During these days Bayard saw Ann regularly. He would be up before dawn that he might do the necessary riding after his cattle and reach Yavapai before sunset, because, somehow, he felt that to see another man's wife by daylight was less of a transgression than though he went under cover of darkness. Perhaps it was also because he feared that in spite of his caution to keep Ann's identity secret, in spite of the community's accepted first conclusion, Yavapai might learn that she was wife and not sister, and wished to fortify her against the sting of comment that might be passed should the revelation occur and his affection for her be guessed.
He was punctilious about his appearance. Invariably he changed shirts and overalls before riding to the town, and he had reserved one gorgeous green silk scarf for those occasions. He never appeared before the woman unshaven and, since his one confessional outburst, he was as careful of his speech, his manner, as he was of his person.
Ann had taken to Arizona whole heartedly and dressed suitably for the new life she was leading—divided skirts, simple blouses, a brimmed hat that would shade her eyes. Her cheeks bronzed from sun and wind, the blood pumped closer to her skin from the outdoor life and her eyes, above the latent pain in their depths, took on the brilliance of health. Her new manner of dress, the better color that came to her face and accentuated her beauty, the growing indications of vitality about her, served only to fan the flame in Bayard's heart, for as it made her more attractive to him, it also made her more understandable, brought her nearer to his virile kind.
"I've come to tell you about him, ma'am," he always said, by way of opening their conversations.
Not once again did he call her by her given name, but, though he was always formal, stiffly polite, never allowing an intimation of personal regard to pass his lips, he could not hide the adoration in his eyes. It came through his dogged resolution to hold it back, for he could not keep his gaze from following her every move, every bend of her neck, change of her lips, lift of her arms and shoulders or free, rhythmic movement as she walked.
Ann saw and read that light and, though something in her kept demanding that she blind herself to its significance, that, if necessary to accomplish this, she refuse to give Bayard gaze for gaze, she could no more have hidden the fact of that evidence of his love from her understanding than she could have stopped the quickening of her pulse when he approached.
Nora saw that light, too. She saw the trouble with it in his face; and the realization of what it all meant was like a stab in the breast. He had ceased entirely to laugh and banter with her as he had done before Ann Lytton came to Yavapai; in other days he had always eaten at the Manzanita House when in town, and his humorous chiding had been one of the things in which the girl found simple delight. Now, he came and went without eating; his words to her were few, almost without exception they were of the other woman and, always, his speech was sober.
Mrs. Weyl returned to Yavapai and with her coming Ann found another outlet for the trouble that she fought vainly to repress. To Bayard she had given the fullest detail of her confidence; through Nora she had found a method of forgetting for short successions of hours. But Bayard was a man, and between them was the peculiar barrier which his love had erected; Nora was not the type to which Ann would go for comfort and there, anyhow, was again a dividing circumstance which could not wholly be overcome. It was the emotional receptiveness of an understanding woman that Ann Lytton needed; she wanted to be mothered, to be pitied, to be assured in the terms of her kind and all that she found in the clergyman's wife.
"Why, the poor child!" that good woman had cried when, on her arrival home, her husband had told her of Ann's presence. "And you say her brother has disappeared?"
"From Yavapai, yes; I suspect, though, that Bruce Bayard knows something of where he is and I guess the girl could find him. Something peculiar about it, though. Bruce is worried. And I think he's quite desperately in love."
Forthwith, his wife dropped all other duties and went to Ann. In fifteen minutes the novelty of acquaintance had worn off and in an hour Ann was crying in the motherly arms, while she poured her whole wretched story into the sympathetic ears; that is, all of the story up to the day when Bruce Bayard told her why she must not help him nurse Ned Lytton back to physical and moral health.
To the accompaniment of many there-there's and dear-child's and caresses Ann's outburst of grief spent itself and the distress that had reflected on the countenance of the older woman gave way to an expression of sweet understanding.
"And because of everything, we—Mr. Bayard and I—had thought it best to let people go on thinking that I am ... Ned's sister.... You see, it might be embarrassing to have them talk."
Her look wavered and the face of Mrs. Weyl showed a sudden comprehension. For a breath she sat gazing at the profile of the girl beside her. Then she leaned forward, kissed her on the cheek and said,
"I know, daughter, I know."
That meeting led to daily visits and soon Bruce and Ann were invited to eat their evening meal at the Weyls'. It was a peculiar event, with the self-consciousness of Ann and the rancher putting an effective damper on the conversation. Afterward, when the men sat outside in the twilight, Bruce smoking a cigarette and the minister drawing temperately on an aged cob pipe, the cowman broke a lengthy silence with:
"I'm glad she told your wife ... about bein' his wife.... It relieves me. A thing like that is considerable of a secret to pack around."
