tradin’. There’s folk reckon to close
down every darn liquor joint in the whole of this blamed continent. I
tell you right hyar our trade couldn’t harm a louse compared with the
‘crop mortgage’ system o’ pushing machinery on to crazy guys o’ new
settlers who don’t know better.”
He shrugged his burly shoulders, and his eyes snapped. “He’s lit out,
as I guessed he would. An’ he was slick over it, too. He drove in at
dark, nigh three weeks back, an’ his wagon was full up of his fool
kit. I didn’t see him, but I got the story good. He’d sold one of his
plugs, an’ his two lousy cows, an’ his wagon, before he got in. He drew
his stuff fer that. Then he held a sort o’ auction amongst the boys he
was used to playin’ ‘stud’ with for his outfit. The thing I make out
is they acted white by him. They handed him better money than I would.
Anyway, he got away with it, an’ then wrote out a piece tellin’ McCrae
where to collect up the machinery he’d stocked him with, and he could
snatch his land for the money owin’. That he passed in through the mail
office. And come mornin’ he’d quit Hartspool with his saddle-horse, an’
he ain’t bin around sence.”
Lightning drained his second glass of Rye, and set it empty on the bar.
“Quit the territory?” he inquired simply.
“Maybe. Can’t say.” Barney was wiping glasses, which seemed to be a
habit with him in the absence of any more amusing occupation. “He ain’t
bin around, anyway. An’ seein’ he’s the sort o’ shyster he is, why, I
guess he’d be right here on the bum till his dollars ran out--if he was
around.”
“You reckon he’s beat it,” mused Lightning, fingering his empty glass.
Then he looked up. “You best pass that bottle again. I’m feelin’ kind
o’ mean.”
Barney laughed with his twinkling eyes this time.
“I ain’t ever known you to feel any other way when you blow along into
this burg, Lightning,” he said amiably. “Hev this one on me. You’re the
sort of boy I like gettin’ around. You get an’ elegant souse down your
spine, an’ quit. That’s how a boy should take his liquor.”
He filled up the old man’s glass with raw spirit, and Lightning’s
feelings warmed towards him.
“Do I reckon he’s beat it?” Barney went on, putting the bottle away.
“Surely I do. An’ if you ask me, I’d say he’s begun the hoboe trail.
It mostly starts that way. Dollars an’ a hoss. Later, no hoss. Then
the freight cars. An’ when he can’t ‘jump’ them he’ll need to pad the
railroad ties. That’s him. A sure hoboe.”
Lightning shook his head decidedly.
“Guess he won’t finish that way,” he said.
“How then? Penitentiary?”
Lightning drained his glass again, and the spirit stirred his blood and
lit his eyes fiercely.
“No. It won’t be penitentiary either,” he cried emphatically.
Barney eyed the old man shrewdly.
“Guess McCrae ain’t the only boy he’s stung,” he laughed.
Lightning moved away a little unsteadily.
“I don’t know who he’s stung,” he retorted coldly, “but I’ll need to
sleep right here to-night. I’m pulling out come mornin’.”
Barney nodded.
“That’s all right, boy. Be good.”
And he laughed at the old man’s back as Lightning passed out on his way
to the shoeing-smith.
Blanche had visited the farm in Lightning’s absence. And the news
greeted him on his arrival home. His return seemed to gladden Molly,
in spite of herself. She told him Blanche’s visit was in the way of a
sort of farewell. She had come to tell her that she was not likely to
visit her again for some time; that she would be up in the hills with
her men-folk on a vacation, and did not quite know when she would quit
them. Molly told him she seemed sad because she was going to be in the
hills. But she said she would come again to see her when opportunity
offered.
Lightning yearned to ask if she had confided her trouble to this woman
friend, but discretion forbade. Instead, he asked other questions of a
casual nature. Did she stop around long? And he learned that Blanche
had eaten at the house and then taken her departure.
It was not until he was alone in his bunk-house that night that he
realised a curiously significant thing about Blanche’s visit. She must
have passed him on the trail from Hartspool. She was living somewhere
around Hartspool. She must have been coming to the farm while he was
leaving it. Yet they had not met. He had not seen a sign of her. Then
a further thought occurred to him. Why had he so completely forgotten
her when he was in Hartspool? No doubt Barney Lake could have told him
just who she was and all about her. It was idiotic that he had made no
inquiry. And he fell into his customary deep slumber cursing himself.
But matters relating to Blanche quickly faded out of his mind. Molly
absorbed his whole concern. There was no improvement in her. She worked
from daylight to dark. She ate clearly because she must. Her laugh was
a thing he had forgotten. She was so changed--so utterly changed.
Her attitude towards him was pathetic in its gentleness. Sometimes
there was a display of submissiveness which literally distracted
him. As the weeks passed he realised, too, that her strength was
failing her. She grew weary so easily. The labours with fork and
hoe, which had once been child’s play to her, not only became effort,
but effort she could no longer sustain. And he knew by the signs that
she was steadily becoming sick, not only in mind, but also in body.
Time and youth were no longer her allies. And he was haunted by the
danger-signal, which, with every passing day, he saw drawing nearer.
Lightning had not the temperament to stand by indefinitely without
making an effort. And so it came about that on one memorable evening,
after a day of more than usual anxiety, just as he was leaving his
bunk-house he precipitated things with his sympathy.
“Say, Molly, gal,” he said, no longer able to restrain the impulse,
“you ain’t lookin’ good. An’, mebbe, you ain’t feelin’ good. I kind of
see them pore mean cheeks o’ yours gettin’ thin like paper. An’ you
ain’t got the grit you had for the work around the farm. The oats is
comin’ ripe. We’ll need to be cuttin’ come a week. Now, I bin thinkin’.
The season’s good. Ther’ ain’t no rain about. Ther’ ain’t no sort o’
hurry. Wal, I don’t see you need to worry with that harvest. You sure
don’t. I ken do it lone-handed easy. You lie up. You set around. An’
when them cheeks has filled right out, an’ the colour’s got back to
’em----”
But the old man broke off, aghast at the result of his effort. Molly’s
reply came in the midst of it. It was a repetition of that breakdown on
the night of the party. She burst into a flood of tears, and fled from
the room.
* * * * *
Lightning was feeling more content than the condition of things seemed
to indicate. He was on the saddle of his binder, ruminating behind the
stout quarters of Jane and Blue Pete while he cut the oat crop. There
was something very satisfying to him in the operation. The season was
good. The air was hot and bracing under a perfect sun. The straw was
sturdy, and not too long. The ear was heavy. Then there had been no
summer storms to “lay” the dancing grain that rustled about him. There
were feed and seed to spare in the crop. There would be many quarters
for the Hartspool market.
These things undoubtedly influenced him, but there were others as well.
Molly had voluntarily fallen in with his suggestion. She had left the
oat harvest entirely to him. She had remained to look after the lighter
affairs of the farm. Then, on this first day of the cutting, Blanche
had arrived on her first visit in two months. He had left her now with
Molly, and somehow he was hoping much from her visit.
She had ridden up to the farm more than usually early, having arrived
just after breakfast. Now it was nearing noon, and a big cut of oats
lay sprawled in sheaves to Lightning’s credit. He meant to cut till
eating-time, and spend the afternoon stooking. His temper was easy as
the machine passed up and down the crop. Jane and Blue Pete were having
a peaceful time, and seemed to approve. From the creek to the bluff,
which shut them out of sight of their barn, they moved on steadily,
comfortably encircling the ever-diminishing patch of standing grain.
He was nearing the woodland bluff when Blanche appeared. She came
through the woods, clearly prepared for departure. It was also obvious
to Lightning that she had come specially to talk to him. Were it not
so she would surely have departed the way she had come, which way lay
farther down the creek, where he had broken the new five acres earlier
in the year.
He drew up his team as he approached the spot at which she was awaiting
him. His eyes betrayed the question in his mind, and his first words
displayed his anxiety.
“Mebbe you ken tell me, ma’am, now you’ve seen her,” he said eagerly.
“I’m figgerin’ that pore kid’s sick. Sick to death. An’ I’m wonderin’.
I feel like it’s right up to me. An’--an’ I heven’t a notion of the
thing I need to do. It ain’t a case o’ salts fer Molly gal’s sickness.
Mebbe her body’s sick. I guess it surely is. But I sort o’ feel it’s
her mind’s the trouble, ma’am. An’ I guess ther’ ain’t no dope merchant
in Hartspool ken fix that. You’re a swell leddy, with knowledge, an’
I guess she’s a woman like you. It’s since ever that party, an’ that
skunk of a boy ain’t showed up.”
Blanche’s eyes were grave as she looked down on the man from her
saddle. She was observing him closely, looking for an answer to the
many questions in her own mind. Apparently her observation satisfied
her, for an indefinable expression slowly eased her gravity.
“She’s sick,” she said. Then she added: “She’s more sick than you
guess.”
The full significance of what she said lay in Blanche’s tone. And
Lightning’s old heart sank within him.
“Meanin’?” he cried anxiously.
Blanche shook her head.
“I’ve never seen such a change in anyone in so short a while,
Lightning,” she said gravely. “And I can’t get her to say a thing. I
just can’t get a word out of her about herself. She laughs. And her
laugh’s the most tragic thing I’ve ever heard. Oh, she talked about
anything but herself, and she laughed like--like a machine. Maybe
she thought she was getting away with it. She wasn’t. I could see
the trouble lying back of it all like reading an open book. It’s a
bit dreadful. You see, I could see the trouble without being able
to--recognise it. Tell me anything you can--all you know.”
Lightning felt that his hope and faith in this woman had not been
misplaced. She had asked him to do the thing he had long since made up
his mind to do. He intended to tell her the whole story, and began at
once.
He told his story with all the close detail which his anxiety had
impressed upon his mind. He told it from the very beginning, when
they had first discovered Andy McFardell was their neighbour, down
to his latest discovery that the man had abandoned his homestead and
disappeared. He lost no opportunity of impressing on Blanche his own
dislike and distrust of the man, and of how he had urged Molly to cut
him out. He gave her frankly to understand that his urging of Molly was
chiefly inspired by his dislike of the man, but was not unsupported
by the things he had learned about him in Hartspool. And Blanche,
listening to the harsh voice and harsher language, felt that she was
being admitted to the innermost thoughts and feelings of a man who is
completely at the end of his resources. There was something almost
terrible in the savage passion of his final words.
“Ma’am,” he said, his body crouched on the binder saddle, his face
raised to hers till the stringy flesh of his throat was drawn like
tight-stretched parchment, his eyes alight and burning like coals of
fire, “ther’s no dirt a boy ken do like settin’ a gal crazy with all
the love in her, an’ quittin’ her cold, an’ lightin’ out to beat it
from the thing he’s done. That feller ain’t a skunk, ma’am. He ain’t
even a yellow cur. Ma’am, ther’s worse things than them. Ther’s things
so mean, so low down, that the only way you ken fix ’em right is to
crush ’em, smash ’em, beat ’em to small pieces, so you can’t rec’nise
’em for the muss they make under your feet. Do you get me? That feller
just needs smashin’ to small meat.”
Blanche had never encountered such concentrated hate and merciless
bitterness. It appalled her. But she was caught by it, and held by the
sense of the primitive that inspired it.
“It’s awful!” she cried. “It’s--it’s just awful! The man’s a--a
scoundrel! He’s--oh, it makes me crazy mad to think of it. It’s----”
She broke off. There was a start of alarm as a thought flashed into her
mind. She turned away from the man who was waiting upon her words, and
her gaze sought the distant hills to the south and west.
There had suddenly come to her a new interpretation of Andy McFardell’s
going. And it was an interpretation that had nothing to do with Molly.
The man had gone, cleared out, vanished. He had not shown up again in
Hartspool. Then, where--where had he gone? _Was_ his going the escape
from Molly they had been thinking it was? She had suddenly remembered
that Andy McFardell had encountered and recognised her brother, Jim.
And Jim was the cause of his original downfall.
“I must be going,” she said awkwardly. Then, realising the abruptness
of her manner: “I’ve stopped around longer than I reckoned.”
“Are you a long piece up in the hills, ma’am?” Lightning asked
uneasily. He was thinking of the possible needs of Molly, and of his
own helplessness.
“Longer than makes it easy riding down here often.” Blanche shook her
head. “It’s rough territory,” she went on, “and there’s no trail. I
couldn’t tell you so you’d understand it right. No. I’ll come along,
though, just when I can. I don’t know. That poor child’s sick--sick.”
The sympathy deepened in her eyes.
“Yes, it’s her mind, Lightning. She’s troubled so she’s right down
sick. And I don’t know what you’re to do. You must watch her, sure. Oh,
yes, you must watch her. And--and if she gets worse, you’ll need to get
right after a doctor, if you can get one in Hartspool. You see, she
won’t say a thing. I can’t quite----”
“No?”
Lightning’s interrogation came curiously. There was something
suggestive in it, something that caught and held the girl, and sent a
wave of panic through her heart.
“No,” she repeated, a little mechanically.
Silence fell between them. The intentness of their regard was for the
thought that was passing in each mind. Maybe even, ill-matched as
they were, yet so bonded in the object of their sympathy, there was
something of thought-transference passing between them. At any rate,
there was no spoken word that could have inspired the sharp-drawn
breath which accompanied the light of panic that had suddenly appeared
in Blanche’s eyes. She seemed about to speak, but no sound came.
Instead, her lips closed tightly, sealing themselves over the thing
that, in an unguarded moment, was almost escaping her.
She lifted her reins and turned her horse. And as the creature moved
Lightning’s voice came low and almost pleading.
“You’ll surely come again, ma’am?” he begged her.
Blanche inclined her head.
“Surely,” she said.
Lightning watched her go. He watched her until she had passed
completely from view. Then he got down and unhooked his team.
CHAPTER XXVI
The Climax
Lightning had just reached the barn with his team. His horses stood
timidly regarding the thing that held the man aghast. Perhaps they were
mildly wondering at the extraordinary situation that held them up just
as they were about to pass into the barn for their midday feed.
But Lightning was no longer concerned for their needs. He was startled,
horrified, and he stared in helpless wonder at the litter of hay
sprawled at the entrance to the barn, and the prone figure lying
huddled upon it.
It was Molly--the seemingly dead body of Molly. Her eyes were half
closed. Her face was ashen, with that dreadful pallor that to Lightning
looked like death. There was an abrasure on her forehead, a slight
wound that disfigured her face and suggested the cause of the tragic
thing he had discovered.
In the first rush of his horror Lightning believed the girl to be dead.
And he stood and stared in a queer sort of daze. But it was only for a
moment. All of a sudden he dropped upon his knees beside her, unable
any longer to withstand the tide of incoherent pleading that broke from
him.
There was no response to his pleading, nor to the tender chafing of
her cold hands. And after a moment the man looked up and gazed about
him. The heat of the sun was furious. The air was without movement,
and alive with the hum of flies. There was not a creature to whom he
could appeal for help. In that moment an agony of doubt assailed him.
She was a girl. She was his young mistress. He was a rough uncultured
creature, without knowledge or refinement. She might be dead. It looked
like it. And then again, there might be something he could do to save
her. What must he do?
Of a sudden his mind made itself up. He stood up. Then, bending down,
he gathered the helpless girl into his arms and strode off towards the
house.
As Lightning moved on to the house he remembered Blanche’s urging. A
doctor--if there was one in Hartspool. Yes. That was it. Of course,
there was Doc Blanchard, the man he had years ago brought out to the
farm at the time of another disaster. Yes. He would get him. He would
get him right away. But first of all--first of all he must ascertain
the worst.
So he carried the unconscious girl into the house. He passed into the
living-room, where food was cooking just as Molly had left it. But
his purpose did not end there. He moved across to the door of Molly’s
bedroom and pushed it open. Just for an instant he hesitated. Never in
his life had he passed the threshold of that room, and the act of doing
so now filled him with a queer sensation of sacrilege. But he thrust
his feelings aside. It was no time for scruple. He carried his burden
in and laid it on the neat white bed-cover.
Having plunged once, the nature of the man reasserted itself. He
possessed no knowledge, but his sympathy was infinite. It was this that
served him now. He went back to the living-room and obtained a towel
and cold water. Then he went back to his charge. He propped the girl
up; he unfastened the clothing about her soft white neck with clumsy,
hesitating fingers. Then, with one arm supporting her, he bathed her
temples and forehead with the water, and talked to her unconscious
form like a half-demented mother crooning over her sick babe. It was
everything his distracted mind could suggest.
His reward was far beyond his expectations. It is almost doubtful
that he had any expectations at all. Nothing that he did or said was
calculated. He was beyond calculation. The first result of the water
was to wash away the ooze of blood upon the girl’s forehead, and it
became quickly evident that the wound was little beyond a scratch, and
a disfiguring bruise on the soft white flesh. Then, in less than five
minutes, he beheld a movement of those half-closed eyelids. It was
only a flicker, but it was sufficient. His dread lightened. He almost
smiled. And certainly his curious jargon as he talked changed its tone
to one of something like jocularity.
“Why, Molly, gal, that’s just great,” he muttered, as he plied the
cold water with renewed zest. “I guess cold water’s the greatest
proposition ever. ’Tain’t all folk figger that way. Now, Rye seems to
me to hev more snap to it. But I guess that must be jest a notion. I
wouldn’t guess Rye could bring life back to your pore body same as
this darn water’s doin’. Jest get it. You was dead a minit back, an’
now you surely ain’t. Ken you beat it? An’ water’s done it. Darn cold
water, that I’d hate to hand out to better’n a yeller dawg. Still,
ther’ it is. Now you get them dandy eyes right open. An’ set a bit o’
colour right into them cheeks. Why, I b’lieve you was handin’ out a
sigh, one o’ them things you mostly hand out when you’re grievin’. You
ain’t grievin’ gal? You ain’t grievin’ I bin dopin’ you wi’ water?” He
chuckled. “Say, that’s fine. Ther’s colour in them cheeks now, same
as I told you ’bout. Now them eyes. Jest open ’em. That’s it, sure,”
he went on delightedly, as the eyelids were slowly raised, and Molly
stared straight up into his face with just a dawning of intelligence.
“My, but we’ll hev you right in awhile. Then I’ll go get right after
that blamed Doc.”
He laid the girl’s head gently back on the pillow and stood up from
the bed. Somehow he wanted to get out of that room. He hated the
thought that he had sort of forced his way into it. Now that Molly was
coming round he felt shame at being there. Besides, he wanted to be off
for the doctor.
But he knew he dared not leave her yet. He must hear her speak first.
He must have her reassurance. He watched her for some moments, and
realised her rapid advance towards complete consciousness. Then, quite
suddenly, she struggled to sit up.
“Wha--what happened?” she demanded dazedly.
“You’re sick, an’ I’m goin’ right off fer Doc Blanchard. But first
you’re needin’ food an’ tea. Mebbe that’ll set you feelin’ good, an’ I
ken quit you fer awhiles.”
Without waiting for any reply, the old man passed out to the
cook-stove, and he felt happier in his familiar surroundings. He set
beans enough for a starving man on Molly’s plate. He buttered some
bread, and then he dipped out a mug of tea, which he duly sweetened.
After that he returned to the girl’s bedroom, careful to knock on the
door before entering.
The girl was sitting up. She was still looking ill. But her fainting
had passed, and she looked very little different from her usual self.
She protested at his offer of food, but accepted the tea eagerly.
Lightning set the rest on the chair beside her bed.
“You jest got to eat that, Molly, gal,” he said, with a bluffness that
was only a mask. “You surely hev. You’re sick. An’ you need food.
That’s so. Now, gal, you eat, jest to make me feel good. I’m going
right along to fix things.”
He took himself off before the girl could refuse him, and he knew his
going was a cowardly retreat. He passed down to the barn and saddled
his horse, and fed and looked to his team. Then he returned to the
house to snatch his own food. He would go in and see Molly before he
went. He remembered he had mentioned getting the doctor to her when she
was still dazed, and he hoped and feared for the foolishness of doing
so. He hated deceiving her, but he knew he must do so. If he told her
now he intended to get the doctor she would in all probability refuse
her sanction. Blanche had warned him of the necessity. So his mind was
irrevocably made up, and he approached her again with considerable
trepidation.
Molly’s food was untouched. The girl was sitting on the side of her bed
when Lightning entered the room. She had re-fixed her waist where the
old man’s fingers had loosened it. And when he appeared she looked up
and shook her head unsmilingly.
“I’m all right, Lightning,” she said quietly. “Guess it must have been
the sun. I don’t know. Anyway, don’t worry for me. You’ve been so good
to me. I--say, I’ll fix these things. I’ll----”
She passed a hand wearily across her forehead. It was a gesture of
mental rather than bodily weariness.
Lightning saw the gesture. He saw the weary spirit looking out of the
tired eyes, and his heart bled for her.
“Then I’ll get along, Molly, gal,” he said eagerly. “You won’t be
needin’ me in awhile. I’ll get along in to supper. Ther’ ain’t a thing
else you need, sure?”
“Not a thing.”
Lightning left her with a readiness that seemed unusual. But again it
was a retreat. He feared for his purpose. And his fear remained with
him until he was safely in the saddle and beyond the possibility of
recall.
* * * * *
The moment Lightning had withdrawn Molly started up and began to pace
the narrow limits of the room with nervous, uneven strides. Once she
paused before her little mirror. But it was only for a moment. She
turned away sharply, as though her reflection were repugnant to her,
and continued her agitated pacing.
At last, however, she halted before the plate of food which Lightning
had provided for her consumption, and the needs of the moment seemed to
force themselves upon her. She picked up the plate and her tea-mug, and
passed out into the living-room.
She set to work with a will. The energy she threw into clearing up the
midday meal seemed wholly unnecessary. It was almost as though she
dared not stop, or permit herself to think. When the work was completed
she looked about her to see that nothing had been undone. Then she
passed out of the house, her head enveloped in a linen sun-bonnet.
Lightning was harvesting the oat crop. There should be no more
weakness. She would go out to him and do the stooking it was her work
to do. But first she would do those chores that needed doing.
She hurried down to the corral and loaded her arms with new hay, and
returned to the barn. And as she passed in through the open doorway she
was greeted by the gentle whinny of the great team that should have
been out cutting oats.
Molly stood for a moment staring at the two great roan bodies.
Lightning had gone to his work more than an hour ago. Then why were
Jane and Blue Pete still here in the barn? Why----? She passed up
into the stalls and filled the mangers. Then she left the beasts, and
glanced down at the other stalls. Her pinto was there. But where was
Lightning’s saddle-horse? It was gone. So was his old saddle, and his
bridle.
The girl passed out of the barn and into the sunlight. She stood for a
few moments gazing about her. Then, on a sudden impulse, she went back
into the barn and looked again at the stalls, as though to reassure
herself. Then she sat herself on the edge of the iron corn-bin, gazing
at the huge bulk of the team.
She was thinking furiously. She was struggling with memory. Lightning
had taken his saddle-horse and ridden off somewhere. Where? She had
some sort of feeling he had been talking when she awoke to find him
beside her in her bedroom. She seemed to remember he had been talking
of going somewhere. What was it he had been talking about? Where was he
going? He was going to fetch someone. He was----
A cry broke from her. She started up from the corn-bin.
“Doc Blanchard!”
She remembered. Yes. That was it. He said he was going to get Doc
Blanchard. He was going to bring him to see her. Her! Doc Blanchard!
He--he---- She dared not see him! She would not see him! Oh, God! And
Lightning had gone to fetch him! What could she do? Where--where----?
Her pinto! Yes! That was it! Her mare! She snatched her saddle and
flung it on the little creature’s back.
CHAPTER XXVII
Blanche’s News
“I’ve got to get Jim right away.”
Blanche had just stepped on to the verandah, and the startled Larry
Manford leapt out of his chair. He had been dozing prior to his final
evening round of the bunk-houses, and had failed to observe her
approach.
Blanche had hurried up from the barn, where her horse had already been
stabled, and urgency was the keynote of her greeting. Larry recognised
the situation in a flash. But he gave no sign. He dragged his chair, so
deep and capacious, so inviting, farther back into the shade, shook up
the cushions, and stood smiling indicating it.
“You’ve had enough, Blanche,” he said solicitously. “Come and sit right
here and tell me about it. Jim’s away.”
But Blanche made no move to avail herself of his invitation. She
remained where she was, regarding the freckled face and flaming head of
the man she intended to marry. “Where is he? Dan’s?”
Larry nodded.
“Surely.”
“He didn’t say a word to me.”
“He didn’t know.”
“Tell me, Larry. You’re a most provoking creature.”
“Not while you’re standing, Blanche.” The man laughed to hide his
concern. “You’re all in. You’ve had a long day. You’re just tired to
death. Sit; and I’ll talk all you want.”
Blanche took the proffered chair and spread herself out in it, while
Larry propped himself against a verandah post the better to observe the
face he was never tired of gazing upon. He bit off the end of a cigar
and lit it.
“Shall _I_ talk first?” he inquired, with that smiling calm of which he
was a master under any provocation.
“Of course. I want Jim--in a hurry.”
Blanche understood the red-headed creature. His smile had no power to
deceive her. She knew there was something unusual lying behind his
bald inquiry. And more than likely there was something unpleasant.
She thankfully rested herself. She was hot and saddle-weary. She was
yearning to change out of the riding-suit she was wearing.
“We got an ‘express’ from Dan,” Larry began quietly. “The boy got in
right after you’d started for the Marton farm. There’s things doing
between his place and this valley. It looks like there’s some sort
of bunch chasing up the trail we pass our cattle over. There’s folk
getting around looking for things that don’t concern ’em.” He shrugged.
“We didn’t get the details. Only an ‘express’ asking Jim to go right
along over. The boy who brought it didn’t know more than Dan was
getting worried because folk were nosing around.”
He laughed, and his laugh was calculated to allay Blanche’s possible
alarm.
“It was one of his crazy neche brothers-in-law. Jim set out right
away,” he added.
“Did he go by the Gateway?”
Larry shook his head.
“Passed out south, over the cattle-trail. It’s out of the way, but he
reckoned it best so.”
Blanche looked out down the valley in the direction indicated. She was
thinking rapidly.
Larry, watching her, realised the seriousness of her preoccupation. He
interpreted the slight pucker of her brows unerringly. He knew she was
more, much more than saddle-weary, and wondered what news he had yet
to obtain from her. He felt that events were crowding rather rapidly
and something unpleasantly. He felt that something of that which he had
always foreseen was disturbing the peace which he had never failed to
regard as artificial. He had things of his own still to tell, and he
wondered if he were justified in imparting them. Finally he decided he
was. Blanche was no silly girl. She was keen, unusually quick, and full
of an immense courage.
“There’s a flutter in the dovecotes down there,” he laughed, with a
jerk of the head in the direction of the ranch buildings. “The boys are
worried to death. You know, Blanche, I’m not really bright, and I’ve no
sort of gift looking through stone walls and things. Still, I guess I
can see most all the way if there’s nothing in between. The thing that
beats me is the sort of wireless these crooks seem to know about, and
use. Will you tell me how it is the boys have got wise there’s someone
chasing up their hiding-hole?” He shook his head. “It beats me. That
‘express’ came straight up to this house. He only spoke to Jim and
me. And Jim rode straight back with him. He didn’t have a chance to
spread the gospel to a soul. But the boys know there’s trouble around,
and they’re restless, and worried to death, and talking ugly--some of
them. One guy figgered to me they were a bunch of rats in an elegant
proposition of a trap. One or two are guessing half the Police are
knocking at our doors. I had a bunch come to me at dinner-time. They
wanted to know the thing we were doing, and what we knew. They talked
getting out, and I surely told them they could beat it just as fast as
hell would let ’em if they fancied it. We weren’t holding them, and
only handed them shelter. We sent two of them off south, across the
border. And when the others saw them go they weakened right away, and
remained. I showed them, in passing those boys out, we were holding
dead to our contract. But I’ll surely be glad to have Jim along back,
and get his story.”
As the man talked, the knitting of Blanche’s brow smoothed out, and the
old familiar smile returned to her eyes. It deepened and culminated in
a low laugh. But the laugh passed at once, and Larry saw the shadow of
trouble lying behind it.
“Then Jim won’t get back till to-morrow,” she said. “He can’t make the
double journey in the day. What is it by the cattle-trail? Sixty miles?”
Larry shook his head, and replied without removing the cigar from his
mouth.
“Fifty, I guess. Maybe if he reckons there’s need, and he rode in the
night, he could make back about breakfast to-morrow. Beelzebub would do
it without a worry. But I don’t figger he’ll be along till to-morrow
evening.”
“Which way will he come? The cattle-trail again?”
“No. He expressly told me he’d come by the Gateway. He reckons no one
could locate us that way. He guesses there isn’t a police boy, or
anyone else, who could read the riddle of Three-Way Creek, or a soul
but those who know it who would attempt the tunnel of the gorge. And I
guess he’s right.”
Blanche sighed.
“I’m glad. The cattle-trail’s our weakness,” she said. Then she started
up in her chair, and her eyes warned her lover that he was about to
hear her worst news.
She gazed at him for some moments. His calm amused the girl. But it
irritated her as well.
“You’re the most outrageous creature, Larry,” she cried at last. “Do
you know the way I feel? Why, you set me crazy to get you by your two
big, foolish shoulders and shake you up into a hurry. I’m going to tell
you the reason I want Jim. And it’s a reason that ought to set you
worried to death. But it won’t. I’m going to tell you that that boy
Andrew McFardell Jim encountered awhile back is Molly Marton’s beau.
Does that fix you? No. I’m going to tell you that ever since he located
Jim, and recognised him, he’s lit right out from his homestead--sold
it up--and taken to the trail. Well? Does that set you in a hurry? No.
It doesn’t. Do you know what the sense of that is? It’s easy to me,
anyway. Andy McFardell hasn’t shown up in three months, and now Dan’s
worried someone’s trailing the hills around his place. Someone’s hit on
the connection between Dan’s place and Jim. And I only need one guess
who that is.”
Outwardly Larry’s display was of frank admiration. Of anxiety there was
never a sign.
“I’d never have thought that way, Blanche,” he said, with an
appreciative smile. “Sure. That’s Dan’s trouble right enough. And, come
to think of it, I guess Jim must have thought that way, too. I remember
when that boy told us Dan’s worry, and said there were ‘folks’ getting
around, Jim shook his head. He said, ‘No, only one.’ But I don’t see
you need Jim in such a hurry.”
Blanche stood up. She smiled into his face, and laid her hands upon his
shoulders.
“I do, Larry,” she said. “And I’m going to ride out to-morrow morning
to meet him. You wouldn’t see it my way. Jim’s not your brother.”
In a moment the man’s cigar was flung from his mouth, and his arms
caught up the slim figure.
“Sure he’s not,” he cried, holding her close to him. “But you’re Jim’s
sister.”
And somehow the argument seemed to satisfy them both.
CHAPTER XXVIII
By the Wayside
The horses moved along together in friendly rivalry. Pedro gave way
not an inch to his black friend. He displayed no sign of the fatigue
of the double journey of the day before. There was no leanness about
his flanks. There was no droop of his crested neck. The spirit of the
thoroughbred was abounding. The powerful body was tireless.
Blanche had carried out her purpose. Early morning had found her on the
trail again with her untiring horse. Her anxiety for her brother was
something approaching weakness. There could be no peace of mind for her
until she was assured of his safety, and he had learned all she had to
tell him. So she had set out soon after sunrise, taking the trail of
the Three-Way Creek in the hope of intercepting him on his way home.
She had discovered Jim at the water-hole on the creek that flowed
through the heart of Dan Quinlan’s valley, where Molly had first met
him. Her relief was intense. It was as though a great weight had been
lifted from her shoulders. And as they rode on together down the valley
on their way home she heard the story of Dan’s trouble, and eased her
own anxiety by imparting to Jim the whole of the story which Lightning
had told her.
Jim’s comment at the conclusion of her story was characteristic. The
threat to himself, and to his enterprise in the Valley of Hope, did not
seem to concern him at all. He brushed it aside as unworthy of serious
consideration. But the story of McFardell’s treatment of Molly, and of
her apparent ill-health and grief, stirred him profoundly.
“You know, Sis, folks like us don’t have to worry for the thing the
other feller’s doing,” he said, with a seriousness which hinted at the
depth of feeling she had stirred. “It means nothing against you, and
nothing against Larry. And as for the boys we’ve passed shelter to, we
can get them all clear away before the worst McFardell can do could
begin to hand us a nightmare. What’s left? There’s only the tug between
me and him, and the thought of that makes me glad.”
Jim’s eyes searched ahead, where the forest broke, giving way to the
grass flat which he remembered to have been the grazing-ground of
Molly’s truant cows. And Blanche watched the cold, hard light take
possession of them.
“No,” he went on. “It’s not our show that worries me a thing. It’s that
little girl, with her eyes as innocent as a child’s. It’s the thing
you tell me of her. It’s the thing that cur has done to her. Don’t you
see, Sis? She’s her father’s daughter, the man who helped me when all
help seemed impossible. But that’s not all. I want that little girl for
myself. And I--I feel like making a break for her place right now.”
“What could you do, Jim?” Blanche asked anxiously.
She was troubled at the mood which she recognised lying behind the
man’s manner. Jim shook his head.
“That’s the trouble,” he said almost moodily. “What could I do that
would help her? You see, she loves that skunk. It seems queer, Sis.
There’s just nothing I wouldn’t do to help her, and I’m helpless as a
babe. Half the time it’s that way with things. The real opportunity to
help is the rarest thing in our lives. Out of some sort of generous,
fool impulse we jump in and act, and it’s only once in a century the
thing a feller does that way is real help. Look at this, now. There’s
that poor, lone girl. She’s grieving and sick. Money? It’s no sort of
use to her. It’s unthinkable. She’s not looking for that help. Can I
pass her back her man? Not a thing. And she’s sick in body and mind. Is
there anything I could do, or say, that would heal those? It sets me
crazy to think the way I’m fixed. Her father’s always in my mind. So
are that kid’s pretty eyes, and her figure, that’s so like yours. Say,
she’s a babe--a babe of these hills; and I can’t pass her the hand of
comfort I’m yearning to.”
Blanche was closely observing, and she read the depths of emotion that
were driving him so hard. His grief was all unconcealed. The sorrowful
regret in his tone and words hurt her.
“But do you make it that he really has deserted her?” she asked,
seeking the best she could find in the darkness of it all. “You don’t
think he’s taken to the trail for the while, looking for you? It
occurred to me it might be so. And when he was through he’d get back
to her. For obvious reasons I couldn’t say that to either Molly or
Lightning.”
Jim shook his head again.
“If you think that way, Sis, you don’t know men,” he said quietly. “But
you don’t think that. I guess you think the way I’m thinking. You’re
trying to find hope for that little kid, and there isn’t a cent’s worth
that way. A boy can hate another good. He can yearn to avenge an injury
all the time. But, even so, the girl that boy loves is first turn,
surely. Certainly it would be in this case. Where’s the reason in not
telling her the thing he’s doing? If he’s to spend months chasing me
up, why not tell Molly, and save her grieving? Why quit his farm? Why
sell it up? Why a mystery? He’s quit her. He’s quit her cold, Sis.
He was crazy for her; she was crazy for him. Yet he quits her cold,
without a quarrel, right after that dance. That boy needs gun-play.”
They rode on in silence. They had crossed the blue grass flat. They
had re-entered the woods. And now their way carried them into the mouth
of the gorge of Three-Way Creek.
It was Blanche who finally broke the silence. It was as if her words
were literally wrung from her.
“Oh, Jim, it’s just terrible,” she cried, in a storm of distress she
could no longer hide. “I’ve been thinking, thinking. I can’t help it.
Maybe it’s awful of me. But--but I believe--I know.”
The man glanced round sharply. There was a fierce, hot light in his
usually smiling eyes. For an instant Blanche felt herself compelled as
her horrified gaze met his. She felt he was reading through and through
her, seeking the hideous thought that prompted her distress. Then he
turned away, and his only response was a deliberate inclination of his
head.
* * * * *
They had ridden miles up the gorge of Three-Way Creek. And then--and
then, as they came in sight of the smiling waters of the lagoon-like
pool which formed the headwaters of the creek, the whole of the tragedy
was revealed.
Molly’s pinto mare, Rachel, was grazing peacefully on such rank grass
as grew amidst the confusion of rocks. The little creature was saddled
and bridled. But the saddle was empty, and the mare was free to stray
as her mood inclined her.
It was Blanche who first beheld her and cried out. She flung out a
pointing hand.
“Jim!” she cried. “Look! Molly’s mare! There! Ahead by the water. What
is she----”
But her words were lost as her horse leapt forward. And Jim followed
hard on her heels.
As she came to the edge of the lagoon Blanche flung herself out of
the saddle. She had moved on searching amongst the boulders. There was
no doubt in her mind, none whatever. Molly’s mare saddled and bridled
as she was, had not strayed into the gorge. She had been ridden there.
Molly must be there, too.
Jim was left to round up the mare.
Blanche’s discovery came quickly. There it was, huddled and still,
lying under the lea of an up-standing rock, perilously adjacent to
where the rippling surface of the lagoon lapped against the stone. She
dropped upon her knees. She set her arms about the poor limp body, and
raised it so that she could gaze into the ashen face of the girl she
had come to love so deeply. It was Molly. It was Molly looking like
death, and wholly unconscious.
What had happened? Why was Molly here at these headwaters, so far from
her home? Had her pinto fallen with her? And what had she been doing
here at the water’s edge?
Blanche glanced up at the sound of Jim’s approach over the stones.
“I’m not sure she isn’t--dead,” she said, in hushed tones.
“Not--dead!”
There was that in the man’s voice Blanche had never heard before. In a
moment he was kneeling beside her, studying the death-like face. The
eyes were half closed, and looked fixed and utterly lifeless. The lips
were without colour. The gently swelling bosom was still--so ominously
still.
“There’s a bruise, but no cut,” he said, indicating her forehead, and
shaking his white head. “That wouldn’t have killed her. No.”
He picked up one of the girl’s limp arms. He raised it. Then he laid it
down again with infinite gentleness. Again he shook his head.
“She’s not dead,” he said emphatically.
“No.”
Blanche’s reply came mechanically. She was struggling with the fear
that possessed her. Then her courage seemed to return. She drew a deep
breath, and relinquished the girl to the man’s support while she sat
back on her heels.
“She’s badly crashed, anyway,” she said. “She’s been thrown or fallen
from her pony. But--why here? Why at the edge of the water? What was
she doing here, anyway? My!”
She watched Jim’s movements. He was gently stroking the broad white
forehead, removing the loose hair which had fallen over it. He laid
his finger-tips upon the girl’s temples. Then, very carefully, he
endeavoured to raise an eyelid. After that he laid her gently back on
the ground.
The next moment he was on his feet, and Blanche too, stood up. He
stared about him at the dark scene which the sun was endeavouring to
lighten. And for awhile he remained lost in thought.
He was gazing up at the western hillside, where the mouth of a great
cavern yawned, and out of which a shallow stream cascaded down over a
tatter of rocks to the lagoon below. It was the same on three sides.