The other blew ashes gently from the bowl of his pipe, exposing the ruby coal before he spoke.
"If you ever think there's anything any man can do to help—from listening on up—just let me try, will you, my boy?"
"If any man could help, you'd be the one," was the answer. "But th' other day we sifted this thing down; it's up to th' man himself to be sure that he's ridin' th' open trail an' ain't got anything to cover up.
"But lately so much has happened that I don't feel free, even when I'm out on the valley. I feel, somehow, like I was under fence ... fenced in."
Nora and Ann continued their rides together and one afternoon they had gone to the westward in the direction of Bayard's ranch. It was at Nora's suggestion, after they had agreed that Bruce might be on his way to Yavapai that day. In the distance, they had sighted a rider and after watching him a time saw him wave his hat.
"That's him," the waitress said. "Here's some fine grass; let's give th' horses a bite an' let 'em cool till he comes up."
They waited there then, slouched in their saddles. Ann wanted to talk about something other than Bruce, because, at the mention of his name, that old chill was bound to assert itself in Nora.
"This is a better horse than the one I've had," she commented, stroking the pony's withers and hoping to start talk that would make the interval of waiting one of ease between them.
"Yes," agreed Nora, "but he's got a bad eye. I was afraid of him when we first started out, but he seems to be all right. Bruce had one that looked like him once an' he tried to pitch me off."
"Hold up your head, pony," Ann said, "You'll get us into trouble—"
Her horse, searching grass, had thrust his head under the pony Nora rode and, as Ann pulled on the reins, he responded with the alacrity of a nervous animal, striking the stirrup as he threw up his head. He crouched, backed, half turned and Nora's spur caught under the headstall of his bridle. It was a bridle without a throat-latch, and, at the first jerk, it slipped over his ears, the bit slid from his mouth and clattered on the rocks. Ann's first laugh changed to a cry of fright. Nora, with a jab of her spurs, started to send her pony close against the other, reaching out at the same time with her arms to encircle his head. But she was too late, too slow. The freed horse trotted off a few steps, throwing his nose to one side in curiosity, felt no restraint, broke into a lope, struck back along the road toward town and, surprised, frightened by his unexpected liberty, increased his pace to a panicky run.
Behind, Nora pulled her horse up sharply, knowing that to pursue would only set the runaway at a greater speed.
"Hang on!" she shouted, in a voice shrill with excitement. "Hang on!"
Ann was hanging on with all her strength. She was riding, too, with all the skill at her command; for greater safety she clung to the horn with both hands. She tried to speak to the horse under her, thinking that she might quiet him by words, but the rush of wind whipped the feeble sounds from her lips and their remnants were drowned in the staccatoed drumming of hoofs as the crazed beast, breathing in excited gulps, breasted the hill that led them back toward town, gathering speed with every leap that carried them forward.
Nora, seeing that a runaway was inevitable, cried to her mount and the pony, keyed to flight, sped along behind the other, losing with every length traveled. Tears of fright spilled from the girl's eyes, chilling her cheeks. What might happen was incalculable, she knew.
Then new sounds, above the beat of her horse's hoofs, above the wind in her ears; the sweeping, measured, rolling batter of other hoofs, and Nora turned her head to see Bruce Bayard, mouth set, eyes glowing, brim of his hat plastered back against the crown by his rush, urge his big sorrel horse toward her. He hung low over the fork of his saddle, clear of his seat, tense, yet lithe, and responding to every undulation of the beast that carried him.
From a distance Bayard had seen. He thought at first that Ann had started her pony purposely, but when the animal raced away toward town at such frantic speed, when Ann's hat was whipped from her head, when he heard a distant, faint scream, he knew that no prompting of the woman's had been behind the break. He stretched himself low over Abe's neck and cried aloud, hung in his spurs and fanned the great beast's flanks with his quirt. Never before had the sorrel been called upon so sharply; never before had he felt such a prodding of rowels or lashing of rawhide. Ears back, nose out, limbs flexing and straightening, spurning the roadway with his drumming hoofs, the great animal started in pursuit.
For a mile the road held up hill, following closely the rim of a rise that hung high above the valley to the right. As it rose, the wagon track bent to the left, with the trend of the rim. At the crest of the hill Yavapai would be visible; from there the road, too, could be seen, swinging in a big arc toward the town, which might be reached by travel over a straight line; but that way would lead down an abrupt drop and over footing that was atrocious, strewn withmalpaisboulders and rutted by many washes.