Towering hills surrounded a narrow amphitheatre, that was darkly
forbidding by reason of the immensity of height that crowded it, and
the pine woods which edged the lagoon. The waters reflected the gloomy
scene, and the sun, slanting its blaze of light, transformed the clear
depths into a mirror of dancing light.
The place appeared to be a sort of dead end. To any who knew nothing
of the tunnel exit it literally was a dead end. There was no apparent
outlet other than that which the flowing waters had made for themselves
down the gorge. For the rest, a barrier stood up, shutting it off from
the mountain heart beyond.
There were three streams, which, pouring down the hillsides, fed the
lagoon, and subsequently the creek. There was one to the north, one
coming down the southern hillside, and that which tumbled headlong out
of the mouth of the cavern set so far up on the face of the western
hills.
The whole place seemed to be a barrier designed by Nature in her most
secret mood--a barrier which was the whole salvation of those who lived
in the world of hills beyond it. But the passage was there. It was
there through the yawning mouth of the cavern. And it was approached
by a long inclined path set on a narrow ledge, which rose diagonally
from the foot of the southern hill and made its devious way across its
precipitous face.
At last Jim turned from his contemplation of the splashing water
pouring from the cavern mouth. He glanced across at the three horses
tethered at the edge of the surrounding forest. Blanche urged him.
“We need to act quick,” she said, her troubled eyes gazing down at the
object of their pity. Then: “What--what are we to do?”
“Do? Do?”
A great light was shining in the man’s eyes. It was a smile of hope
such as Blanche had never known in him. It was as though the tragedy
they had discovered had furnished him with something he had never
looked for, as though a great overwhelming desire of his had been
suddenly fulfilled.
“She’s going right up the valley. That poor little kid isn’t dead.
She’s just sick to death. Do? Why, she needs all the help we can hand
her. It’s my chance. It’s the thing I’ve dreamed. I’m going to pay her
father through her. And I’m going to pay with both hands.”
* * * * *
Jim Pryse’s purpose was carried out without regard to any
consequences. His impulse was irresistible. Blanche had protested
half-heartedly, but her protests had been swept aside. She had warned
him of the danger to himself and to others in the thing he was about to
do. And he had laughed. She had reminded him of Lightning, and Molly’s
own home. And again he had only laughed. Then he had displayed that
forethought for which Blanche had given him no credit.
His plan was simple, as his plans always were. He had thought out the
whole thing at the express speed which was ever his way. His purpose
alone mattered. All objections that might fairly be raised against
it were only things to be ignored, and, in a few moments, the whole
thing had been agreed between them. In the end Blanche gladly enough
undertook her share in the work.
It was arranged that they should change horses, for two perfectly sound
reasons. In the first place, Beelzebub was the fresher of the two, and
he was high strung and nervous, and would be difficult when asked to
carry that which looked so like a dead human body. So it was decided
that Pedro, the infinitely more steady, should carry Molly and Jim up
to the valley.
The change of saddles effected, Blanche assisted in lifting Molly
across the front of Jim’s saddle. When Jim had mounted, and raised her
into his arms, and, supporting her, had set off up the queer ledge
path to the cavern mouth from which the sparkling waters cascaded,
Blanche watched him, confident but anxious. She watched the graceful,
docile sorrel plod its way up the familiar path. She saw it pause for a
moment at the entrance to the tunnel, while Jim shifted his burden to a
position of greater security. Then the beast stepped into the shallow
flood, and splashing its way up the stream, became swallowed up by the
darkness out of which the waters leapt.
With a sigh of relief she turned to Beelzebub and sprang into the
saddle, to carry out her part in the arrangements. There were some
twenty-odd miles of the gorge before she got back to Dan Quinlan’s
valley, and after that a few more miles to the Marton farm. Her day had
already been long, but she gave no thought to her own comfort. She was
determined to do her utmost for Molly and for her brother.
Molly’s pinto was willing enough to be led back to its home, so she
removed the little creature’s reins, hanging over the horn of her
saddle, and, linking her arm through them, set off downstream in quest
of Lightning and the farm.
CHAPTER XXIX
Lightning’s Despair
Lightning had never made the trip into Hartspool at such a speed. His
horse had understood the thing expected of it at the moment of setting
out. The savage Mexican spurs on the old man’s heels had told the
willing creature all and more than it wanted to know, and Lightning
had raced into the busy township. He had ignored every familiar
stopping-place. He wanted none of them. He rode straight on to Doc
Blanchard’s house.
The doctor was away--gone for a prolonged holiday to the east.
Lightning blasphemed, as was inevitable. But the hired man who informed
him could give not a glimmer of hope. The Doc, he assured him, wouldn’t
return in weeks, maybe months. It was a medical conference of very
great importance. And in the end the old man was forced to return home,
disappointed, hopeless, helpless.
His journey home was no less rapid. His outward journey had been
inspired by his desire to obtain help. His homeward journey was
inspired by his desire that Molly should lack no help that he could
render. And as a consequence Barney Lake never even obtained a glimpse
of his faithful customer.
But Lightning’s return home afforded him one of the worst moments of
his old life. Within half an hour of his arrival, at an hour when
supper should have been preparing, and everything should have been
snugged down for the night, he learned something of the extent of the
disaster that had befallen. Molly had disappeared. She had completely
vanished, and, apparently, with her had gone her pinto mare.
For a brief while the old man thought she had possibly ridden out for
some form of pastime, perhaps feeling that the evening air and a good
gallop would help to restore her after that which had happened at noon.
But a close scrutiny of the state of things generally quickly convinced
him that something desperate was wrong. The team had not been fed. The
cows were standing at the corral fence waiting to be admitted and fed.
And in the house there was not a sign of any preparation of supper. It
was this, to him, amazing state of things that stirred within him the
full sense of disaster.
He set to work feverishly to repair the neglect. He fed his team and
the rest of the horses; he saw to the cows and hayed them. He raced
through his round of chores, even to hauling water for the house. Then
he bestowed such food as his pockets would contain, saddled a fresh
horse, and set out, determined to ride till darkness defeated his
search.
It was long after darkness when he turned. And as he came to the farm
again he looked eagerly for a light shining in the window of the
living-room. There was none. The house was as empty as he had left it,
and the pinto’s stall at the barn was still waiting the return of its
occupant.
After a long, wakeful night Lightning set out again. This time he
prepared for all eventualities. He turned the horses out into the
fifty-acre pasture, which, in Molly’s dreams of the future, had been
ultimately intended to come under the plough. The cows, too, were
turned loose. Fortunately they were no longer in milk, and their need
could be easily satisfied with the grass feed, and the waters of the
creek. Then, with a mind at rest so far as the farm was concerned,
and with his guns slung about his lean body, he set out to scour the
countryside, determined to continue his search until the worst was
known.
His first search lay in the direction of McFardell’s homestead. It was
a natural instinct that prompted him. His crude mind indicated that
as being the most likely direction. But disappointment awaited him.
The place was still deserted. It was precisely as he had left it once
before, even to the broken doors which his heavy boots had destroyed.
From the homestead his course radiated over the surroundings of hill
and forest. He searched with every instinct alert, and with eyes that
never in his long years had been keener for such a task. But every hour
only added to his disappointment; every moment deepened his despair.
Noon came and passed. He ate and rested his horse. Then he continued as
he had planned. His next effort carried him back beyond the farm into
the valley of Dan Quinlan. He meant to ride till night, return to the
farm to sleep, and, with a fresh horse, set out again on the following
morning.
He had scoured the woods along the creek. He had sought every rising
ground that could afford him breadth of view. He had searched as never
in his life had he thought to search in that amazing wilderness. And
more than half the afternoon had spent itself when, utterly dispirited,
he turned and crossed the creek at the water-hole. There was nothing
left him but to retrace his steps and search the far side of the valley.
At last he reached the opening of the gorge of Three-Way Creek. His
old body was weary and his heart was sick. Yet he drew rein at the
edge of the water just above its junction with the bigger stream and
contemplated the wide-flung entrance to the western gap. It was not
that it interested him deeply. He had always known of its existence.
But never in all his years on the farm had he attempted to explore it.
Now, however, he wondered. Now he gazed at it with a new interest.
Yes, nothing must be left to chance. To-morrow----
He turned an ear alertly. Every nerve was on edge, and nothing escaped
him, sight nor sound. Now, though probably indistinguishable to
ordinary hearing, there came to him, clear, and beyond all question
of doubt, the plodding sound of hoofs. He waited well-nigh breathless
while he decided the direction in which the hoofs were travelling. And
a sigh escaped him. The hoofs were approaching--rapidly.
He lifted his reins and turned his horse heading for the gorge. He
urged the wary beast through the bare-trunk aisles of the twilit woods.
Just ahead of him there was a wide patch of sunlight, and he made for
it. And as he came to the edge of the clearing a rider, mounted on a
coal-black horse and leading a familiar pinto pony, broke from the wood
directly opposite him.
CHAPTER XXX
Lightning Passes the Barrier
Blanche knew better than to make any mystery of the situation when she
encountered Lightning. She knew it was a moment when frankness alone
was possible. For the old man laid bare his soul to her in the words of
his greeting.
“You got her mare,” he had cried, at sight of the pinto, in tones that
were unforgettable. “Wher’ is she? I want her, that pore, sick kid.”
Blanche replied without hesitation as she reined up her horse.
“That’s why I’m here, Lightning,” she said gently. “We’ve got her.
Found her lying all of a heap up this gorge. My friends have taken her
back to our camp, where there’s a doctor man.”
“She ain’t--dead?” Something like terror looked out of the man’s eyes,
and again Blanche realised his burning devotion.
“She’s bad, but I don’t think she’s dead,” she replied. “Will you come
with me?”
“You ain’t--lyin’?”
“Why should I lie?”
The man remained for a moment without speaking. He was striving to read
behind the eyes of the woman who had no desire to conceal the truth.
“We’ll go right now,” he said at last, and bestirred himself.
“This pony?” Blanche demurred. “Can we leave her at the farm?”
Lightning shook his head decidedly.
“She’ll need her,” he said. “We’ll take her along.” Then his manner
softened. “Maybe you’ll tell me things, ma’am,” he said. “You can tell
me as we go.”
It was then that Blanche became mistress of the situation. She was
determined that no chance word of hers should hurt her brother. And
she had no fear of this man, for all his manner and the ugly guns he
carried.
“No,” she said. “I’ve told you the simple truth. We found poor Molly
badly smashed. She’s gone where the right help can be found for her.
And I’ll take you to her at once, if you like. You must trust me.”
And Lightning agreed. Whatever suspicions Blanche’s refusal might have
inspired they remained unexpressed. For the time he seemed suddenly to
have frozen up.
Now they had ridden the miles of the gorge together, right up the
headwaters of the creek, only speaking just sufficient for the needs of
the journey.
At the foot of the inclined ledge, over which the ascent to the cavern
mouth had yet to be made, Blanche turned to the cattleman. Beelzebub,
with head haughtily raised, gazed disdainfully upon its more lowly
companions.
Blanche indicated the path, which, for all its indefiniteness at the
start, carried prompt conviction to the practical mind of Lightning.
He observed the marks of usage at once. The lank grass was obviously
hoof-trodden.
“Will the pinto trail behind on your rope?” she asked. “There isn’t
room for two ponies abreast. If it won’t travel that way we’d best
leave it right here. You can pick her up going back.”
Lightning shook his head. His eyes were unsmiling.
“Molly needs her,” he said shortly.
“Well, it’s up to you,” Blanche said with a shrug. “Look up there at
the mouth of that tunnel, where the water’s pouring down the rocks.
This path rises on a ledge, and makes its way to that cave. We’re going
to pass right inside it. It’s a tunnel; and the walls of rock meet
overhead for several hundred yards. After that they open out, and we
pass into the higher hill country. Do you feel good about it?”
“You said Molly’s at the end of our journey, ma’am,” Lightning said
quietly. “The things by the way don’t matter a curse.”
Blanche smiled as she listened. Her heart warmed towards this queer
creature with his ragged whisker, and his long guns with their many
barrels.
She inclined her head, and turned Beelzebub to the path.
“Then keep close on my trail,” she said, and lifted her reins.
The procession started. Beelzebub moved confidently. The creature
was familiar with every foot of the path, and seemed to rejoice in
the rapid dropping away of the gloomy lake-shore as he mounted the
sometimes almost precipitous incline. Lightning came hard behind him,
and beyond him trailed the pinto on the end of a rawhide rope.
There was not a moment of hesitation on the part of the horses new to
the ascent. Lightning was a master in the saddle, and his horse had
the added encouragement of the black quarters directly in front of his
nose. The pinto, behind, knew her stable companion, and was more than
content.
The path quickly became a rocky ledge about four feet wide, with the
wall of the hill sloping back from it. It mounted sharply and then
flattened; and, a few yards farther on, it rose sharply again.
Lightning seemed quite unconcerned with its vagaries. He seemed to
disregard its turnings and twistings, and its width at no time gave him
a moment of unease. He once or twice glanced below as the precipice
deepened, and the flash of sunlit waters caught his eye; but his chief
concern was the well-clad woman’s figure, ahead of him, and the thing
that had already passed between them.
Half-way up the mounting path Beelzebub dislodged a small rock, which
clattered as it rolled over the precipice and hurtled to the depths
below. The horse gave no heed to it, but its rider was startled.
Lightning saw her movement of sudden apprehension.
“Leave him his head, ma’am,” he warned. “He’s got elegant nerve.”
It was not his words so much as the sound of his voice that instantly
restored Blanche’s confidence. She eased her hand, and the horse
continued the ascent.
They had passed the sharp angle where the ledge cut on to the face of
the western hill, and mounted the last lift which terminated at the
tunnel entrance. The black pressed on eagerly towards the tumbling
waters, and Lightning was close behind. The clatter of hoofs became
lost in the turmoil of breaking water. A light spray was floating in
the air, moistening it, and tempering its heat to something pleasantly
cool and humid.
Far below them the lagoon, with its surrounding of forest, looked
strangely small and distant. And the creek itself, beyond that, looked
nothing bigger than a glistening silver thread. In his watchful fashion
Lightning had made an estimate of the height they had climbed. He knew
it could not be less than four hundred feet.
As the black came to the edge of the little watercourse Lightning
held up his horse. He realised the sharpness of the turn the creature
ahead of him had to make. He gave the beast room, and Beelzebub passed
swiftly into the water and into the tunnel.
The waiting man was about to follow on. He lifted his reins, but on
the instant checked his horse. He turned about in the saddle and sat
gazing far down the gorge. He sat there still and watchful until the
muffled tones of Blanche’s voice encouraging him came back to him from
the tunnel. Then he urged his horse, and followed her into the yawning
archway.
For awhile, as the darkness engulfed him, only the light from the
mouth of the cavern behind served Lightning with any idea of the nature
of the tunnel through which he was passing. At first he was aware
of dripping walls set nearly twenty feet apart. The roof, too, was
dripping, and his horse was wading a shallow stream whose depth was no
greater than sufficient to cover its fetlocks. But the sound of the
movements of the horse in front came back to him, and he was satisfied.
Wherever the woman led he was unafraid to follow. The pinto behind him
was less easy than its stable companion. It had no rider to encourage
it, and its equine terror was in full play. Once within the broad
cavern, however, Lightning drew it up alongside him, and persuaded it,
and soothed it, with voice and hand.
The light from behind died out, and black darkness completely engulfed
him. Only was there the splash of the water underfoot to afford any
sort of guidance. But this phase of the passage was little more than
momentary. Almost at once, it seemed, the pitchy darkness gave way to a
faint twilight that made progress possible. The light came from above,
and Lightning promptly discovered that the cavern had passed, and, in
its place, he was moving up the course of a stream flowing through a
deep cleft in the mountain. He gazed up, searching for a sight of the
sky above him, but there was none. The light percolated down through
the rift, but the rugged facets of rock hid its origin.
As he rode on the light steadily increased. The rift was widening. Now
Lightning could clearly see the outline of the horse and rider ahead
of him. And the walls were falling back, and the bed of the stream was
widening. Presently the woman and her horse passed out of view, and the
watchful man understood that the passage had taken a bend to the right.
He could clearly see the sharp, dark line of the wall directly ahead,
and on the opposite wall was an increase of light.
He came up to the bend. He passed it. And, in a moment, he beheld full
daylight. He drew a deep breath. It was an expression of that relief
which never fails the human on returning to the daylight which has been
denied.
* * * * *
The journey was nearing its end. For two hours or more Blanche and
Lightning had been riding the wilderness of forest, and hill, and
valley, since leaving the dark precincts of Nature’s secret postern.
It was a world whose might was nothing new with which to impress the
mind of Lightning. The hills were, perhaps, more sublime in their
magnificence; the forests were, perhaps, more deep and dark than those
amongst which his life was passed. The towering crests, spread with the
sweep of eternal glaciers, affected him no more than did the sparse
grass under his horse’s hoofs, and the beds of treacherous tundra which
had to be so carefully avoided. He was preoccupied to the exclusion of
everything in Nature. One thought, one purpose, alone actuated him.
Blindly he was permitting himself to be led to the only goal desired.
Somewhere in these hills Molly was lying sick, possibly to death, and
the woman beside him was conducting him to the haven with which her
friends had provided her.
They were moving up an incline which mounted to a saddle between two
lesser hills. There were great sweeps of forest on either hand, and
with a break between them of barren, rocky highway that was without
a vestige of vegetation. Away to the right, far across a valley, a
mountain reared its head, and plunged it deep into the heart of the
summer cloudbanks. To the left of them lay the upward sweep of forest,
which only terminated where the snow-line cut it off.
“We’ve come more’n fifteen miles since we quit the headwaters,”
Lighting said, in his ungracious fashion. “How much farther?”
Blanche turned at the sound of his voice. She smiled as she took in the
hawk-like profile of the man. She realised his intensity of feeling.
She warned herself of the trust he had placed in her. And she forgot
completely his ungraciousness, and remembered only that phrase with
which he greeted her: “I want that pore sick kid.”
“You’ll see the camp from the ‘saddle,’” she said quietly, raising an
arm and pointing ahead. “It’s right below the Gateway.”
“The Gateway?”
The old man was staring round at her.
Blanche nodded. Her smile had deepened, but it elicited not a shadow of
any responsive smile.
“Yes. The Gateway of Hope,” she said. “It’s a wide-open Gateway, that’s
never closed to those in trouble--simple human trouble. And beyond it
is shelter, and help, and--peace. Molly’s in trouble, and--she’s passed
in through that Gateway.”
Lightning leant and spat beyond his horse’s shoulder. Then he raised a
hand and scratched the unbrushed hair under the wide brim of his hat.
He stared incredulously into the woman’s eyes.
“Say, ma’am,” he suddenly exploded, “you ain’t crazy?”
* * * * *
They had halted at the highest point of the saddle. Blanche had
permitted the cattleman to reach the summit first. It was he who had
made the halt. And he sat there in his saddle, gazing down on the thing
that had seemed to him so unbelievable.
There was the Gateway--two sheer, barren cliffs rising out of the
forest which grew about their feet. They were wide, so wide, and
towered to a height that was amazing. They formed a clean-cut gateway,
as though set up by some giant hand, for the silver streak of a placid
river that flowed in between them. Behind them and about them lay
a wilderness of wooded hills. They had none of the darkness of the
greater forests they had hitherto encountered. They were softly green
and gracious in their many hues.
But Lightning ignored these things. His concern was for that which
lay beyond the Gateway. It was the splendour of the valley which
had captured Jim Pryse during his long imprisonment in it, and the
handiwork that had since been achieved.
It was a wonderful picture in the light of the setting sun. And it
stirred the old man’s pulses with something of the hope of which
Blanche had spoken. The woman was not crazy. No. Molly was down there,
somewhere there in the shelter of that ranch-house, with its wonderful
pastures, and corrals, and barns, and----
Lightning turned from it all. He sought the woman’s face and realised
her smile. Then he turned an ear to windward.
“Are you satisfied I wasn’t fooling you, Lightning?” Blanche spoke
almost joyously. “Molly’s down there in my house by now, and maybe the
doctor’s already fixed her.”
“It’s your house, ma’am?” Lightning said, with an ear still turned.
“Mine and my brother’s. Shall we get on down? We’ve more than two miles
to go.”
“Sure, we’ll get right on down. Say----”
The old man broke off as the horses began the descent. As he made no
attempt to add anything further, Blanche spoke, and there was something
thrilling in her tone.
“He built all that,” she said. “He built it for a notion. A queer sort
of crazy notion. And I sort of feel his dream’s coming true. You’re a
cattleman, Lightning. There are cattle down there that’ll make you
feel good. There’s the sort of grass you dream about, and the life you
know. You’re the first from the outside that’s ever seen it.”
“You’re sure that’s so, ma’am?”
Blanche searched the eyes that were looking into hers.
“There’s only Molly else,” she said. “And maybe she’s not seen it yet,”
she added significantly.
“You got folk outside them gates?” Lightning asked, pointing at the
headlands.
“Not a soul.”
Lightning suddenly drew rein, and turned about in his saddle. He gazed
back over the way they had come.
“Then I guess ther’s a stranger chasin’ up,” he said sharply. “We’re
follered, ma’am.”
CHAPTER XXXI
Lightning Becomes a Friend
“Lightning thinks we’ve been followed, Jim.”
Jim Pryse surveyed the lean figure that suggested nothing so much as a
bare frame strung with whipcord. He knew Lightning well enough from his
sister’s account of him, and from the talk of Molly on their memorable
ride together. But this was the first time he had set eyes upon him.
And from his head to his heels the old cattleman became an object of
the keenest interest.
Lightning gave no sign. And somehow the whole poise of the man
suggested to Jim something of his boyhood’s ideas of the calm of the
Red Indian. There was even more than that in the likeness--the man’s
face and high cheekbones, the aquilinity of his nose, and the thinness
of his capacious mouth. Only were his eyes, and the foolish tatter of
his chin-whisker, anachronisms.
They were standing on the verandah, and Lightning was studying the
white-haired man with no less an interest. The two men were taking each
other’s measure.
“We were.”
Lightning corrected the doubt in Blanche’s statement with cold
assurance. Then he went on, quite undeflected from his purpose.
“I come fer Molly,” he said. “I got her pony to take her back.”
There was a negative movement of Jim’s head. He turned to Blanche.
“You’d best get right into the house, Sis,” he said. “Doc Lennox is
with her now. Poor little kid. She woke right up as we rode up to this
verandah, and I guess I was never so crazy at the sight of a pair of
wide-open eyes in my life. Right up to then I was scared she was dead,
for all I couldn’t believe it. But she wasn’t. No. And she’s going to
get right. But you get right in and hand Doc the help he needs. There’s
something else worrying, and--I need to make a big talk here with
Lightning.”
Blanche was glad enough to hurry away to Molly. And Jim waited until
she had passed in through the open French window. Then he smiled as he
indicated a chair to the man he had determined to make his friend.
“Will you sit, Lightning?” he said. “You and I are no use to her in
there. Doc Lennox is a real, smart doctor man. And my sister’s crazy
for that little girl of yours. You and I can do better talking.”
There was a moment of hesitation, while Lightning seemed in the throes
of making up his mind. Then, quite suddenly, his coldness seemed to
melt, and he nodded.
“I don’t get things, an’ I want to know,” he said, as he sat himself in
the lounging chair.
“And I want to tell you,” Jim replied simply.
Jim took another chair, which he drew up and set facing the cattleman.
He was sitting with his back to the valley, which the verandah
overlooked. Lightning had a full view of everything--the ranch, with
its many buildings, and the range of the whole valley, with its
surroundings of forest and mountain. Jim offered a cigar, but Lightning
shook his head.
“Guess I’ll chew,” he said, and the other kicked a cuspidore towards
him.
Lightning fumbled a piece of chewing plug from his hip pocket. He bit
deeply into it, and Jim watched him. He knew he had a difficult talk
before him, and meant to make no mistake.
“It’s queer, Lightning, how we can be rubbing shoulders with folk and
not know about it,” he began. “That’s how it is between you and me
and Molly. I’ve been in this valley a longish spell. I’ve been around
outside quite a lot. But it wasn’t till more than three months back I
knew of Marton’s farm, and of you and Molly. And yet ever since I’ve
been around here I’ve had in mind a great big hope that some day I’d
locate a boy called George Marton, who had a daughter, and pay them
both good for the help they once gave me. It was the sort of help a man
can never forget. It was something that could never be paid for right.
George Marton saved my life. He saved me when few would have wanted to
save me. It wasn’t only my life he saved. It was something more than
that. Sure enough, if it hadn’t been for him my body would have been
poor sort of feed for timber wolves. But he saved me when he hadn’t a
_right_ to save me. And it was Molly’s hands that provided the food
that kept my body going.”
Lightning stirred in a chair that left him feeling a queer sense of
mental discomfort. He tried to lounge back in it, but sat up again at
once. He ignored the cuspidore, and spat beyond the verandah.
“I ain’t pryin’ secrets,” he said, in his harsh way. “I’m jest lookin’
to get Molly back to home. This talk ain’t----”
Jim nodded.
“It’s all to do with her being here,” he said quickly. “We--Sis and
I--knew where she came from when we found her down at the water’s edge
on Three-Way Creek. There wasn’t a thing to stop us riding back with
her the moment we located her. But we didn’t do that, because----” He
spread out his hands. “I meant to bring her right along up here, and
do my best to help her some way. You see, Lightning, it was the chance
I’d been yearning for. She was sick. She was badly hurt. Then there was
that cur McFardell, who’d set her crazy for him, and--quit her cold.”
The old man’s jaws worked violently at the mention of McFardell’s name.
His eyes snapped. Jim interpreted the signs he beheld unerringly. He
inclined his white head.
“Sure, we’ll come back to him in awhile, Lightning,” he said. “Now I
just want you to listen. I’m going to hand you a story. I’m going to
put myself right into your hands. But it doesn’t worry me a thing.
You’ve just one idea in life, and so have I. It’s Molly. We’re both
looking to do the same thing from different ends. Well, we’ve got to
get on common ground. To do that I want you to know me, and all about
me. When you know that I’ll be good and satisfied, if you feel that way
and Molly’s yearning to go, for you to take her right back to her farm.
Will you hear the story first, boy?”
In a moment the hardness passed out of Lightning’s eyes, giving place
to a smile like a sunbeam breaking through the grey cloud of winter. He
gripped the arms of his chair.
“A friend to Molly, gal, is sure a friend to me, mister,” he said.
“Mebbe that story’s your own, and I’ll sure take it as told. That pore
gal’s eyes is full of sadness, an’ her innercent heart’s clear froze
over. I’m grievin’ fer her, an’ that’s all. An’ if you’re out to pass
her help I can’t never hope to, why, I’m all in it with you.”
But Jim shook his head.
“That’s not my way,” he said. “Sit right back and let me talk.”
Jim told his story with care for the detail of it. He began it at the
point where he had once saved his brother from the consequences of
shooting his wife’s lover. He told of his frustration of the Police;
of his ultimate trial and sentence. Then he passed on to his journey
down to the Calford penitentiary, with Corporal Andrew McFardell as his
escort. He smiled over the incident of his escape in the snowstorm.
Then came to the story of his battle for life, and his arrival at
Marton’s farm. He told of his appeal to the farmer, and its amazing
result. And it was at this point that the old cattleman nodded and
interrupted him.
“I get it now,” he cried. “That feller set you in the workshop. You
slep a night ther’. An’ you beat it at daylight. He warned me to keep
clear o’ that shack that night, and didn’t hand the story of it. Then
he asked Molly fer food come morning, and that day we was a saddle-hoss
short. It was you that was ther’ that night. An’ it was you he passed
on next morning. Gee! He was a swell feller.”
“He was more than that,” Jim replied, and drew a deep breath.
Then he continued rapidly. He told of his wanderings in the hills till
he found Dan Quinlan’s place. And the story of Dan Quinlan, and of his
ultimate shelter in the Valley of Hope, held the cattleman’s deepest
interest. Dan Quinlan! The man he had despised! The man he had believed
to be a cattle thief, and anything else that was sufficiently unworthy!
Then he came to the story of the valley as it was at present.
“You see, Lightning,” he went on, “Dan’s got his share in this
enterprise. I’ve given him a share, and a good one. He’s got, or is
getting, a swell home, and all he needs for himself and the bunch
that he’s father, mother, and brother to. It’s something of a return
to him, but nothing like enough for what he did for me. I built this
place up for one big notion. I’m a rich man, with more dollars than I
need, but I tripped up badly. There’s not a moment of my foolish life
but I’m liable to go down to do five years in penitentiary. Well, I
figure there’s many folk fixed that way--folk who’re not a deal more
to blame than me. This is a shelter for such folk. They can come here,
and work, and hide, just as long as they fancy. But they can only come
on our terms, and live by our rules. And we aren’t a harbour for real
criminals. They need to be folk who’ve tripped up. That’s all. There it
is, boy. It’s maybe a crazy notion. But it’s a sort of thanksgiving,
and I got it right in my bones. And now my chance has come to pay
something of the debt I owe Molly and her father. And you’ve come right
along here to tell me you’re going to let me pay it and help me. Isn’t
that so? Yes. I guess it is.”
Lightning’s answer was there in the thrust of a hand that reached out
towards the man opposite him. Jim gripped it, and wrung it, and as
their hands fell apart the last of his smile vanished.
“We’ll get right back now to McFardell,” he said, and his face hardened.
“You ain’t through with him,” Lightning interjected.
“No. I don’t want to be either.”
Lightning turned his gaze upon the valley below him, where the passing
of the evening sun had softened the far outline of the forest-belts.
The life of the place was settling for the night, and the lowing of
cattle came up to him, and reminded him of long past days.
“We were bein’ trailed on our way here,” he said significantly.
Jim shrugged.
“McFardell’s been trailing us weeks,” he said quietly. “He and I met
down near Molly’s farm, and he’s been trailing me ever since. It’s not
that worries me. If it did, I’d only need to have the folk beat up
this territory till we’d run him to earth. And he wouldn’t get a dog’s
chance to do the thing he reckons to do. It’s not that. It’s Molly I’m
thinking of.”
Lightning stirred uneasily in his chair. He watched the setting of
Jim’s jaws. He observed the abrupt change in the eyes he had seen so
full of kindliness. So he waited.
But Jim seemed in no hurry to continue. He was measuring the queer
creature that bore so deep a hallmark of the uncouth manhood that had
served him in his sixty years of hard life. He was wondering. With an
almost crazy disregard for consequences he had put into Lightning’s
hands power to undo for him all the labours of the past years. The
reason he had done it was the better to be able to help Molly, whom he
knew now needed all the help he could give her. He needed this man’s
complete trust and he believed he could inspire it. Now, dared he tell
him the rest? Dared he?
Yes. Molly must remain where she was. It was absolutely imperative.
Therefore there was only one course open to him--the truth, the simple
truth.
“No,” he said at last, “I don’t want to be through with that feller
yet. The longer he hangs around spying these hills the better.”
“Why?”
The word was jerked at him.
“We’ll know where he is,” Jim went on. “We’ll be the better able to get
our hands on him.”
“Why?”
Again came that swift interrogation.
“Why?” Jim glanced out over the evening scene below them. Then his eyes
came back with a steady look into the cattleman’s lean face. “Because,
if the thing Doc Lennox guesses is right, we’ll need him. I’d say we’ll
know when my sister gets back to us.”
“What d’you mean?”
Lightning was leaning forward crouching in his chair, his hands
gripping its arms as though he were about to spring. His eyes were
shining with the cold fury of a tiger. His jaws were still, the worn
remains of his teeth gritting.
Jim realised the storm lying behind his question.
“Why, there’s swine of men in the world, Lightning,” he said, “who’re
always ready to take advantage of a woman’s weakness when she falls
for the love that’s just bursting her heart. And--and--he’s one of ’em.”
“God! I’ll kill him!”
Lightning’s words came with a shout. He had risen to his feet, and
stood for a moment unmoving. Then he came to the edge of the verandah,
and his eyes were on the hills, as though they were already searching
for his victim. Jim watched him. And as he watched the man turned
slowly.
“If--if he’s--”
“The Doc reckons someone has.”
Jim’s coldness matched the other’s. Lightning raised one clenched fist.
And the movement was an expression of irrevocable purpose.
“It’s him!” he cried. “I know it! Sure I know it! I knew it right after
that party night. An’ I’ve seen it in her pore face ever sence. Man,
that skunk’s goin’ to get it!”
CHAPTER XXXII
Lightning Borrows a Horse
Outwardly the life in the Valley of Hope had undergone no change.
The atmosphere of peace and well-being remained. There was not even
a ripple to be detected on the surface of things. Yet a change had
developed--a definite, significant change, which left a feeling of
unease, a question in the minds of those responsible for the enterprise.
Daylight had found Jim Pryse and Larry Manford abroad. And their work
lay in the pacification of the fears which assailed those for whose
safety they held themselves responsible. A shudder of real apprehension
had found its way through the heart of the valley. How it had done so
no one seemed able to tell. Yet it had dated from the moment of the
arrival of Dan Quinlan’s “express.” It had to be dealt with promptly,
and Jim Pryse had set about it in thorough fashion. It was this that
preoccupied him at daylight on the morning following Molly’s arrival at
the valley.
Meanwhile the tragedy of Molly’s life was being enacted under the roof
of the home on the hillside. And those who were witness to it were the
skilful, diminutive Doc Lennox, and the woman whose heart was racked
with grief for the wantonness of the girl’s calamity.
The day broke calm and still. The valley was alive with the goodliness
of the season. There was the morning song coming up from the river,
and the sounds of stirring, eager life echoing through the corrals and
pastures. Great banks of summer mist enveloped the slopes of the upper
hills. Sunrise was at work upon them, and the flood of brilliant light
was fast rolling them upwards towards the cloud-line.
Jim and Larry paced over the dew-laden, sun-scorched grass on their way
to the house where they would eat the breakfast waiting for them.
Jim’s eyes were on the verandah ahead of them, for his concern for that
which had been passing within the walls of his home was infinitely
deeper than for any of his more personal anxieties.
“We’ve got to be rid of those boys before sundown,” he said, reverting
to the matter on which he was engaged. “You were right, Larry,” he
admitted. “There’s no real scare in them. And they’re using the scare
of the others for a play of their own. They’re a tough bunch, and they
mean mischief. I’m standing for no crook work here. Despard’s got them
tabbed. I figgered on three. But you reckon that new fish, Jack Pike,
is on the crook, too. Well, he’ll have to go with ’em.”
Larry laughed quietly.
“It’s good you’ve got it at last, Jim,” he said. “I’ll be tickled to
death to see the last of Dago Naudin and Slattery. That Soapy Kid’s
worse. And as for Pike--well, I guess the rest, with them clear across
the border, will be like handling a Sunday school. I’ve no sort of
illusions. They’ll be double blindfold when they go, and I’ll pass them
over myself.”
“Maybe I’m losing one or two of my own tame illusions,” Jim said, with
a laugh that failed to change the look of anxiety with which he was
regarding the two figures on the verandah ahead of them. “But I mean
to play the hand out to the last card. I promised those boys to clear
up their scare for them, and I must make good. There needs to be no
let-down.”
“You mean--McFardell?”
“I certainly do.”
Larry shook his head. His inclination to laugh had gone. He saw the
difficulties, which, to his mind, short of murder were insurmountable.
“How?”
His interrogation came with a sharpness that made Jim look round.
“There’s none of those boys who’ve relied on my word are going to find
trouble through McFardell,” he said deliberately.
“Which means, one way or another, an end of this show.”
Larry’s bluntness left the other unaffected.
“One way or another, maybe,” Jim agreed. “You see, boy, there’s that
poor little kid up there now, and it’s made a difference--a hell of a
difference--to the way I see things.”
“See here, Jim,” Larry replied sharply. “There’s two clear things I
see. McFardell’s got to be fixed so he can’t do the thing he wants, or
you’ve got to close right down here and get out. That’s the situation
as I see it. Lightning reckons he was followed here, which means
McFardell’s located the tunnel. He’s no doubt located the valley by
now. Well, what next?” He made an expressive gesture. “The game’s
up--right up. Unless, of course---- No, Jim, boy, the other’s not for
you, even for this kid, Molly Marton. You belong to us--Blanche and me.
There’s better than that waiting on you. McFardell deserves anything he
gets, but don’t let it come from you. Close down this outfit and make a
break for a new world. Blanche and I are right with you. We’ll stick by
you with the last ounce in us.”
The man’s freckled face was deadly serious, and his manner was urgent.
But, for all their apparent effect, his words might have remained
unuttered. Jim raised a hand, pointing at the verandah they were
approaching.
“The Doc’s waiting on us,” he said.
Further protest or appeal was useless. Larry knew too well the
headlong recklessness that governed this impulsive brother of the woman
he was to marry. He felt he had said all, and perhaps even more than he
should have said. He even felt that if he left well alone his protest
might actually bear some measure of fruit. At any rate he had made it,
and now he could only watch and wait, and, in so far as lay within his
power, do his best to protect this absurd creature from his own loyal
impulses.
As the two men approached the verandah both became absorbed in the
thing that was awaiting them. The dark-faced, quick-eyed Doc Lennox
was there. So was the overshadowing figure of Lightning. The latter
regarded them in the unseeing fashion of a mind oblivious to the things
he beheld.
“Well, Doc? Is it good news, or--bad?”
Jim stepped briskly on to the verandah, while Larry remained below. Jim
removed his broad-brimmed hat and flung it on the table. Then he ran
his fingers back through his white hair.
“It’s a question of point of view.” The doctor’s reply came without
encouragement.
“How?”
There was a curious blankness in Jim’s monosyllable.
The doctor’s quick eyes snapped as he looked up into the other’s face,
and all his professional attitude seemed to fall from him.
“If I’d a golden throne among the fool angels, who don’t know better
than to sit around doping over their harps,” he cried, without a shadow
of a smile, “I reckon I’d feel like weepin’ hot tears over news as bad
as human news can be. But, seeing they don’t keep my size in haloes
lying around up there, I’d say it’s--the best. That poor kid’s going
to pull round in no time at all,” he went on, with quiet confidence.
“She’s young, and she’s strong. She’s full of physical health. It’s
nursing she needs, and your good sister don’t need showing a thing
that way. But she’s had a bad shake-up. I mean mentally. I can’t
figure how bad it’s been. It sort of seems she came darn near ending
everything--whether by design or accident, God alone knows. But I
want to tell you the same as I’ve told him,” he went on, indicating
Lightning. “There’s some feller around who needs lynching.”
His final pronouncement encountered a profound silence. Then it was Jim
who spoke. And his words came haltingly.
“Then--it--was so?”
The eyes of the doctor flashed. His face flushed, and the whole of his
diminutive body seemed to bristle.