It was to overtake Ann's runaway before he topped this rise that Bayard whipped his sorrel. He knew what might happen there. The animal that bore the woman was crazed beyond control, beyond his own horse judgment. He was running, and his sole objective was home. Now, he was taking the quickest possible route and the moment he struck the higher country he might leave the road and go straight for Yavapai, plunging down the sharp point that stood three hundred feet above the valley, and making over the rocks with the abandon of a beast that is bred and reared among them. Well enough to run over rough ground at most times, but in this insane going the horse would be heedless of his instinctive caution, sacrificing everything for speed. He might fall before he reached the valley floor, he might lose his footing at any yard between there and town, and a fall in that ragged, volcanic rock, would be a terrible thing for a woman.
Abe responded superbly to the urging. He passed Nora's pony in a shower of gravel. His belly seemed to hang unbelievably close to the ground, his stride lengthened, his tail stood rippling behind him, his feet smote the road as though spitefully and he stretched his white patched nose far out as if he would force his tendons to a performance beyond their actual power. But he could not make it; the task of overcoming that handicap in that distance was beyond the ability of blood and bone.
As he went on, leap by leap, and saw that his gaining was not bringing him beside Ann in time, Bayard commenced to call aloud to the horse under him, and his eyes grew wide with dread.
His fears were well grounded. As though he had planned it long before, as if the whole route of his flight had been preconceived, the black pony swung to the right as he came up on level ground. He cut across the intervening flat and, ears back, hindquarters scrooching far under his body as he changed his gait for the steep drop, he disappeared over the rim.
Bayard cried aloud, the sorrel swung unbidden on the trail of the runaway and twenty yards behind stuck his fore feet stiffly out for the first leap down the rock-littered point. Unspeakable footing, that.Malpaislumps, ranging from the size of an egg to some that weighed tons, were everywhere. Between them sparse grass grew, but in no place was there bare ground the size of a horse's hoof, and for every four lengths they traveled forward, they dropped toward the valley by one!
Ears up now, the sorrel watched his footing anxiously, but the black pony, eyes rolling, put his whole vigor into the running, urged on to even greater efforts by the nearness of the pursuing animal. The fortune that goes with flying bronchos alone kept his feet beneath his body.
Bayard's mouth was open and each time the shock of being thrown forward and down racked his body, the breath was beaten from him. He looked ahead, watching the footing at the bottom, leaving that over which they then passed to his horse, for the most critical moment in a run such as they took is when the horses strike level ground. Then they are apt to go end over end, tripped by the impetus that their rush downhill gives them. He knew that he could not overtake and turn Ann's pony with safety before they reached the bottom. He feared that to come abreast of him might drive the frantic beast to that last effort which would result in an immediate fall. Every instant was precious; every leap filled with potential disaster.
The stallion left off pretense at clean running. He slipped and floundered and scrambled down the point; at times almost sitting on his haunches to keep the rush of his descent within safety and retain control of his balance. Slowly he drew closer to the other animal, crowding a bit to the left to be nearer, grunting with his straining, dividing his attention between preserving caution and making progress.
Ann's hair came down, tumbling about her shoulders, then down her back, and finally brushed the sweated coat of her runaway with its ends. The horrible sensation of falling, of pitching forward helplessly, swept through her vitals each time the animal under her leaped outward and down. It grew to an acute physical pain by its constant repetition. Her face was very white, but almost expressionless. Only her eyes betrayed the fear in her by their darkness, by their strained lids. Her mouth was fixed in determination to play the game to its end. She heard the other horse coming; Bayard's voice had called out to her. That was all she knew. This flight was horrible, tragic; with each move of her horse she feared that it must be the last, that she would be flung into those rocks, yet, somehow, she felt that it would end well. For Bayard was near her.
Not so with the man. As they slid down halfway to the valley, he cried aloud to his horse again, for he saw that along the base of the drop, right at the place toward which they were floundering, a recent storm had gouged a fresh wash. Deep and narrow and rock filled, and, if her horse, unable to stop, unable to turn with any degree of safety whatever went into that ...
Behind them, loosened rocks clattered along, the dust rose, their trail was marked by black blotches where the scant red soil had been turned up. The sorrel's nose reached the black's reeling rump; it stretched to his flank, to the saddle, to his shoulder.... And Ann turned her head quickly, appealingly.
"Careful ... Abe! Once more ... easy ..."
Bayard dropped his reins; he leaned to the left. He scratched with his spurs. His horse leaped powerfully twice, thrice, caution abandoned, risking everything now. The man swung down, his arm encircled Ann's waist, he brought the pressure of his right knee to bear against the saddle, and lifted her clear, a warm, limp weight against his body.
Staggering under the added burden, the stallion gathered himself for a try at the wash which he must either clear or in which he and those he carried were to fall in a tangle. Bayard, lifting the woman high, balanced in his saddle and gathered her closer.