“Man!” he cried fiercely. “I’ve told you folk I’m no sort of darned
angel. I’ve lived too long in a profession where you see most of what’s
rotten in human nature to hug swell notions to myself. But if I’d a
shadow of right to protect that poor, innocent kid, I’d get right
out after some guy with a whole arsenal of shooting machinery, and I
wouldn’t quit his trail till I’d shot him to death, if it was the last
crazy act of a foolish life.”
* * * * *
Lightning had not moved from the verandah. He was sitting on the edge
of it. He had been sitting hunched there all the morning, and now it
was nearing noon.
He had been steadily gazing out upon this new world of busy life
without a shadow of the interest which Blanche had prophesied for him.
It almost seemed as if nothing could ever again interest him in his
surroundings. He saw the coming and going of the men, whom he knew
to be fugitives from the law, who did the daily work of the ranch.
He saw the droves of cattle being dealt with and handled, however
inadequately, without a single uncomplimentary mental reservation. He
was content to remain where he was, with the thoughts that were his.
The doctor had passed on down to the bunk-house, to employ himself
again in the new life he had adopted. He had given his verdict; he
had told of the reality of Molly’s calamity; he had exercised all his
undoubted professional skill on her behalf, and spread the glad news of
a coming quick bodily recovery. Lightning had no further interest in
him.
Jim’s cordiality was a thing that had left him cold. Jim had told him
that the whole valley, his house, everything that was his, was at his
entire disposal. Lightning had thanked him briefly and continued to
chew his tobacco in stony silence.
Larry, too. He had been no less solicitous of the old man’s welfare.
He had referred him to Despard for anything and everything for his
convenience and comfort. The old man had watched both men depart. But
he--he had remained precisely where they had left him, a sort of grim,
silent sentry, standing guard over the helpless girl who was the idol
of his half-savage heart.
But Lightning’s vigil meant more than that. Whatever the old man’s
shortcomings, whatever his failings, lack of decision and the energetic
prosecution of purpose were by no means amongst them. As he sat there
at the edge of the verandah, with a sub-tropical sun pouring down its
merciless rays upon his hard old head, never was his decision more
irrevocable, never was his energy more ardently concentrated.
He was waiting for one thing--for one thing only. Sooner or later he
felt certain that Blanche would appear. And it was she for whom he was
waiting.
The end of his waiting came with the approach of noon. The rustle of
a woman’s skirts somewhere within the French window behind him warned
him of Blanche’s coming. Instantly his whole attitude underwent a
transformation. He glanced swiftly down in the direction of the ranch
buildings. There was no sign of the return of the men-folk to the
house. So he straightened his body and stood up. And the face, with its
tatter of whisker, that turned to greet Blanche was smiling!
“I sure take it she’s feelin’ good, ma’am,” he nodded. “If it wa’an’t
that way I don’t guess you’d be gettin’ around to breathe the swell air
of midday.”
There was no responsive smile in Blanche. Her whole expression was
grave. There was sadness in the down-drooping of the mouth that was
accustomed to respond so readily to her smile.
“She’s going on well,” she said. Then, with a sigh: “Poor little Molly.”
That expression of pity came near to undoing all Lightning’s carefully
calculated pose. A furious desire to blaspheme, and hurl malediction
upon the author of the girl’s trouble, drove him hard. Perhaps Blanche
read something of that which was passing through his mind, for with the
passing of his smiling greeting she went on.
“You know, Lightning,” she said gently, “we mustn’t let ourselves
grieve too badly. She’s going to recover, and--and things might have
been worse.”
“Worse?”
The old man’s eyes rolled, and his tone was full of scorn.
“Yes. They might have been--much worse,” Blanche went on quickly. “She
might have died. She might have---- She’s going to get well. She’ll
be her old self again. Time will see to that. And maybe she’ll have
forgotten--him. Yes, I think that’s so. She’s a girl of character.
And--and I sort of feel she’ll never, never let him come near her ever
again.”
“No.”
Lightning’s monosyllable was significant. He glanced down at the
bunk-houses. Then his gaze came swiftly back to the woman’s face.
“I was waitin’ around fer you, ma’am,” he said simply. “The Doc said
his piece. He said it right here to us all. But it wasn’t the thing I
needed. It was your word I was waitin’ on. I had to get it from you
that Molly, gal, was goin’ on right. So I jest waited around. Now I
guess I’m ready to beat it back to home.”
Lightning’s manner was never so supremely simple, and Blanche was
wholly deceived.
“You’re going to quit here? You’re going home? You’re leaving Molly?”
The woman’s astonishment was not untouched by disapproval.
“Sure. Right away, ma’am,” he said. “I got to. An’ it’s fer Molly, gal.
Ther’s the cows, an’ the hosses, an’ then ther’s the harvest. It’s all
Molly’s, ma’am, an’ she’ll need it.”
Blanche’s disapproval was completely dispelled.
“I’d forgotten. Of course. You’ll surely have to get right back. And
when Molly’s feeling good and strong again I’ll bring her right home to
you.”
Lightning nodded.
“That’s how I’d figgered.”
His gaze drifted away in the direction of the barns. It was almost as
though he found it difficult to look the woman in the face.
“I need to get right away now,” he said with a shrug, “only I don’t
feel like settin’ saddle on my plug fer the trail of that canyon,
ma’am. He’s mean. He’s mean as hell, ma’am. It was diff’rent beating
it up here. He’d your black to foller, which was everything. I surely
don’t guess I’d get him to face that crick through the canyon in the
dark. Still, I got to get right back anyway. I’ll sure need to make a
break fer it.”
The old man’s regret and anxiety were perfection. It was quite
impossible for Blanche to resist it. Her smile broke forth at once.
“Why, you don’t need to worry that way,” she cried. “It certainly would
be a tough proposition facing the canyon with a scary horse. You go
saddle up my Pedro. He’s right there in the barn, and he knows that
path and that tunnel like a child knows its prayers. You can have him
and welcome, and you can treat him the same as if he was steam driven.
You go right on. And while you’re fixing things for Molly down there,
we’ll be fixing things for her here. And between us, with God’s help,
there’ll be little amiss with her when she gets right back to you and
at her home.”
* * * * *
As Lightning moved down towards the barn his manner had undergone a
complete transformation. He hurried with long, rapid strides. Somehow
his lean body looked straighter and taller. Energy and something like
youth seemed to bristle in every movement. Even his eyes had lost
their recent expression. They were alight now. They were alight with a
sparkle of almost unholy joy. He felt that at long last the great test
of his manhood was about to begin.
CHAPTER XXXIII
Night in the Valley
It was late in the evening. Jim Pryse and his sister were alone in the
apartment where Blanche loved to sit in company with her men-folk. The
stove was radiating a pleasant warmth, for the summer evenings, so high
up in the mountains, were chill with the breezes that came down off
the fields of snow. Blanche was still enveloped in the overall of her
domestic labours, and Jim was lounging in his favourite rocker, clad in
utility garments of his day’s work on the ranch.
A shaded lamp cast its mellow light over the room, and found reflection
in the polished walls of red pine. But its light was mainly focused
upon those sitting about the stove. Blanche’s busy hands were at work
upon her sewing. The door of the room stood ajar, and while she talked,
and listened to the deep voice of her brother, there was never a moment
when her attention could have missed any sound that came from beyond
it. She had left the sick girl asleep. She had left her in the full
conviction that her reassurance that noon to Lightning was more than
being fulfilled. Now her anxiety was allayed, and she was enjoying the
rest she was more than entitled to.
Larry had not yet returned from the work of deporting the four men who
had become something more than troublesome to the peace of the valley.
He might return that night. On the other hand, he might not return till
late next day. His movements were of no particular concern. He had his
own methods of dealing with an exodus from the valley. Despard was with
him, and one or two others, who were part of his official staff, and
the whole thing would be completed with that effectiveness which gave
no opportunity for any trickery.
Blanche glanced up from the tangle of silks in her lap. She surveyed
her brother, who was sitting with his head inclined forward till his
chin pressed deeply against his cotton shirt.
“I’m glad you gave Larry his head about those boys, Jim,” she said.
Then she smiled indulgently. “You know, Jim, I’m beginning to think
Larry’s pretty bright. He’s got a rare way of sizing men up. He laughs
and says things, but there’s always a deal lying back of what he says.
He was talking to Lightning after I brought him along last night.
I guess I got mad with him for it. I’d seen him looking at the old
man in that queer, half-smiling way of his, and wondered what he was
thinking. I got it all later.” She laughed softly. “He said--you know
his ridiculous way--‘Do you know what you’ve done, heart of my heart?
You’ve brought into our perfect haven of purity a tough that would
sooner murder than eat. Maybe your friend Lightning’s all you believe
him. I haven’t a doubt. But I’d like to tell you he’s a whole lot
more. I’m eternally grateful to the folk who figure out the luck of a
red-headed guy that I didn’t get across his trail that night you sent
me down to the farm as your express-man.’ I wasn’t going to stand for
that, and told him it was a pity he hadn’t.”
Jim’s gaze remained on the stove.
“He’s a type,” he said, without real interest.
“What d’you mean?”
The man bestirred himself.
“Oh, he’s a cattleman, bred and raised in the toughest school of a
trade that flourished when he was a youngster. Look at the guns he
carries. Never moves about without ’em. They’re prehistoric, but, I’d
guess, in his hands mighty effective. It’s always so with his kind. But
Larry used the wrong word. It should have been ‘kill,’ not ‘murder.’
Lightning couldn’t murder. But he’d kill like a real gentleman.”
Blanche felt her superiority over these men in her understanding of
Lightning.
“You’re both wrong by miles,” she said. “You’re judging him, like Larry
did, by the outside show. Men are mostly like that. You don’t know
the Lightning I know. You don’t know the kindness, the affection and
loyalty of the man towards little Molly. And I couldn’t begin to tell
you about it. Why, even with her lying here sick, his queer practical
mind was worrying for her future. He was crazy to get back to the farm
to see to her interests, her stock, and the harvest. No. Lightning’s a
swell bluff as a ‘bad man.’ Why, he was scared to face the tunnel on
his own horse, because the beast was as scared as he was. I had to lend
him my Pedro to get him home.”
Jim was looking up. His preoccupation had gone. He was grinning
ironically at the confident woman.
“Lightning borrowed your Pedro to make that trip home?” he asked
incredulously. “It’s a--joke, Sis. It’s----”
He broke off. And his irony fell from him, leaving a sudden frown on
his even brows.
“Why is it a joke?” Blanche had become aware of the man’s change of
expression. “What--what are you--guessing?” she asked.
Jim shook his head.
“Just nothing,” he said, with a shrug. “Only---- Maybe, you’re right,
though. That tunnel and the ledge are difficult when you think about
it. A scared horse might easily get into a fix. And it’s certainly
important that Lightning should--carry on the work of Molly’s farm.”
After that they remained silent. Somehow Jim’s explanation failed to
convince, and Blanche had an uncomfortable feeling. But she refrained
from pursuing the subject further.
Jim was thinking hard. Why had Lightning borrowed his sister’s horse?
Why not use his own? The idea of Lightning being afraid of facing the
tunnel on his own horse was absurd. Inspiration promptly supplied
him with all he wanted to know. Pedro! Blanche had told him of the
cattleman’s admiration of the beast. He knew the merits of the creature
himself. Pedro was capable of anything in the world that a horse of
his class might be asked to do. Why should Lightning desire the loan
of such a horse? There could only be one reason, and he sat on in
silence, staring at the polished sides of the stove, contemplating the
tremendous thing that had suggested itself.
Blanche went on with her work. The tangle of silks seemed to cause her
no inconvenience. Once she passed out of the room to visit her sleeping
patient. It was only to return again to her sewing with a word of
reassurance.
The evening slipped away. Blanche began a conversation. But its failure
to flourish left her no alternative but to abandon the attempt. And
in place of it her woman’s mind made play to itself between her
preoccupied brother and the girl lying ill in another room.
Jim bestirred himself at last. He sat up, and shocked his sister into
amazed attention.
“I want to marry that little kid, Blanche,” he said, without preamble.
“I’m going to. Do you think--I guess you know your own sex--do you
think she’s going to want that boy when she gets well?”
With the passing of her first shock, Blanche wanted to laugh. But her
desire was not inspired by the thing he had said. It was the curious
synchronising with it of the thoughts that had been passing through her
own mind.
“If she does, Jim, she’s not worth any good man’s thought,” she said
promptly.
Jim was sitting up. His chin was propped on the knuckles of his clasped
hands, and his elbows were set upon his spread knees.
“You were right, Sis,” he went on. “I laughed at you when you said
it, but I knew you were right even then. When I first saw Molly the
thing got hold of me. And it wasn’t just gratitude to that boy, her
father, that made me think and feel the way I did when I looked into
her child’s eyes. No. Say, I carried that little kid in my arms right
up to here. You can’t ever know what carrying a pretty kid like her in
your arms means to a man. It just sets him crazy with pity and--love.
It wasn’t my gratitude to her dead father made me do it. When I said to
you the thing I meant to do, it was all dead fixed in my mind. I’m just
crazy to death for that little girl, and I want to have her my wife.
Oh, I know. I know it all. I’m only worried she won’t have learnt to
hate that boy the way he deserves. And there’s the thing that’s always
hanging over me. Would I dare, Sis, if she’d learned to hate that way,
with the shadow of penitentiary always around my heels? Would it be
right? Would it be honest? Sometimes I reckon it would, and sometimes
I reckon I’d be little better than the skunk who betrayed her. I don’t
know.” He smiled a little pathetically. “It seems I can’t think right
about it. Tell me, Sis; you’re wise to these things. You see, you’re a
woman.”
Blanche bent over her work, and spoke without looking up. This brother
of hers, this strong, reliant man, seemed more like a child to her than
ever.
“It’s all so simple to me, Jim,” she said, without a moment’s
hesitation. “The world surrounds the business of marriage with a lot of
stuff and notions that have no right to any place in it. A boy loves a
girl, and she loves him. There isn’t a thing matters to them beyond the
love which is pure, and good, and as natural as God Almighty intended
it to be. What matters, to a girl feeling that way, if a human threat
is dogging the man she loves? Doesn’t it make it sweeter to her to care
for him, and think of him, and worry for him? Sure it does. Then think
of her. A boy doesn’t love what has been, only what is. He loves her.
Well? Folk say this, folk say that. Who cares what folk say? It doesn’t
seem to me that they matter in the least. Their approval wouldn’t help
in the hour of need. And their disapproval wouldn’t rob folk who love
of one moment of their happiness. When the time comes, Jim, just be
yourself. Tell Molly all you think. Make her your wife if she loves
you. And if you two are to get the happiness I wish for you there’ll be
one, anyway, whose approval will do its best to help it along.”
* * * * *
The first of the dawn had lit the valley with its twilight. Blanche was
passing out of Molly’s sick-room. It was her last visit for the night.
Three times she had left her own bed to assure herself of the girl’s
well-being. At each visit she had found Molly sleeping calmly, and
without a sign of fever. Her satisfaction was intense.
She was about to return to the warm comfort of her own room when
the sound of a spurred footstep on the verandah broke upon the
silence of the house. The meaning of it came to her instantly. It
was Larry returned from his journey. And she knew that he must have
ridden something like a hundred miles in fifteen hours. She drew her
dressing-robe closely about her, and passed out on to the verandah to
meet him.
She found him sprawled in a big chair gazing into the twilight of the
dawn. The air was chill, but it signified nothing to her. That great,
red-headed creature was the man of her woman’s dream, and her gladness
in him rose above any thought of discomfort.
He raised a pair of astonished eyes as she appeared through the French
windows.
“For goodness’ sake, child, you haven’t been sitting around waiting for
me to get back?” he cried, springing to his feet.
Blanche laughed at the half impatient, wholly solicitous greeting. It
was so characteristic of him.
“I guess worry for you wouldn’t keep me from my bed a minute,” she
cried. Then came the inevitable touch of affection. “It’s only for an
incompetent a woman needs to worry.”
She came close to him and smiled up into his face. In a moment Larry’s
arm was about her yielding body, and they stood together gazing out on
the broadening of the dawn.
“Dear old Blanche,” he said at last. “Worry or no worry, I’m glad to
get back. You know, kid, I’m sick to death of these toughs. I feel
like a sort of penitentiary guy, who needs to go around with automatic
shooting weapons and a club to make things sure he’ll eat his next meal
right. If it wasn’t I’m guessing I can see the end of this crazy notion
coming I’d have to get out on the hillside and holler. But it’s coming,
kid. I’ve shot that bunch out, and the junk we’ve got around now
couldn’t commit crime enough to set the police worrying after ’em. I’ve
a notion I’ve been figuring on. It’s a good notion. This ranch gets me
all the time. So do the hills and the air--the whole darn thing. I’m
herding Jim along a road that’ll leave this place just what it is--a
swell mixed farm run right, and the crook shelter can go hang. The
only thing that’s got me scared is the thing Jim may get doing to that
gopher, McFardell. How’s the little kid?”
“Sleeping like a child. I’ve just been in to her. That’s when I heard
your big feet out here.”
A great spread of yellow topped the eastern hills, and Blanche watched
it grow.
“If things go right, Jim won’t need much herding along that road,
Larry. I don’t think you need to be scared for him,” Blanche went on
confidently. “He’s fallen for Molly, and I’m going to help things along
all I know. Think of us in the old days back in New York,” she laughed.
“Then think of us here. Think of me trying to fix things up with Jim
and this poor little soul of a farm girl, who’s hit the biggest trouble
a woman can strike. Does it make you want to laugh or weep? No. That’s
right. Shake your disreputable old head. And so it is with me. I don’t
want to do either. This is our valley of a big hope--hope for Jim and
hope for that little girl. Well, old boy, time will show how things
are to go. It just can’t go on as it is with that boy McFardell on our
trail. Something’s going to break for us. It’s got to be a get-out
one way or another. Molly, maybe, is the whole answer to the problem.
Meanwhile I’m getting my death standing around making love to a boy who
doesn’t know enough to get quick to his blankets after a hundred miles
in the saddle.”
CHAPTER XXXIV
A Burdened Heart
There was no sound in the room but of the rustle of the sewing upon
which Blanche was engaged. It was a blazing afternoon. Beyond the
open, mosquito-netted window the nature-sounds added to the sense of
general drowsiness. There was not a breath of air stirring amongst the
hill-tops to temper the summer heat.
For a moment Blanche raised her eyes from her work. They were gravely
contemplative as they surveyed the face of her charge, who was
occupying her own luxurious bed. Molly was half sitting, propped up
against a number of ample pillows, and her eyes were closed, while her
face was calmly reposeful.
The pallor of her brow and cheeks robbed the girl of none of her
prettiness. Her surroundings perhaps even enhanced it. Her dark hair
was hidden under the embrace of a lace cap, which set a sweet framing
about her rounded features. Then the ravishing dressing-jacket, which
concealed her night apparel, had been carefully selected for her from
Blanche’s wardrobe. Its sleeves were wide, and terminated at the
elbows, which left her forearms fully exposed as they lay helplessly on
the coverlet of the bed.
Blanche was more than satisfied. The child, she told herself, was
sleeping easily. And it needed no word from Doc Lennox to tell her the
value of such restful sleep.
It was Molly’s third day at the ranch. It was the third long, anxious
day since Jim had passed her safely through the wide-open Gateway
of Hope. And Blanche understood that the worst of the child’s
physical trouble was over. The thing that concerned her now was that
other--that psychological reaction which she knew could so easily undo
the rest. As she sat guard over the girl’s slumbers she pondered deeply
the possibilities of disaster.
Blanche possessed no narrowness in her outlook upon life. Tolerance
and generosity were the very essence of her nature. Human disaster
never failed to wound her. And her sympathy went out without measure in
response. Condemnation never entered her thought. It was the same for
Molly as it had been for her own brothers. Eddie was far away beyond
the reach of the penalty to which the laws of man entitled him, and
she was satisfied. Jim was in hiding, no less a victim of human law.