The black floundered in uncertain jumps, throwing his head down in an effort to check his progress, was overcome by his own momentum and leaped recklessly. He misjudged, fell short and with a grunt and a thud and a threshing went down into the bald rocks that floods had piled in the gully.
Abe did not try to stop, to overcome the added impetus that this new weight gave him. He lowered his head in a show of determination, took the last three strides with a swift scramble and leaped.
Bayard thought that they were in the air for seconds. They seemed to float over that wash. Seemed to hang suspended a deliberate instant. Then they came down with a sob wrenched from the horse as his forefeet clawed the far footing for a retaining hold and his hindquarters, the bank crumbling under them, slipped down into the gully. He strained an instant against sliding further back, gathering himself in an agony of effort and floundered safely up!
Bruce became conscious that Ann's arms were about his neck, that her body was close against his. He knew that his limbs quivered, partly from the recent fright, partly from contact with the woman.
Abe staggered forward a few steps, halted and turned to look at his unfortunate brother galloping lamely toward Yavapai.
Except for the animal's breathing, the world was very quiet. For a moment Ann lay in Bayard's embrace; his one arm was about her shoulders, the other hooked behind her knees; then, convulsively, her arms tightened about his neck; she pressed her cheek against his and clung so while their hearts throbbed, one against the other. He had not moved, he refrained from crushing her, from taking her lips with his. It cost him dearly and the effort to resist shot another tremor through his frame. On that she roused.
"I wasn't afraid ... after I knew it was you," she said, raising her head.
"I was, ma'am," he said, soberly, lifting and seating her on Abe's withers.
"I was mighty scared. See what happened to your horse? That ... You'd have been with him in those rocks."
He dismounted, still supporting her in her position.
"You sit in th' saddle, ma'am; I'll walk an' lead Abe. You're ... you're not scared now?"
"A little,"—breathing deeply as he helped her, and, laughing in a strained tone. "I'll ... I'll be frightened later I expect, but I'm not now ... much ... It's you, you keep me from it," she said. "I'm not frightened with you."
"I tried to keep things so you won't have to be, ma'am."
Probably because she was weak, perhaps wholly because of the hot yearning that contact with him had roused in her, Ann swayed down toward him. It was as though she would fall into his arms, as though she herself would stir his repressed desire for her until it overcame his own judgment, and yield to his will there in the brilliant afternoon; as though she were going to him, then, for all time, regardless of everything, caring only for the instant that her lips should be on his. He started forward, flung up one arm as though to catch her; then drew back.
"Don't, ma'am," he begged. "Don't! For the sake ... for your sake, don't."
The woman swallowed and straightened her back as though just coming to the complete realization of what had happened.
"Forgive me," she whispered.
They had not heard Nora riding down to them, so great was their absorption in one another, but at that moment when Ann's head drooped and Bayard's shoulders flexed as from a great fatigue the waitress halted her horse beside them.
"God! I didn't think...."
She had looked at them with the fear that had struck her as she watched the last phase of their descent still gripping her. But in their faces she read that which they both struggled to hide from one another and the light that had been in her eyes went out. She turned her face away from them, looking out at the long afternoon shadows.
"I'll have to be gettin' back," she said, dully, as though unconscious of the words.
"We'll go with you, Nora," the man said, very quietly. "Mrs. Lytton," he pronounced the words distinctly as if to impress himself with their significance—"is the first person who has ever been on Abe but me.... He seems to like it."
Leading the horse by the reins, he began to climb the point back toward the road. In the east the runaway had dwindled to a bobbing fleck.
In the last moments of twilight Ann sat alone in her room, cheeks still flushed, limbs still trembling at intervals, pulses retaining their swift measure. She was unstrung, aquiver with strange emotions.
It was not wholly the fright of the afternoon that had provoked her nerves to this state; it was not alone the emotional surging loosed by her moment in Bayard's arms, her cheek against his cheek; nor was it entirely inspired by the fact, growing in portent with each passing hour, that Bruce had told her his work with Ned Lytton was all but ended, that within a day or two he was sending her husband to her. It was a combination of all this, with possibly her husband's impending return forming a background.
Again and again she saw Bruce as he delivered his message, heard his even, dogged voice uttering the words. He had waited until they reached the hotel, he had let Nora leave them and, then, in the sunset quiet, standing on the steps where she had first seen him, he had refused to hear her thanks for saving her from bodily hurt, and had broken in:
"It ain't likely I'll be in again for a while, ma'am. Your husband's about ready to move. I've done all I can; it'd only hurt him to stay on against his will. Sometime this week, ma'am, he'll be comin'."
And that was Wednesday! She had been struck stupid by his words. She had heard him no further, though he did say other things; she had watched him go, unable to call him back.
It relieved Ann not at all to tell herself that it was this for which she had waited, had worried, had restrained herself throughout these weeks; that she had come West to find her husband and that she was about to join him, knowing that he was strengthened, that he had been lifted up to a physical and mental level where she might guide him, aid him in the fight which must continue.
That knowledge was no solace. It was that for which she had outwardly waited, but it was that against which she inwardly recoiled. She realized this truth now, and conscience cried back that it must not be so, that she must stifle that feeling of revulsion, that she must welcome her husband, eagerly, gladly. And it went on to accuse ... that conscience; it shamed her because she had been held to the breast of another man; it scorned her because she had drawn herself closer to him with her own arms; it taunted her bitterly because she could not readily agree with her older self that in the doing she had sinned, because to her slowly opening eyes that moment had seemed the most beautiful interval of her life!
A peculiar difference in the vivacity of her impressions had been asserting itself. The memory of the runaway had faded. Her picture of the moment when she strained her body against Bayard's was not so clear as it had been an hour before, though the thrill, the great joy of it, still remained to mingle with those other thoughts and emotions which confused her. The last great impression of the day, though—Bayard's solemn announcement of his completed task—grew more sharply defined, more outstanding, more important as the moments passed, because its eventuality was a thing before which she felt powerless in the face of her conscience, before which all this other must be forgotten, before which this new rebellious Ann must give way to the old long-suffering, submissive wife. She felt as though she had known her moment of beauty and that it had gone, leaving her not even a sweet memory; for her grimmer self whispered that that brief span of time had been vile, unchaste. And yet, in the next moment, her strength had rallied and she was fighting against the influence of tradition, against blind precedents.
A knock came on her door and Ann, wondering with a thrill if it could be Bayard, both troubled and pleased at the possibility, stepped across the floor to answer it.
"Oh, Nora!" she said in surprise. "Come in,"—when the girl stood still in the hall, neither offering to speak nor to enter. "Do come in," she insisted after a pause and the other crossed the threshold, still without speaking.
"I've been sitting here in the dark thinking about what happened this afternoon," Ann said, drawing a chair to face hers that was by the window. "It was all very exciting, wasn't it?"
Nora had followed across the room slowly and Ann felt that the girl's gaze held on her with unusual steadfastness.
"I guess it's a fortunate thing that Bruce Bayard came along when he did. I ... I tremble every time I think of the way my horse went down!" She broke off and laughed nervously.
Nora stood before her, still silent, still eyeing her pointedly.
"Well ... Won't you sit down, Nora?"—confused by the portentous silence and the staring of the other. "Won't you sit down here?"
Mechanically the girl took her seat and Ann, wondering what this strange bearing might mean, resumed her own chair. They sat so, facing one another in the last sunset glow, the one staring stolidly, Ann covering her embarrassment, her wonder with a forced smile. Gradually, that smile faded, an uncertainty appeared in Ann's eyes and she broke out:
"Why, what is the matter with you, Nora?"
At that question the girl averted her face and let her hands drop down over the chair arms with careless laxity.
"Don't you know what it is?" she asked, in her deep, throaty voice, meeting Ann's inquiring gaze, shifting her eyes quickly, moving her shoulders with a slight suggestion of defiance.
"Why, no, Nora! You're so queer. Is something troubling you? Can't you tell me?"
Ann leaned forward solicitously.
The waitress laughed sharply, and lifted a hand to her brow, and shook her head.
"Don't you know what it is?" she asked again, voice hardening. "Can't you see? Are you blind? Or are you afraid?
"What'd you come out here for anyhow?" she cried, abruptly accusing, one hand out in a gesture of challenge, and Ann could see an angry flush come into her face and her lower lids puff with the emotion.
"Why, Nora...."
"Don't tell me! I know what you come for! You come to look after your worthless whelp of a man; that's why; an' you stayed to try to take mine!"—voice weakening as she again turned her face toward the window.
"Why, Nora Brewster ..."
The sharp shake of the girl's arm threw off Ann's hand that had gone out to grasp it and the rasp in Nora's voice checked the eastern woman's protest.
"Don't try to tell me anything different! I know! Can't I see? Am I as blind as you try to make me think you are?"—with another swagger of the shoulders as she moved in her chair. "Can't I see what's goin' on? Can't I see you makin' up to him an' eyein' him an' leadin' him on?—You, a married woman!"
"Nora, stop it!"
With set mouth Ann straightened, her breathing audible.
"Iwon'tstop. You're goin' to hear me through, understand? You're goin' to know all about it; you're goin' to know what I am an' what he is an' what's been between us ... what you've been breakin' up. Then, I guess you won't come in here with your swell eastern ways an' try to take him.... I guess not!"