She made no excuse for either of them. She saw no need for excuse.
These things were the disasters which afforded her the opportunity of
indulging her devotion.
She realized something of the tremendous nature of Molly’s lonely
struggle. She knew well enough that the girl could have taken the
easier course of selling out at the time of her father’s death. She
could have gone to a city, and taken her chance in life with others
similarly situated. But she had done no such thing. And the courage
of it all had caught her imagination and enlisted her sympathy. Molly
had accepted the big battle for which her youth and sex found her so
unfitted.
Then at the back of everything else lay the knowledge of her brother’s
desire, and the memory of the thing which George Marton had done for
Jim in his extremity. And so she had taken Molly to her heart like some
young sister who needed the mother-care she had been so long deprived
of.
Molly had spoken so very, very little, and Blanche understood. The
girl’s reticence was not the result of weakness, of sickness. She had
spoken her thanks for every kindness without hesitation or effort. But
she had set up a barrier beyond that which forbade any intrusion upon
the suffering it concealed. Blanche had made up her mind that that
barrier must be removed. And if the girl herself failed to remove it,
then she must do her best to break it down. Otherwise she knew that the
girl’s recovery could never reach that completeness she desired for her.
The afternoon wore on, and the hour for tea approached. The sun had
shifted its position, and its beam fell athwart the bed. Blanche rose
from her seat, and gently drew a curtain to shut out the offending
light. She returned at once to her sewing. Resettling herself, she
glanced over at the bed. Molly’s eyes were wide open.
The older woman smiled.
“Did I disturb you, dear?” she asked, in that low, hushed tone so
quickly acquired in a sick-room.
For answer the lace cap moved in a negative shake of the head.
“Why, no,” Molly said. Then, a moment later: “I guess I wasn’t asleep.”
Blanche raised an admonishing finger.
“Foxing, eh?”
The smiling eyes were inviting, and Molly drew a deep breath. Blanche
waited for her to speak, but the girl closed her eyes again, as though
seeking to avoid the sight of the things about her.
Blanche went on with her work.
“Blanche!”
The summons came with an energy that startled the girl at the window.
She looked up, and rose from her chair, and, laying her sewing aside,
came swiftly to the bedside.
“Yes, dear?” she said gently.
“May I--I want to talk to you,” Molly raised herself on her pillows.
Molly’s tone was almost pleading. It was the humility of it that
troubled the other most.
“Sure,” Blanche said. “Talk all you need. But you haven’t to tire or
excite yourself. You see, dear, I’m your nurse, and you’ve got to do as
I say.”
It was all very gentle and almost playful. It was intended to soothe.
For Blanche had detected at once the excitement lying behind the
girl’s eyes. She felt that the moment had come when the barrier must
be passed, and she knew that on the manner of its passing depended the
whole of Molly’s future. But the girl gave no heed. Her eyes were fixed
on the other’s face, and it was more than doubtful if she realised the
words so solicitously intended.
“You see,” she cried in a tone that was slightly strident, “you
couldn’t ever be like me. You couldn’t ever feel the way I do. You
don’t need to. You haven’t done-- But I’ve got to talk. I’ve got to
tell you. I’ve got to say it all, or I’ll go crazy. You see, Blanche,
I just loved him. I sort of loved him to death. We were fixed to be
married before summer was out. And then--and then I--I just wanted to
die. I--I wanted to kill myself. I tried. Oh, if I’d only had grit
enough. But I hadn’t. I got scared. I thought of father. I thought of
the priest in Hartspool, and the things he used to say when father
took me in to Mass. I got scared worse. Then the water was so black
and deep, and I knew I hadn’t the grit. And then--and then--something
seemed to happen, and I didn’t know anything any more at all.”
“You were worn out and ill, dear,” Blanche said soothingly. “You’d
been in the saddle hours and hours. I guess you’d been in the saddle
all night. Lightning told me. You dropped in a faint at the water’s
edge. But do you want to talk of it? Will it help you? Won’t it bring
back all your sorrows and trouble--that don’t need ever to hurt you
again? You see, Molly, I think I know it all. I think I know all you
felt--all your trouble. You loved Andy McFardell, and--and that’s the
whole of it.”
Molly gazed long and fixedly into Blanche’s face. And the older woman
realised a swift hardening in her eyes. It was curious, subtle. They
were so unfitted for such an expression.
At last the sick girl drew a deep breath, and the fixity of her regard
passed. Her gaze fell away, and sought the carefully-shaded window,
where the sunlight shone about its edges.
“I couldn’t tell anyone else,” she said, all the sharpness gone from
her tone. “But you--you understand, Blanche. You’re not blaming me?
You--you don’t feel badly for those who--who---- Oh, Blanche, I loved
him. Why did God make us like that? I didn’t think. I didn’t care. He
seemed to me the whole world. So fine and strong, and so kind to me. No
one else mattered a thing. Lightning was nobody. And even you. But--but
it’s diff’rent now.”
“Different?”
Blanche watched. Just for an instant a tinge of colour dyed the girl’s
cheeks. It mounted even to her brows. Then it receded, and her eyes had
become hard and cold, and, to Blanche’s imagination, merciless.
There was a movement of the head. It was a quick, decided inclination.
“Yes, quite diff’rent,” Molly said, in a voice that was without
emotion. “Have you ever hated, Blanche?” she went on quickly. Then she
shook her head. “No, you haven’t. You couldn’t. It’s only girls like
me can hate. Girls who’ve been wicked. Girls who’re bad. I loved Andy.
Oh, I can’t say all I felt. He made the world so good to me. The sun
never shone so fine as when he was around. Hope? Why, Blanche, I just
didn’t need to think of hope. Life was a swell garden, and work looked
like real playtime. Then I had it all figgered. The farm should be his.
And we’d build it right up into a swell proposition. And it was all
for him--just him. And then I’d raise his children, and they’d surely
be boys like him. And they’d have dark eyes like his, not pale things
like mine. Then their laugh would be his, too. And I’d nurse and love
them for him, and there wouldn’t be a moment in life that I didn’t know
real happiness. Oh, I dreamed it all fine. I reckoned we’d have our
troubles. I figgered on set-backs that would need grit to face. But I
was glad to think of them. It would make it so I could show him the
grit I was made of. It was a dream--just a fool dream. Maybe most girls
have dreamed the same, and then wakened up the same as I have. Blanche,
I’m bad. I’m wicked. He’s made me that way. I hate him. I hate him as
bad as once I loved him. Never, never, never as long as God makes me
live will I ever see him again. If he came near me I think I’d--kill
him.”
The girl’s final words came in a fierce whisper, and Blanche’s decision
was taken on the instant. There was much she could have said. There was
so much her inclination prompted her to.
“That’s the way I’d feel,” she said quietly.
She sat herself on the edge of the bed and took possession of one of
Molly’s hands. Her eyes were smiling as they looked into the startled
face of the other.
“Why not?” she went on. “Love and hate run side by side. There’s
nothing in between that’s of any account. Dear, you reckon you’ve been
wicked. You reckon you’re bad.” She shook her head. “You’re neither.
You’re just a good woman who’s loved as God made us capable of loving,
and I thank Him with all that’s in me that the waters were so dark
and deep that they scared you. Maybe there’s folk would say, don’t
hate. But I’m not one of them. Hate him, Molly, if you feel that way.
I should. And no good man or woman will ever blame you. But, dear,
there’s something better. Forget. The man who could do as he’s done
is a poor sort of creature. He isn’t good enough to be a villain.
He’s just a mean thing, that’s only fit for a woman’s contempt. Don’t
let him stay a day longer in your mind than you can help. Forget him
utterly, and remember only that God moulds our disasters as well as our
happiness. Remember that He fashioned all things for His own purposes.
Out of this terrible experience and grief with which He’s afflicted you
happiness may yet come. It will come. I’m dead sure. Forget, dear, and
sure, sure, you’ll come to a greater happiness for the courage with
which you sweep your disasters out of your mind.”
Blanche felt the responsive pressure of Molly’s hand as she finished
speaking. She knew that she had won her complete confidence. Then she
saw tears gather and slowly roll down the pale cheeks.
“Oh, think of it!” the girl cried out in a choking voice. “Think of it,
with all my life ahead.”
Blanche stroked the hand she was still holding.
“There, there, dear,” she said caressingly. “It’s just great to think
you have that life before you. But we’ve talked enough for now, sure.
We’re going to do no more. I’m here all the time, and when you feel
things beating you down, why, just pass them on to me. Forget, child.
Forget as hard as you can. And remember the folk who’re looking after
you just love you all they know. Now, don’t worry while I fix your tea.”
She leant over and kissed the tearful face, and with a final squeeze of
the hand, she rose from the bed to depart on her mission. In her wisdom
she knew that the thing she desired would be accomplished.
CHAPTER XXXV
Molly Comes Back
Three days later Blanche’s labours had borne that ample fruit she had
looked for. She had known that Nature would fulfil her good work if
only she could uproot the mental tares that threatened to grow up in
the fruitful soil of Molly’s mind. After the first break through of
the barrier of the girl’s reticence Blanche had laboured incessantly,
with tact and imagination. She had given the girl no excuse for further
unhealthy brooding on the disaster into which her love had plunged her.
And Molly’s natural courage had been her staunch ally.
Had Molly been weakly sentimental, had she obtained her early schooling
in anything less rugged than her mountain world, the task might well
have been more difficult. But Molly was of the very essence of the
mountains. Her emotions of love and passionate resentment, and even
hate, were strong, and as irresistible as the torrential mountain
streams. Her love knew no bounds. Her generosity was no less. And,
equally, when stirred to passionate anger, her mood was without mercy.
Now her anger and hate were as deeply stirred as had been her love for
the man who had betrayed her. And her salvation in those early days
lay in the tremendous reaction of it all, and in the manner in which
Blanche’s sympathy convinced her that her girlish weakness, however to
be regretted, was no crime in the eyes of God and humanity.
So the nurse realised the girl’s swift return to health. And the last
concern remaining to her was the final achievement she looked for.
Her own work was Molly’s complete recovery with her fresh young heart
unburdened. She knew that the white-haired brother she had given up so
much for must accomplish the rest.
It was Molly’s first day in the open mountain air she loved. For nearly
a week she had lived in the shaded bedroom which Blanche had instantly
given up to her. For all that time she had seen no one, and spoken
to no one but Blanche and the little doctor who had stumbled on the
devious road of his professional life. Now, as she gazed out from the
verandah, she felt that the world had again opened its doors, and she
wondered and feared for the reception awaiting her.
She dreaded the daylight that she felt to be searching her soul. She
smelt the sweetness of the mountain air, and felt that in its very
purity it must be condemning her, and mocking her. She longed for the
saddle, that she might hurry home to the farm, where she could hide
herself from the eyes of the world, where she knew that no word of
blame would ever pass the lips of the savage old Lightning. It was a
moment of intense panic when Blanche helped her to a capacious lounging
chair, and set a light rug about her knees and ankles.
Blanche smiled encouragingly as Molly gazed up at her from the depths
of her chair.
“You know, dear, there’s no time in the world for a woman like her
first appearance from a sick-room with men-folk around. They just stand
around saying fool speeches that aren’t true, and pass her all the help
she doesn’t need. It’s the man in them trying to be kind, and, if I’m a
judge, they mostly succeed. In awhile Larry’ll be along, and he’ll be
talking to you as if he wanted to marry you instead of me. Then Jim’ll
get around, with his white hair--he’s only a year older than me--and
you’ll sort of feel you’ve known him all your life. That’s his way.”
“I--I wish they wouldn’t come.”
Molly’s voice was full of her panic.
“My dear, don’t say that,” Blanche expostulated, her eyes full of
laughter. “Why, do you know, I’ve had to fight them both to keep them
out of your sick-room? I almost had to threaten Larry I wouldn’t marry
him before I could get him to do the thing I said. And Jim--why, you
see, it was Jim who carried you right here to this valley. And it was
hard stopping him. Jim’s like some big kid to me, and is just the most
foolish best fellow in the world. He’d never forgive me if he couldn’t
come along and see for himself you haven’t died and been buried in the
dead of night.”
Blanche saw the trouble fade out of Molly’s eyes.
“Why has--Jim--got white hair?” she asked abruptly. “I sort of knew he
was only a young man that time I saw him away back.”
Blanche looked out down the valley, where the cattle were roaming the
pastures, and the workers were busy in the crops. The scene was one of
calm industry, lit by a sun that was powerless to rob the mountain air
of its freshness. There was no sign of the men-folk she had spoken of,
and so she turned, and, drawing up a chair, sat herself close beside
her patient.
“There’s a story to that,” she said seriously. “Shall I tell it you?
His white hair is partly the meaning of this place--this ranch. Partly.
The rest is to do with the quixotic heart of a brother I’d follow to
the ends of the earth if he needed me.”
Molly’s eyes lit. And she leaned back in her chair, waiting for the
story, the promise of which intrigued her.
Blanche began her story in a low, even voice. And as the story
proceeded there was no shadow of lightness that could lessen the
impression which its teller desired to make. She was talking of Jim,
whose personality was something sacred to her. She wanted to reveal him
to this girl in the light in which her own eyes beheld him. Jim had
told her he wanted to marry Molly. So she left out no detail of the
narrative that could display her brother as she saw him.
When she told of Jim’s defence of his brother against the Police, and
the penalty he suffered for his unquestioning loyalty, the girl’s
cheeks flushed deeply, and the shining light of her eyes was something
which filled the older woman with delight.
“It’s a shame!” Molly cried, with swift, passionate indignation. “Oh,
it was cruel! Think! But he got him away. Eddie had done no wrong. No.
He did right. And then--and then--they punished--Jim?”
Blanche smiled.
“No,” she said. “He escaped.”
Molly sighed, and Blanche went on to tell of the escape. The girl
listened with a further deepening of interest as she came to the moment
of Jim’s desperate straits. It never occurred to her to question the
identity of the man from whom Jim had escaped, and Blanche scrupulously
withheld his name.
Then came the moment of Jim’s approach to her father’s farm, and Molly
became even more deeply absorbed. And at the end her eyes lit with
excitement.
“I remember,” she cried. “Oh, yes. I packed his wallets with food.
Think of it! Just think! It was your Jim, an’ I fixed his food! Tell
me.”
And so the story went on to Jim’s meeting with Dan Quinlan, and of his
sojourn in the Valley of Hope. It told of how Dan had fed him, and how
his privations turned his hair white. It told of how, in those long
winter months he conceived the idea of helping, through the agency of
that great valley, others who, like himself, had stumbled on the road
of life. It told of his ultimate safe return to civilisation, and of
the help he had sought from her, Blanche, in setting up this refuge.
And it was not until the story reached its close that Blanche, with
keen instinct for her purpose, concerned herself with McFardell’s place
in it.
“Do you know who it was that Jim escaped from on his way to
penitentiary?” she asked. “Can you guess? Sure you can if you think
awhile.”
For a moment Molly gazed at her blankly. It was as though the interest,
the wonder, of the man’s story still held her. Then of a sudden her
eyes hardened like grey granite, and Blanche realised the completeness
of the thing she had achieved.
“Andy McFardell,” she said, in a low, hard voice.
Blanche nodded.
“Yes. And Andy McFardell has discovered Jim’s hiding-place here, and
hopes to regain his place in the Police by betraying it to them. Even
now he’s working to send Jim down to the penitentiary.”
The girl sat up in her chair.
“But he won’t succeed--you won’t let him succeed?” Molly cried, in an
agitation she made no effort to conceal. “It’s just too crazy that he
can get away with it. Andy? Oh, no, no! Tell me it won’t be. Tell me
Jim’s too clever. Tell me, promise me, you--you won’t let that wretched
man succeed. It’s--it’s awful.”
Blanche shook her head. And her confidence was reassuring.
“Now, don’t scare yourself, dear. There’s no Police could get Jim
in this valley. There’s a hundred ways of making a getaway. Nature
didn’t set up these mountains for a trap for folk like Jim. I’ve a big
conviction that Andy McFardell can’t get away with this play. If I
didn’t feel that way I wouldn’t be sitting around with you now without
a worry. I trust Jim as I never trusted any human creature in my life.
I---- But here he is himself, coming along up on the rush from the
barns. Maybe he’s located who’s sitting around.”
Blanche rose from her seat and waved a greeting to the hurrying man,
and Molly remained where she was, a victim of an overwhelming return of
that panic which Blanche had done so much to dispel.
Jim bared his white head as he came. His smile was one of frank delight.
At that moment Molly’s one desire was for flight. She yearned that the
earth might open and swallow her up. Never in her life had her shame
seemed so great a thing. This good man, it seemed to her, could have
nothing but contempt for a creature like herself. And yet his eyes
were smiling, the clean-shaven mouth was so generous, and his whole
expression so tremendously kind. Then his voice as he greeted her!
“At last,” he cried. “Why, this is great!” He laughed delightedly.
“You know, Molly, Sis here has been all sorts of a terror to us
fellers. The best we could get out of her was you were going on right.
Larry implored and even threatened her. I--why, I’d have promised her
anything in the wide world for a sight of you. But----”
“Promised, yes,” Blanche laughed.
Jim nodded at her indulgently.
“Anyway, you’re around at last, Molly, and I’m God thankful that’s
so. These hills’ll soon set colour in your cheeks, and in a day or so
you’ll be racing down this old valley of ours in the saddle. Why----
Oh,” he cried, as he took possession of Blanche’s chair, “Sis has beat
it. Well, we’ll sit around and yarn.”
He glanced round at the open French window through which Blanche had
retreated. Then, for all his promise of talk, he gazed out down the
valley and remained silent.
Molly made no attempt to reply. She was beyond words, completely
overwhelmed by the presence of this white-haired man whom she had
learned to know only through his sister. At last, however, a single
remark from Jim set a great peace sweeping through her troubled soul.
“God Almighty’s pretty good, Molly,” he said, in a voice that rang with
sincerity. “I’ve just lived for the day when I could pass a hand to
those who helped me to the life that looked to be passing right out of
me. You were part of that bunch.”
For the first time the girl dared to look into his face. But it was
with a mist of tears that blurred her vision that she stumbled out her
reply.
“I--I’m--just glad,” she said.
And after that talk came easily, and they sat on talking, talking, with
the intimacy of a great friendship.
And so Blanche found them later, when she deemed it the moment to
exercise her authority as nurse. She took Molly back to her room with a
feeling of great thankfulness at the amazing change Jim had wrought in
her. The girl was transformed.
CHAPTER XXXVI
Nemesis
The hills were wrapped in the hush of the close of day. The sun had
long since dropped behind the skyline of mountain-tops. And now the
heavens, which had flamed out in a glorious wake, were faded to the
thin, cold yellow which the purple of evening was deepening every
moment. In a short time the lesser glory of a myriad night-lights would
embark upon its brief, triumphant reign.
Night was already in the heart of the great forests. The last of the
twilit distance had been swallowed up by the advance of hungry shadows.
Now, with darkness reigning, the hush was crowded with the strange
pianissimos of invisible life, and the uneasy creak of tree-trunks,
stirred by the cold breath from the glacial heights, that was
insufficient to do more than provoke a chill shudder down the stately
aisles.
A camp-fire was smouldering comfortingly at the feet of the man
squatting over it. He was a queer, crouching figure, with hands clasped
tightly about his drawn-up knees. His somewhat sunken eyes looked to
shine with a desperate gleam as they caught the ruddy reflection of
fitful flame. A single revolver was strapped about his waist.