She laughed bitterly and Ann could see the baleful glow in her eyes.
"I told you that he brung me here an' put me to work, I guess. Well, that was so; he did. I'll tell you where he got me." She hitched forward. "He brung me from th' Fork. You come through there; all you know 'bout it is that there's a swell hotel there an' it's a junction point. Well, the's a lot more to know about th' Fork ... or was."
She paused a moment and rubbed her palms together triumphantly, as if she had long anticipated this moment.
"When I was there, the' wasn't no hotel; the' wasn't nothin' but a junction an' ... hell itself. 'Twasn't a place with much noise about it, not so many killin's as some places maybe, but 'twas bad, low down.
"The' was a place there ... Charley Ling's.... 'Twas a Chinese place, with white women. I was one of 'em."
Ann gasped slightly and drew back, and Nora laughed.
"I thought that'd hurt," she mocked. "I thought you couldn't stand it!
"Charley's was a fine place. Sheep herders come there an' Mexicans an' sometimes somebody of darker color. We wasn't particular, see? We wasn't particular, I guess not! Men was white or black or red or yellow or brown, but their money was all one color....
"The' was dope an' booze an' ... hell.... Charley's was a reg'lar boil on th' face of God's earth, that's what it was.... He—Bruce Bayard—got me out of there."
The girl breathed hard and swiftly. Her upper lip was drawn back and her white teeth gleamed in the semi-darkness as she sat forward in her chair, flushed, her accusing face thrust forward toward the bewildered, horrified Ann Lytton.
"He got me there, so you know what I was, what I am. He brung me here, got me this job, has kept me here ever since,"—with a suggestion of faltering purpose in her voice. "It's been him ever since; just him. I'll say that for myself. I've been on th' level with Bruce an' ain't had nothin' to do with others.
"You see he's mine!"—her voice, which had dropped to a monotone, rose bitingly again. "He's mine; he's all I got. If 'twasn't for him, I wouldn't be here. If he quits me, I'll go back to that other. I don't want to go back; so long as he sticks by me I won't go back. If I leave, it'll be because I'm drove back....
"That's what you're doin'. You're drivin' me back to Charley's ... or some place like it...."
She moved from side to side, defiantly, and leaned further forward, resting her elbows on her knees, staring out into the darkened street below them.
"You come here, a married woman; you got one man now, an' he don't suit. So you think you're goin' to take mine. That's big business for a ... a respectable lady, like yourself, ain't it? Stealin' a man off a woman like me!"
She laughed shortly, and did not so much as look up as Ann tried to reply and could not make words frame coherent sentences.
"I've kept still until now, 'cause I ain't proud of my past, 'cause I thought you, havin' one man, had enough without meddlin' with mine. But I'm through keepin' my mouth shut now,"—menacingly. "I'm through, I tell you,"—wiping her hands along her thighs and straightening her body slowly as she turned a malevolent gaze on the silent Ann. "You're tryin' to take what belongs to me an' I won't set by an' let you walk off with him. I'll—
"Why, what'd this town say, if I was to tell 'em you're Ned Lytton's wife instead of his sister? They all know you've been havin' Bruce come here to your room; they all think he's your lover. First thing, they'd fire you out of th' hotel; then, they'd laugh at you as you walked along th' street! It'd ruin him, too; what with keepin' your man out at his ranch so's he can see you without trouble!"
Her voice had mounted steadily and, at the last, she rose to her feet, bending over the bewildered Ann and gesturing heavily with her right arm while the other was pressed tightly across her chest.
"That's what I come here to tell you to-night!" she cried. "That's what you know, now. But I want you to know that while I've been bad, as bad as women get, that I've been open about it; I ain't been no hypocrite; I ain't passed as a good woman an' ... been bad—"
"Nora, stop this!"
Ann leaped to her feet and confronted the girl, for the moment furious, combative. They faced one another in the faint light that came through the windows and before her roused intensity Nora stepped backward, yielding suddenly, frightened by this show of vigorous indignation, for she had believed that her accusation would grind the spirit, the pride, from Ann.
"Why, you-u-u- ..."
Ann's hands clenched and opened convulsively at her sides as she groped fruitlessly for words.
"You go now, Nora; go away from me! What you have said has been too contemptible, too base for me even to answer!"
She walked quickly to the door, opened it and faced about with a gesture of command. Nora hesitated a moment, then, without a word, walked from the room. In the hall she paused, back still toward Ann as though she had more that she would say, as if, possibly, she considered the advisability of going further; but, if that was true, she had no opportunity then, for the door closed firmly and the lock clicked.