His clothes were sufficiently scant for the chill of the night. They
were rough, and worn, and looked to be loose on a body that had lost
some of its wonted robustness. The pipe thrust between his jaws was
unlit, empty. From the crown of his loose-brimmed prairie hat, drawn
low over his head, and his lean cheeks, with their stubble of black
beard and whisker, right down to his long, heavy boots, he looked
unclean, unkempt, something of the “mean-white” so despised by the
manhood of the outworld.
But Andy McFardell’s appearance at the moment did him less than
justice. It was the result of a long, weary trail. The man was
wasted, underfed, hard driven. His life for many days had been little
better than that of some forest beast, for his way had lain unmapped,
unscheduled. He had been moving blindly, searching a region where the
only humanity he was likely to encounter must be avoided. Careless of
himself, careless of everything but his task, now with hope soaring
high, now with despair wringing his heart, he had moved on and on with
tireless purpose.
Near by a rifle lay on the ground, and a few yards away his horse was
tethered at a place where the only possible feed was the green foliage
of a low-growing shrub. The beast was in no better case than its rider.
Even in the uncertain light of the camp-fire the sharp angles of its
quarters were plainly discernible, and the dejected droop of its whole
body was pitiful as it slumbered standing. Close at hand, as near to
the fire as safety permitted, the man’s blanket was lying ready for the
moment when sleep overtook him. But that moment was not yet.
He had no intention of slumbering for hours yet. Sleep just now was the
last thing that concerned him. He wanted to think. He wanted to plan.
He desired to map out to the last detail all that was yet to come. He
was in that condition of mental exaltation when physical needs and
comforts had no place in his consideration. It was sufficient that he
had lived for this moment--this great moment when he saw the man who
had been the first cause of his downfall held absolutely at his mercy.
Mercy? He knew no such word. There was no mercy for Jim Pryse.
There was no mercy for any one. He was fighting for some sort of
worldly salvation for himself. It was the only sort of salvation he
understood, and furthermore, he realised that it looked to be within
his grasp.
He bestirred himself, hardly realising his purpose or the thing he did.
He released his knees and stood up. He moved over to a small pile of
deadwood fuel, which was his whole store. He brought an armful back
with him, and recklessly flung it on the fire. Then he squatted again
upon his haunches.
He sucked at his empty pipe. He had nothing with which to refill it.
But it gave him the taste of tobacco, and, in his present mood, it was
sufficient.
He smiled as he watched the leap of the flames which so readily
devoured the dead, resinous wood. It was a smile of fierce derision--an
ugly smile that played about his loose mouth. What fools those folk
were to have given him such a chance. He would never have found the
place. He could never have hoped to do so.
The smile died out of his eyes as he thought of the prolonged labour
of his search. The weary days, probing, seeking, in a hill country
whose confusion was sufficient to madden the bewildered human mind. The
days of blistering heat. The nights of cheerless solitude. The weary
dispiritment of it all to a man who has given up everything, staked
all upon the chance of things, relying only upon his endurance and the
skill acquired in a police training. No, he would never have discovered
Jim Pryse’s hiding-place but for the folly of those associated with
him. And yet--and yet--there it was, so easy to arrive at. The way was
practically a direct trail from the Marton farm.
His smile returned. He recalled the vision of Lightning as he had
halted at the entrance to the valley of that queer creek. For himself
he had only narrowly escaped the man’s observation. The old man’s
attention had been held in another direction, or surely his discovery
must have been inevitable. Then had come that woman on her black
horse. How he had strained to discover the talk that passed between
them. But it had been impossible to hear from his shelter in the woods.
He could see. Oh, yes, he could see. And when they moved up that queer
creek together he was as close on their heels as safety from discovery
permitted.
Then had come the arrival at the lagoon and the three-way source of the
creek. And then--and then he had watched from a distance the ascent to
the mouth of the cavern out of which the waters cascaded. Even now,
in his mood of tremendous elation, he found the mystery of that weird
inlet into the heart of the hills something profoundly absorbing.
He continued thinking of it all. He wanted to do nothing else. He
remembered his own ultimate passage of that tunnel, and the revelation
beyond. And he wondered how it came that Pryse had first discovered
it. Yes. It certainly was no wonder that the police patrols sent out
in pursuit of the man had returned to report complete failure. No
police patrol could have found it; could ever have hoped to find it. No
trained policeman would have admitted that that cavern mouth could by
any miracle be the entrance to another, higher valley. But they would
learn the facts now surely enough. Oh, yes.
He reached out a foot and kicked the fire together. Then he glanced
over in the direction of his horse. After that he turned an ear to the
sound of the breeze in the foliage overhead. It had increased. And the
chill of the night had increased with it.
He turned again to the fire and shook his head.
No. He would tell them nothing but the fact that he could lead them
to the hiding-place of Jim Pryse, who was due for five years in the
penitentiary--with hard labour. He passed his tongue across his lips
with intense satisfaction. Yes. He would tell Leedham Branch that. And
his price for the man’s recapture would be very definite.
He hugged himself gleefully, for he knew that nothing could be
more sure than that his price would be paid. If he knew the Police
it certainly would. There would be no preliminary payment. But on
fulfilment of his part it would be different. A cold word of approval.
A word to the Sergeant-Major. A regimental order. Reinstatement. And
then his final triumph. He would beg to be allowed to convey the
prisoner to the penitentiary.
He laughed audibly as he wondered if the old kit he had returned into
store would come back to him again. Perhaps.
Oh, it was fine. It was the happiest dream he had dreamed since he had
set out. But it was more than a dream. It was a certainty--a whole,
complete certainty, of which nothing short of death could rob him. With
the first of to-morrow’s daylight he would set out for Calford. He
should make it in two days. His old horse could do it. It would have to
do it.
After awhile he rose again from the fire and replenished it with the
remains of his fuel store. It was his final precaution. Then he rolled
his blanket about his tough body, and, using his saddle for a pillow,
stretched himself out as near to the fire as safety permitted. Far into
the night he lay there, wakeful and thinking. But finally he slumbered
with the dreamlessness of complete weariness.
Not for one moment had a single thought been given to the girl whose
love he had so wantonly betrayed.
* * * * *
The trail lifted gently out of the valley. It was a trail Andy
McFardell knew by heart. In one direction it led to the pleasant
purlieus of Barney Lake’s hotel in Hartspool. In the other it lost
itself somewhere behind him in the foothills he had learned to hate so
cordially.
Somewhere up there, at the top of the incline, where a dense bush
country reached out towards the wide undulations of the prairie beyond,
the trail forked. And it was of that fork that the man was thinking,
for the right-hand trail led to Calford, which was just now his whole
object and purpose in life. He wanted to look once more upon the city
from which he had so long been banished. He wanted to look on it
with the eyes of a victor. For days now he had been living through
a succession of wonderful anticipations. They had grown into almost
grotesque proportions. He felt that his approach to Calford was in the
nature of a triumphal progress.
His only anxiety now was for his horse. There was nothing else that
could hold up the plans he had so carefully made. He had no sympathy
for the well-nigh foundered creature. He cared not a jot that the
poor thing was terribly saddle-galled. It meant nothing to him that
its ribs looked as though the wind must blow through them, and its
quarters were so lean and shrunken that the bones looked to be about to
burst the skin covering them. He wanted to reach Calford. He intended
to reach Calford. And his anxiety was for how the poor, wasted brute
was to negotiate that last fifty miles still remaining. His mood was
merciless. The horse would have to carry him till it dropped. After
that? Well, after that, he would walk. That was all.
The dishevelled outfit topped the valley slope at last, and passed
into something of shade from the brazen light of the sun. The road
had entered a luxuriant spruce bluff that was wholly inviting, and
stirred even the jaded spirits of the horse. The creature broke into
a shuffling amble which by no effort of imagination could have been
regarded as a lope.
The trail went on in its own peculiar winding fashion along the line
of least resistance, and there was not a moment when the horseman could
obtain a view for more than fifty yards ahead. But that was of no
consequence. The road was perfectly familiar. Andy McFardell knew there
was less than half a mile to the fork, and then----
The ambling horse stumbled. The man flung himself back in the saddle
with a shout of blasphemy. With all the strength of arms and body he
sought to keep the falling creature on its feet. It was a vain effort.
The beast was too utterly weary to help itself or be helped. It had
tripped badly over some unseen obstruction, and pitched headlong.
For the second time in his life Andy McFardell found disaster in the
fall of his horse.
The man sprawled clear of the saddle. He was unhurt, and, on the
instant, made to spring to his feet. But he never got beyond a sitting
posture. He was held there motionless and something dumfounded. As once
before, a man was standing over him with a levelled gun. A pair of
stern, merciless eyes were looking down into his. The face of the man
was lined, and burnt to a deep bronze. It was old in years, but alight
with cold purpose. Even the grey hair and the tatter of the whisker
could not lessen the significance of the hate which shone so frigidly
in his sunken eyes.
It was the last man Andy McFardell had thought to encounter. It was
Lightning.
CHAPTER XXXVII
By the Light of the Aurora
The northern horizon was alight with a splendid aurora. It was still
evening, with a prevailing sense of great peace. The two men and
two women on the verandah were absorbed in the magnificence of the
heavenly display. It was nothing unusual. There was nothing new in the
magic of its movement. But its interest and beauty were a source of
never-failing attraction, even to Molly, who had known its splendour
from the days of her earliest childhood.
The yellow lamplight, shining through the window, lit the intimate
little scene. It was the hour before supper, an hour of complete rest
after the day’s work. Jim and Larry were lounging luxuriously in rocker
chairs. They were smoking, and meditating over the long, cool drinks
with which Blanche had provided them.
Molly was seated close beside the older girl. She had laid her sewing
upon the table before her, and, with elbows resting upon it, she
remained with her chin supported in the palms of her hands, staring
thoughtfully out at the ceaseless movement of the heavenly mystery.
Blanche was talking. It was her way when her men-folk were present. She
made no secret of her weakness, she even laughed at it openly.
“Isn’t it good to be right here sitting around on such a night?” she
asked generally, turning almost reluctantly from the radiant night sky.
She laughed a little self-consciously. “I can surely guess the thing
Larry’s thinking in his queer red head. Maybe he’s wondering when I’ll
get something new to scare him with. But then he hasn’t a soul for the
beauties around him,” she added, with pretended regret. “There, Molly,
look right down there at the barns and bunk-houses. Look at the lights
winking out at us. Don’t they stand out like--like jewels? Then look
down the valley into the darkness and shadows. See the mists gathering
along the creek. And listen to the croaking chorus of the frogs, that
never seem to get tired of their queer chatter. And the air, and the
stars standing out overhead. It’s--it’s all glorious,” she breathed
contendedly. “It’s so quiet and peaceful, and--and it makes you feel
that God never meant us folk to build drab cities and things. It makes
you think we were all meant to live in the open----”
“Till winter gets round. Then you guess again, and yearn for the Dago
janitor who can fix the steam heat right.”
Larry chuckled amiably as he buried his nose in the glass of whisky
that had been prepared for Jim, and caught Blanche’s smiling,
censorious glance. Jim laughed outright in the depths of his chair.
“That’s the way they always go on, Molly,” he said, to the girl at the
table. “If Blanche reckoned it was Tuesday, Larry here would assure
her it was Broadway, New York, or something equally foolish. But Sis
is right,” he went on. “She certainly is. There’s a peace around this
valley that makes me feel good.” He laughed. “And it’s a peace that’s
not a thing to do with stars, or northern lights, and not even frogs.”
His smile died out. “I made a trip down to your farm to-day.”
Molly was startled out of her contemplation of the valley. She sat up,
and her eyes were shining as she gazed at the white-haired creature who
had brought her to this haven of rest and human kindliness.
Blanche’s efforts had succeeded far beyond her best hopes. The girl was
daily growing stronger. She was no longer sick and ailing. But, best of
all, her recovery, both mental and physical, was complete. The men had
watched the progress, and applauded the nurse. But Blanche understood
the reality of the thing that had happened. She knew that the last
of Molly’s childhood had passed. The days of her child-dreaming were
over. She was a woman now, with all the rest lost in the passionate
storms that had swept over her. A real understanding of the hard things
of life had come to her, for, in her agony, her eyes had been widely
opened. The hate to which her love for Andy McFardell had turned was an
act of Providence which had brought about the rest.
“Then you’ve seen Lightning?” she asked. “He’ll be harvesting.”
There was eagerness in Molly’s tone. It told of a mind that was again
full of the affairs of life that had always been hers.
A quick glance passed between brother and sister. The man was
questioning, and Blanche inclined her head. Jim leant back in his
chair. He knocked out his pipe in a fashion intended to rob any words
of his of unusual significance.
“No,” he said, “he wasn’t there.”
A moment passed before Molly spoke again. Blanche was observing her
closely, and wondering. The red-headed Larry turned his freckled face
in the girl’s direction.
“He--he wasn’t there?”
The question came with a curious little gulp.
Jim shook his head, which the lamplight transformed to something like
burnished silver.
“I didn’t see him,” he said smilingly. “No, he wasn’t there,” he went
on definitely. “It didn’t seem he’d been there since he came up here
with Blanche, chasing after you. The harvest was standing in fine ear.
Your team and cows were out at grass. There wasn’t a sign at the house,
or his bunk-house, that he’d been around.”
Larry hastily devoured the remains of his drink. Jim was lighting his
pipe. Blanche had forgotten the beauties of the night, and laid one
hand gently on Molly’s shoulder.
“He borrowed my Pedro,” she said. “He left his horse here, down at the
barn.”
Molly turned in a flash.
“You hadn’t told me,” she said sharply.
“No,” Blanche said. “You were sick.”
Molly drew a deep breath.
“Why did he borrow your Pedro?” she asked.
“He said he was scared to face the trail of Three-Way Creek with a
horse that didn’t know it right.”
Molly’s eyes widened.
“He said that? Lightning?” she asked incredulously.
“Yes. He said that.”
“And you--you believed it?”
“I did--at the moment.”
Molly turned to Jim with disconcerting abruptness.
“Did you believe it, too?” she demanded. Then she looked over at the
freckled face of Larry Manford. “And you?”
It was Larry who replied. He shook his fiery head. And his words came
with a short laugh.
“I certainly didn’t,” he declared.
Molly looked into his keen eyes for a moment. Then she turned to Jim.
“And you?” she persisted.
“No.”
Jim turned himself about, and sat facing the girl whose whole manner
had undergone so complete a change. Her eyes were alight. There was
excitement and apprehension in them. There was something else. The men
failed to recognise it, but Blanche had no illusion. The girl, like Jim
and Larry, had read through Lightning’s subterfuge.
Molly shook her head. She was exercising a rather desperate control.
She was striving for a calmness she found almost impossible.
“No,” she said, in a low voice. “How could you believe it? Lightning
would ride his horse anywhere.” Her tone became less quiet. “Oh,
I could laff if I wasn’t scared,” she cried. “You folk don’t know
Lightning. I guess I know him through an’ through. Lightning didn’t
loan your Pedro to make home on. He was looking for a beast that could
make a big trail. He’s gone after Andy.”
Her manner was headlong. Her breathing had quickened. Her agitation was
growing. Suddenly her hands clasped together. Then they fell apart in a
movement of wringing. She turned on Blanche.
“Why--why did you lend him your horse, Blanche?” she cried. “Why--why
did you let him go? Oh, it’s awful! If--if you’d told me I could have
stopped him easy. He’d have done as I said. Don’t you see? I do. Oh,”
she went on, turning again to Jim, “I know what you mean, talking of
the peace of this valley. You reckon Lightning has headed Andy from
getting the Police around. Ther’s only one way for Lightning when it
comes to fixing things. If he’s after Andy McFardell he means to kill
him. He will kill him. And it won’t be to head off the Police from this
valley either. Oh, it’s all crazy. It’s terrible. It’ll be murder,
and--and Lightning’s done it. He’s a reckless, crazy-headed savage.
He’s the whitest, loyalest friend. And they’ll take him, and hang him,
for--murder. I know,” she went on, in a surge of emotion. “None of you
know, or can ever get the things lying back of Lightning’s head. He
cares nothing for himself. Nothing for anybody but--me. He’s gone to
kill Andy McFardell, and he’ll never quit till he’s done it.”
Molly stared out hopelessly at the winking lights which had seemed so
beautiful, so peaceful, such a brief while before. Now everything was
changed. Tears gathered unheeded as she yielded to the dread thoughts
which her vision had conjured.
Jim stirred helplessly in his chair. He was yearning to take her
in his arms and undo the mischief his words had brought about. But
somehow he felt he had done right. And it was with Blanche’s knowledge
and approval he had acted. He looked over at Blanche. She was calmly
watchful. All that had happened she had foreseen. And, as certainly as
it had happened, she knew the effect would swiftly pass.
It was left to Larry to break up the silence. It was left to him to
distract Molly’s mind from the shock of her own feelings. And he did
it in no uncertain fashion. He sprang from his chair and passed to the
verandah post, and stood leaning his big body against it.
“Is it murder to shoot a wolf?” he cried hotly. “Is it murder to kill
a foul, stenching skunk? Not on your life. If Lightning’s killed that
swine, I’m out to see he makes a right getaway.” Suddenly he broke
into a queer, short laugh. “Say, folk,” he cried, with a humour that
was irresistible, “I was never so glad of this valley, and this crazy
layout of Jim’s, as I am right now. Don’t worry a thing, Molly. Don’t
you drop one of those dandy tears. We’re men on this ranch, not saints.
And there isn’t a soul among us but says Lightning’s right--dead right.
My only worry is that Lightning shall kill that feller good an’ plenty.”
Without pausing for the result of his utterly immoral approval of
murder, he stepped off the verandah. But he turned at once at Blanche’s
smiling challenge.
“Where now, Larry?” she asked gently.
The man made a little gesture of impatience.
“Why, to fix my horse right. I pull right out after supper. There’s
going to be no darn hanging for Lightning.”
Blanche shook her head.
“No, boy,” she said, with decision. “You men are all mostly foolish
when your heads get hot. You’re going to stop around here to see no
hurt comes to the woman who doesn’t know better than to marry a man
whose head Nature intended to get hot. Lightning doesn’t need your
help. He borrowed my Pedro. And--he’ll bring him right back here. I
know that. And I guess Molly knows it, too. She and Jim here can ride
down to the farm to-morrow. She’ll ride her own pinto that Lightning
insisted on bringing up for her. Maybe Molly’s quick eyes’ll see things
Jim isn’t likely to.”
Then she turned to the girl beside her. She took possession of one of
her hands, and caressed it between her own soft palms.
“Then you’ll come right along back here, dear,” she said. “You can’t
quit us till you’re well and strong, and feel good for the work you
belong to.”
“But you never told me Lightning brought my pinto along up,” Molly
exclaimed.
Blanche smiled.
“Didn’t I?” she said. “Guess I must have forgotten.”
The two women looked into each other’s eyes, and the girl squeezed one
of the hands caressing hers.
“I guess you’re right, Blanche,” she said, with a little sigh. Then her
smile began to dawn again. “I--I think you’re most always right. Sure
I’ll go to-morrow. The harvest must be fixed, and--I guess Lightning
won’t fail me.”
Blanche sighed contentedly.
“No,” she said, “Lightning won’t fail you.”
* * * * *
Supper was over. At the girl’s request Jim had gone with her down to
the barn where her pinto was stabled. She wanted to see her little
mare again, that creature that was almost part of her life. Larry and
Blanche were alone on the verandah. They were standing together where
the others had left them. One of the man’s arms was about the woman’s
shapely shoulders, and she was drawn close up to him.