It was the most confused moment in Ann's life. The identification of her husband, her several trying scenes with Bayard, would not compare with it. She heard Nora's slow, receding footsteps with infinite relief and, when they were quite gone, she realized that as she stood, back to the door, she was shaking violently. She was weakened, frightened by what had passed, and, as she strove through those minutes to control her thoughts, to marshal the elements of the ordeal through which she had come, she became possessed by the terrifying conviction that she had no defence to offer! That she could not answer the other woman's accusations, that by telling Nora she was above replying to those charges she was only hiding behind a front of false superiority, a veneer of assurance that was as artificial as it was thin.
She moved to her bed with lagging, uncertain steps and sat down with a long sigh; then, drew a wrist across her eyes, propping herself erect with the other arm.
"She ... he belongs to her ..." she said aloud, trying to bring coherence to her thinking by the uttered words. "He belongs ... to her...."
A slow warmth went through her body, into her cheeks to make them flame fiercely. That was a sense of guilt coming over her, shaming her, torturing her, and behind it, inspiring, urging it along, giving it strength, was that conscience of hers.
At other times she had defied that older self; only that evening she had regained some of the ground from which it had driven her by its last assault, lifting herself above the judgments she had been trained to respect because, in transgressing them, she had experienced a free, holy joy that had never been hers so long as she had remained within their bounds. But now! That cry for escape was gone.
She had been stealing another woman's man ... and such a woman!
Never before had she faced such ugly truths as the girl had poured upon her. Of the cancerous places in the social structure she had known, of course; at times she had even gone so far as to judge herself a wide-awake, keen-seeing woman, but now ... she shuddered as the woman's words came back to her, "White or black or red or brown; but their money was all th' same color." That was too horrible, too revolting; she could not accept it with a detached point of view. Its very truth—she did not doubt it—smirched her, for she had been stealing the man of such a woman!
Oh, that conscience was finding its revenge! That day it had been outraged, had been all but unseated; but now it came back with a vengeance. She, the lawful wife of Ned Lytton, had plotted to win Bruce Bayard. No, she had not! one part of her protested, as she weakened and sought for any escape that meant relief. You did, you did! thundered that older self. By passively accepting, as a fact, her want of him, she had sinned. By finding joy in his touch, at sight of him, she had grievously wronged not only Ned and herself but all people. She was a contaminated thing! She was as bad, worse than Nora Brewster, because, while Nora had sinned, she admitted it, had done it openly, and frankly while she, Ann Lytton, had covered it with a cloak of hypocrisy, had refused to admit her transgressions even to herself and lied and distorted happenings, even her thoughts, until they were made to appease her craven heart!
"She said it; she said it!" Ann muttered aloud. "She said that I was a hypocrite. She said ... she did not hide!" Then, for a moment, she was firm, drawing her body, even, to firmness to contend more effectively against these suggestive accusations. What matter if she were married? What if Bayard did love an abandoned woman? What mattered anything but that she loved him?
And, as though it had waited for her to go that far to show her hand, that other self cried out: "To your God you have given your word to love this man, your husband! To your God you have promised to love no other! To your God you have pledged him your body, your soul, your life, come what may!"
She cowered before the thought, tearless, silent, and sat there, going through and through the same emotional experiences, always coming against the stone wall formed by her concepts of honor and morality.
In another room of the Manzanita House another woman fought with herself that night. Nora, too, stood backed against her locked door a long time after she had gained its refuge, bewildered, trying to think her way to a clear understanding of all that had happened. Its entire consequence came to her sooner than it had come to Ann. She groped along the wall to her matchsafe, scratched a light, removed the chimney from her lamp and set the wick burning. She waved out the match absently, put the charred remains in the oilcloth cover of the washstand and said to herself,
"Well, I've done it."
It was as though she spoke of the accomplishment of an end the advisability of which had been debatable in her mind, and as if there were now no remedy. What was done, was done; events of the past could not be altered, their consequences could not be changed.
She undressed listlessly, put on her nightgown and moved to the crinkled mirror to take down her hair.
"I guess that'll fix her," she muttered. "She'll get out, now...."
She looked at herself in the mirror as she began to speak, but, when her sight met its own reflection, her voice faltered, the words trailed off. She stood motionless, scrutinizing herself closely, critically; then saw a slow flush come up from her neck, flooding her cheeks. Uneasily her eyes dropped from their reflection, then shot back with a rallying of the dark defiance that had been in them; only for an instant, for the fire disappeared, they became unsteady.
Her movements grew rapid. She drew hairpins from the coils and dropped them heedlessly. She shook out her hair and brushed it with nervous vigor; then braided it feverishly, as if some inner emotion might find vent in that simple task.