“You’re all wrong, Blanche, sending that little kid down there to look
at the show where all her trouble happened,” Larry said, with a wise
shake of the head. “Jim ought to’ve bucked right away. What sort of
good are you looking for? Look at the way she broke up over Lightning.
You’re taking a hell of a chance. And if I’d been Jim----”
Blanche laughed softly.
“Oh, you boys,” she said. “You’re all so--so wise, and strong, and
brave, and big. But you’re just big foolish kids when it comes
to--women. The only chance I’ve taken is that Jim’s no fool. And I
don’t guess he’s that way.”
The red head turned quickly and looked down into the fact that was
laughing up at him.
“But you know Lightning’s not there,” Larry said. “You know as well as
we do he’s gone after that miserable skunk. You know as well as that
kid does he’ll kill him sure. Why not let me get out to pass him a
hand, and you keep Jim and Molly right here? Say, there isn’t sense in
the thing you’ve fixed. There surely isn’t.”
“Isn’t there?” Blanche sighed happily. She raised a hand to her
shoulder and clasped it about the muscular fist she found there. “Of
course I know all those things, Larry,” she went on. “All those things
are so. It’s man’s way, so it’s Lightning’s. Molly’s right. He’ll never
leave McFardell alive. He’ll follow him and kill him.” The man felt her
shudder, for all the calmness with which she spoke. “Maybe I’m all
wrong. Maybe I’m callous and wicked. But I’m not interested in anything
but Jim’s happiness--Jim’s and Molly’s. Molly’s fallen for Jim. I know.
You see, another woman can see these things. Well, to-morrow’s Jim’s
opportunity. On the way down, before she sees for herself that---- Oh,
psha! anything might happen. She’s impulsive. Lightning! If she thought
he needed her help, good-bye everything else. Jim must fix things on
the way down. And I’m wicked enough, vicious enough, to hope that Andy
McFardell comes by his deserts.”
Blanche felt the squeeze of the man’s hand.
“There’s nothing wicked to you, Blanche,” he said. “I’m with you that
McFardell gets his med’cine good an’ plenty. But say, kid,” he cried
eagerly, “you’ll let me pass a hand to Lightning? I want him to kill
that skunk. I do so. It’s queer. I got this place in my bones.” He
laughed boyishly. “I just hate it I’m the only feller around this
outfit that doesn’t need to worry in the daylight.”
Blanche’s laugh came low and full of humour. She glanced up at him
slily.
“Oh, Larry,” she cried, “you are--you certainly are a crazy---- And
what about me? Do you reckon I’m going to marry you to be toted along
on the run from justice?”
The man remained quite undisturbed by the threat. His arm tightened
about the girl’s slim body and his eyes lit mischievously.
“Why not?” he asked, with a grin. “I haven’t heard that Jim had to ask
you twice, with him on the run.”
“Yes, but Jim needed me.”
“Well?”
Blanche’s eyes shone in the darkness. She reached up and tenderly
kissed the freckled face she loved.
“Neither will you, Larry, boy,” she said, all her love shining in her
eyes. “If Jim fixes things with Molly so he no longer needs us here,
why, I’ll beat the longest trail with you you can figure out, just how
and when you want me. Yes, and you can do all you fancy for Lightning.”
CHAPTER XXXVIII
Lightning’s Triumph
For the third time in his life Beelzebub was in the company of Molly’s
pinto mare. The little creature was above herself. She was full of
oats, and bored to extinction with the luxurious monotony of a barn
to which she was quite unaccustomed. So she danced her way through
the Gateway with a frivolity unbecoming her years, and her splendid
companion looked on in dignified unconcern.
The morning was fresh. There was a nip in the air, which was calm
with the promise of a later blazing day. The sun was rolling up the
night mists, and with every passing moment fresh vistas of forest, and
valley, and crag, were appearing through the thin grey of the lifting
veil.
Molly had waited for nothing. She had risen that morning with the
dawn, full of an intense yearning for the home that was hers, and the
queer, disreputable old servant and friend for whom she entertained
the gravest fears. Her anxiety was real. It was even a little more
desperate than Blanche cared to see. So the older woman had urged her
brother promptly.
Once beyond the barren crags of the Gateway, Jim and Molly were
swallowed up by the forest. And somehow their earlier talk died out in
harmony with the hush of their surroundings.
Jim’s whole thought was for the girl beside him. The meaning of their
journey in his mind had little enough to do with Lightning, and the
life or death of Andy McFardell. He knew well enough that they would
find the farm to-day as he had found it yesterday. He had no hope that
it would be otherwise. The trip in that respect was useless. It was
worse than useless in so far as Molly’s peace of mind was concerned.
Then it might undo so much that had already been accomplished. No. He
felt it was all wrong. Yet the appeal of it was irresistible.
Molly wished to visit her home. Then Molly should do so. Molly desired
to retake her place in those affairs of life which concerned her. So
it must be. She was troubled. Well, his greatest desire was that he
might be beside her to help her, to comfort her, to make clear to her
that she was no longer alone, to face the life that had already treated
her so hard; that, whatever chanced, whatever might befall the old
man to whom she was so devoted, his own whole future was hers. He was
hers--body and soul.
So he watched the girl as they rode through the shadowed forest
beyond the Gateway. So he spoke ready words of comfort when her fears
threatened to overwhelm her. He laughed her nightmare to scorn, and
by sheer effort of will forced the return of her smile to her eyes.
And through it all he knew he was fighting for himself as much as for
her. Through it all he knew he was acting a lie. For, whatever Blanche
believed, he had little enough hope that any of them would ever again
set eyes on the grizzled creature, who, he felt certain, had set out on
one final act of devotion.
They had long since breasted the hill overlooking the Gateway. At the
summit Molly turned to gaze back on the blessed haven that had come to
mean so much to her. And as she gazed a doubt flashed through her mind.
Would she return to it? Would it be possible? Would not she be held at
the farm to succour the man who was ready even to kill for her?
In that tense moment she cried out:
“Oh, I wish I could get it into my fool head I’d find him there cutting
the harvest when I get home.”
“Don’t think about it, Molly,” Jim said gently. “There’s things no wish
or act of ours can alter.” He smiled. “I guess Lightning’s one of ’em.”
Molly lifted her reins, and her impatient mare moved hastily on.
The last of the hill mists had been swept away. The great August sun
was scorching the grass and woodlands with its brazen rays. It was
a wide, rugged world, encircled by hills whose snow-capped summits
reached up to the very clouds. It was a glorious arena, miles in
extent, with lesser hills and stretches of forest littered throughout
its length and breadth.
They kept to the bank of the creek which flowed eastward. They hugged
its course over a trail that had become almost marked by the traffic
of their horses. And an hour’s riding brought them to the point where
they must leave the soft, springy soil of the creek bank and take to
the bed of the stream itself. It was here that the whole nature of the
country abruptly changed. It was the beginning of the gorge, which only
terminated at the dark passage of the tunnel.
Molly hesitated as Jim indicated the water.
“It’s easy,” he said, with a smile. “I guess your pinto knows it, if
her memory’s good. Maybe you don’t. Those grey eyes of yours couldn’t
see a thing, Molly, when I carried you up this stream.”
Molly gazed downstream at the narrowing hills that lined it on either
side. She shook her head.
“No,” she said quickly. “And I sort of don’t want to remember.” Then,
in flat contradiction, she asked: “You--you carried me along--this?”
“Sure.”
“My!”
Molly’s eyes were smiling. For one moment her nightmare had left her,
and a soft light shone in her eyes.
“I must have been mighty heavy,” she said.
Then, almost at once, she frowned. Again the purpose of their journey
flooded her mind.
Jim ignored the frown and laughed.
“Mostly feather-weight,” he said easily. “You see, I’m not old. I got
white hair, but I wouldn’t say there’s many years between us. Say,
Molly----”
But that which he would have added remained unspoken. Perhaps Molly
guessed. Perhaps her little mare’s eagerness was real. At any rate, the
pinto recklessly took to the shallow water of the creek, and its chill
set her sporting with apparent delight.
There was a moment in which Beelzebub watched her curiously. He stood
on the bank with his head raised and his nostrils a-quiver. Then he
moved. He stepped down into the water, which covered little more than
his fetlocks, and his manner was completely dignified. But the gallant
creature knew what was due to his sex. He went ahead of the mare and
led the way.
* * * * *
They were at the mouth of the cavern, gazing down at the waters of the
lagoon. A few yards ahead of them the stream hurled itself, tumbling
and splashing, to the depths below. The full light of the sun blazed
athwart the cavern entrance, and the rugged beauty of the valley of
Three-Way Creek lay spread out in full view.
The pinto had drawn abreast of the black. And the two creatures stood
together like statues. They stood with ears pricked and heads thrown
up, and their soft eyes were far gazing, while their sensitive nostrils
quivered with a scarcely expressed equine greeting.
It was neither the cascading waters, nor the beauty of daylight after
the darkness of the tunnel, nor the mysterious depths of the waters
of the lagoon, that preoccupied the riders as well as their horses.
Molly and Jim were startled into complete silence, while their horses
apparently regarded that which they beheld as a revelation of the
intensest interest. A big sorrel horse, saddled and bridled, was down
there beyond the waters of the lagoon, searching amongst the boulders,
cropping hungrily at the green, ripe tufts of grass that grew about
them.
Even at that distance there was no mistaking the identity of the horse;
its size, rich colour, its short, staunchly-ribbed body. It was Pedro.
And he was roaming free, even though he remained saddled, and it looked
as though his bit had not been removed from his mouth.
It was Molly who drew attention to the latter detail. Perhaps Jim
was less observant. Perhaps his mind was more deeply absorbed in the
significance of the apparition. At any rate, he had given no sign from
the moment he reined in Beelzebub and permitted Molly’s mare to come
abreast.
“Do you see?” the girl asked, in a low, hushed tone, as she raised a
hand, pointing. “Pedro’s tight cinched, and his bit’s still fixed.”
She shook her head. “That sure isn’t Lightning. Lightning doesn’t
set a horse grazing that way. Where is he? Lightning? Do you see
him--anywhere?”
For some moments Jim made no reply. He was searching in every direction
for a sign of the man who should have been there with his horse. There
was none that he could discover.
“I don’t see him around,” he said. “I don’t see a sign of a noon
camp.” He drew a deep breath. Then he added, with a decision that was
unforced: “But he’s there, sure. He’s right down there--somewhere.”
He glanced round at the girl beside him as he spoke, and discovered
something of the effect which the sight of Pedro had had upon her. She
was deathly pale in the sunlight, and her eyes had widened with a look
of deep concern.
“You think that?” she cried. “You guess he’s--down there? Then,”
she went on, as Jim inclined his head, “something bad’s happened.
He’s--he’s sick, or it’s a fall. Maybe--he’s---- Oh, say, Jim, we can
get right down there? Yes, sure we can. I know. Oh, let’s get right on
down. Maybe he’s hurt. Maybe----”
But Jim waited for no more. He had caught the infection of Molly’s
fears. To Molly it seemed that Lightning must be sick. It was even
possible he had had a fall. To Jim it was neither of these things which
had left Pedro still saddled and bridled, grazing free. Surely there
was more lying behind their discovery. And it was the thought of grave
possibilities that set him hastily moving on to the descent to the
lagoon.
* * * * *
Lightning stirred uneasily. A muffled sound escaped him that terminated
in an almost soundless, choking cough. The weak movement of his head
and chest, as the fit went on, had utter helplessness in it. But it
ceased at last, and his lips were dyed with crimson, and a trickle of
blood had found its way to the corners of his mouth.
The cattleman was sprawled in the shade of an up-standing boulder.
He was propped against it, with his long legs spread out towards the
lapping waters of the lagoon, which were almost within reach of the
hand that lay palm upwards on the bed of stone upon which he was lying.
It was the identical boulder that had once sheltered Molly.
He looked to have slipped down from the sitting position he had
originally taken up. Now only his shoulders rested against the
water-smoothed sides of the stone. He was lying over, almost on his
side. His grizzled, bare head was lolling forward, till his tatter of
whisker was pressed down on his blood-stained shirt. His eyes were
closed, and his sunken cheeks were ghastly. Then, too, his lower jaw
was slightly sagging, in the grievous fashion of a creature whose last
will-power is exhausted.
But, whatever his appearance, exhaustion of will was not yet. The
shattered body was living in a soul that refused to yield. Lightning
was near enough to death. But the work he had designed was not yet
completed, and so he battled to hold together the dregs of his life.
The flies were swarming, lured by the sanguinary ooze from the man’s
two wounds. But their aggravation left him indifferent. His remaining
purpose was too precious to permit of irritation from so small a
thing. Molly was somewhere up there in the hills. He had yet miles of
difficult trail to make before he reached her. He must reach her. He
must reach those who were caring for her. There was that splendid horse
he had borrowed. Then there was his news for the men-folk. Faint with
bodily exhaustion, gasping and choking at intervals, he pondered these
things.
He had ridden so far since--since---- Yes, and he had no intention
of failing in the rest. He would lie where he was till his breathing
got better. Then he would get up and ride on. Yes, he would get up.
Of course, he would get up as soon as his breath got better. It was
nothing but darn laziness, lying around with work still to be done.
It was a great thought he was going to see Molly again so soon. How
long was it? Yes, it was days. And somehow he couldn’t count them. But
it didn’t matter--now he was going back to her. He guessed she’d be
well by now. But he wouldn’t tell her about--about---- No. It was good
news, but he best not tell her. He wouldn’t unless--unless she forced
him to.
But he would tell the others. Oh, yes. He would tell Jim Pryse.
Jim Pryse would need to know, because he hadn’t a thing to worry
about--now. He was a bully feller. A great boy. It was queer his hair
was white. But it didn’t matter. A feller who could act the way he had
for a brother was the boy to see Molly right.
Something broke in on the man’s disjointed thought.
He stirred uneasily. A far-off sound had startled him. It was the sound
of voices that broke through his misty comprehension. He wondered dully
who it could be talking. Who could be around? But he made no attempt to
move. He made no attempt even to open his eyes. There seemed to be no
need. And then he could think better, and hear better, with his eyes
closed. Darkness seemed to help him. He wanted to think clearly. He
wanted so badly to think of--Molly.
His movement again bestirred his helpless coughing, and he forgot
all about the voices. Then again, with the passing of his agony, his
thoughts went back to other things. The farm again came into his dazing
mind, and he thought of the harvest he meant to begin cutting as soon
as he had taken Molly back home.
It was a swell crop. The ear was long and heavy. And there had been no
early frosts to damage it. What a bunch of money Molly would collect
for it in Hartspool. Yes, it was Hartspool. A queer name for a prairie
town. But it was fine now that she was free of that-- She mustn’t work
too hard. No. She’d been sick. Of course she’d been sick. He’d almost
forgotten about it. And she was feeling bad. He wondered why she felt
bad. There wasn’t need. Not now that--that----
Ah! What was that? That was his name. Lightning? Of course it was his
name. Who was calling?
A moment passed while he summoned his will. Then his eyes slowly opened.
“Molly!” he cried.
Lightning made a tremendous effort. By sheer will-power he lifted
himself and made his dying body obey him. He sat up. He drew up his
knees and clasped his lean hands about. Only a moment before they
had lain limp and inert upon his stone bed. But the cost was great.
Greater than he knew. He paid for it in a terrible fit of that hideous,
soundless cough.
Jim Pryse was standing over him. His pitying gaze was for that
grievous, unkempt figure. He saw the blood-stains on the shirt, and on
the stone on which Lightning had been lying. He beheld the ooze dying
the corners of his hard old mouth. And he knew. There could be no
mistaking the sign. Death was very near. The man’s superb courage alone
supported him and carried him through the fierce effort he was making.
Molly was kneeling on the stone beside him. Already one of her arms was
flung about the lean shoulders of the dying man. She, too, understood.
And her action was less a support than a caress.
In that supreme moment Lightning looked to need no support. He squatted
on his old haunches in a fashion so familiar. His lower jaw was no
longer sagging. His head was erect, and a queer sort of smile looked
back into the girl’s passionately troubled eyes. It was the moment of
his life.
“I was comin’ right--along--up,” he gasped. Then a queer look
replaced his smile. “You hadn’t need to--butt in--Molly, gal. I ain’t
needin’--no sort o’ help,” he complained.
Molly looked into the dying eyes; she saw the blood ooze at his mouth,
the poor, sunken cheeks so ghastly. She wanted to cry out. She was
swept to her soul by passionate pity.
“But you’re hit, Lightning,” she cried. “You’re wounded. Oh, God?
You’re wounded to--death.”
A flash of storm lit the old man’s eyes.
“Ther’--ain’t--no--feller,” he gasped, “wi’ the guts to shoot up
‘Two-gun’ Rogers. You’re--wrong, Molly, gal. I ain’t--shot up. He
couldn’t--shoot up a--buck louse. I left him feed for the coyotes. I
ain’t--shot--up,” he cried obstinately. “Jest grazed. That’s all. It’s
this--darn cough.”
Molly looked away. Her agony of mind was terrible. The sight nearly
broke her heart. She gazed up at Jim in helpless appeal, and the man
dropped on his knees beside her.
“Isn’t ther’ a thing we can do?” she cried. “Oh, Jim, tell me.
Can’t----”
“Cut it--out, Molly, gal,” Lightning mumbled, as his body rocked.
“Ther’ ain’t goin’--to be--no bleatin’.”
His choking attacked him again. It was ghastly. Then came the blood
ooze afresh, and the poor old creature gasped out his words through it.
His eyes were on Jim. And their eagerness suggested that anxiety was
pressing.
“You’re--clear--of--him,” he spluttered. “I shot him cold at the
fork--o’ the Calford trail. I gave him a chanct--that was no--darn
chanct. We stood up at fifty--wi’ two shots each. He dropped--cold. I
come along up--to--to tote Molly, gal, home. Guess--I won’t make it,
though. This darn cough----”
Again Lightning choked. And it was moments before he recovered
sufficiently to go on. When he did, however, his hands had parted from
about his knees. He would have fallen heavily back against the stone
but for Molly’s support.
His eyes were half closed now, but they still gazed urgently up at the
white-haired man.
“Say,” he cried, with a spasm of dying energy, “it’s up to--you.” He
gasped. Now, curiously, his cough made no return. “You’ll fix--her
right? Guess I’m--failin’ through. She ain’t got no one but me. An’
I guess--I’m--done. You will? You’re clear o’ that skunk. So’s she.
You’ll----”
Jim nodded. In that moment of the old man’s agony he was glad enough
to help him. But he knew that, even at the moment of death, the old
creature was contriving another service.
“Lightning, old feller,” he said earnestly, “you don’t need to worry
a thing for Molly, gal. I’m crazy to marry her, if she’ll have me.
And I’ll make good for her, too, same as you’d have me do. Don’t go,
old feller,” he said, thrusting his arm about the dying man for added
support. “Just ask her yourself. Then you’ll know.”
There was a moment without response. The cattleman’s eyes rolled
ominously. But finally they found Molly’s face, and remained looking
into it.
“You’ll--mate--up with him?” he mumbled, in a faint whisper.
The girl was powerless to hold back the flood of tears which rolled all
unheeded down her cheeks. But she steadied herself to reply.
Her simple “Yes” came in a low tone no louder than the old cattleman’s
whisper. And, though her face was deliberately turned from the man
beside her, it reached his keenly intent ears.
But, alas, it fell without meaning upon the dead ears of the faithful
Lightning.
THE END
TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES:
Italicized text is surrounded by underscores: _italics_.
Obvious typographical errors have been corrected.
Inconsistencies in hyphenation have been standardized.
Archaic or variant spelling has been retained.
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