Time after time she shot glances into the mirror, but in each instance she felt her cheeks burn more fiercely, saw the confused humility increasing in her expression and, finally, her rapid breathing lost its regularity, her lips quivered and her shoulders lifted in a sob. She covered her face with her hands, pressing finger tips tightly against her eyes, struggling to master herself, to bring again that defiant spirit. But she could not; it had gone and she was fighting doggedly against the reaction, knowing that it must come, knowing what it would be, almost terror stricken at the realization.
She paced the floor, stopping now and then, and finally cried aloud:
"Shewasstealin' him; heismine!"—as though some presence had accused her of a lie. Again, she repeated the words, but in a whisper; and conviction was not with her.
She sat down on the edge of her bed, but could not remain quiet, and commenced walking, moving automatically, almost dreamlike, distressed, flinging her arms about like a guilt-maddened Lady Macbeth. Each time she passed the mirror she experienced a terrible desire to meet her own gaze again, but she would not, for her own eyes accused her, bored relentlessly into her heart.
"An' I called her a hypocrite," she burst out suddenly, halted, turned and rushed back toward the dresser, straining forward, forcing her gaze to read the soul that was bared before her, there in the mirror.
"You lied to her!" she muttered. "You told her dirty lies; you're throwin' him down. You're killin' her... You ...
"Oh, Bruce, Bruce!"
She turned away and let the tears come again.
"You'd hate me, Bruce, you'd hate me!"
She threw herself full length on the bed. Jealousy had had its inning. All the bitterness that it could create had been flung forth on to the woman who had roused it and then the emotion had died. Strong as it was in Nora, the elemental, the childish, it was not so strong as her loyalty to Bayard's influence and the same thing in her that would have welcomed physical abuse from him now called on her to undo her work of the evening, to strive to prevent his love for Ann from wasting itself, though every effort that she might make toward that end would cause her suffering.
It was midnight when Ann Lytton, still motionless, still chilling and flushing as thought followed thought through her confused mind, found herself in the center of her dark room. The knock that had roused her to things outside sounded again on her door, low and cautious.
"Who is it?" she asked, unsteadily.
"It's me, Nora."
The tone was husky, weak, contrite.
"Well, what do you want, Nora?"—summoning a sternness for the query.
"I ... I want to come in; I want to tell you somethin' ... if you'll let me."
Ann calculated a moment, but the quality of the other woman's voice, supplicating, uncertain, swung the balance and she unlocked the door, opening it wide. Nora stood in her long white gown, head hung, fingers nervously intertwining before her.
A pitiable humility was about the girl, and on sight of it Ann's manner changed.
"What is it, Nora? Won't you come in?"
She stepped forward, took her by the hand and gently urged her into the room, closing the door.
"Sit on the bed, Nora, while I light the lamp."
"Oh, M's. Lytton, please don't ..."—with an uneasy movement. "I'd rather ... not have to look at you...."
A pause.
"Why, if you want it that way, of course, Nora. Sit down here. Aren't you cold?"
She took a shawl from its hook, threw it across the other's shoulders and sat down on the bed, drawing Nora to her side. An awkward silence followed, then came the sound of Nora's crying, lifted to a pitch just above a sigh.
"Don't, Nora! Please, don't! What is it, now? Tell me ... do tell me," Ann pleaded, growing stronger, of better balance, feeling some of her genuine assurance returning.
"I ... I lied to you. I ..." Nora began and stopped.
Ann uttered no word; just inhaled very slowly and squared her shoulders with relief.
"I ... was jealous of you. When I saw him with his arms around you this afternoon, I ... couldn't stand it. I had to do somethin'. I was drove to it."
She brushed the damp hair back from her forehead and cleared her throat. She clutched Ann's one hand in both hers and turned to talk closely into her face.
"I ... it wasn't all lies. That part about me, about Charley Ling's, was true. It was true that Bruce took me out of there, too, but not for what you think. I ... I was pretty bad for a young girl, but I never knew much different until I knew Bruce ... I didn't know much.
"I was at Ling's. I didn't lie about that," she repeated stoically, baring her shame in an attempt to atone for her former behavior. "I'd been there quite a while, when one night when the' was whiskey an' men an' hell, he come....
"I'll never forget it. I can't. He was so big that he filled th' door, he was so ... different, so clean an' disgusted-like, that it stopped th' noise for a minute. He stood lookin' us over; then he saw me an' looked an' looked, an' I couldn't do nothin' but hang my head when 'twas my business to laugh at him.
"He didn't say a word at first, but he come across to to me an' set down beside me, an' when th' piano started again an' folks quit givin' us attention he said,
"'You're only a kid.'
"Just that; but it made me cry. He was so kind of accusin' an' so gentle. Nobody'd ever been gentle with me before that I could remember of. They'd been accusin' all right, all right ... but not gentle. He went away that night an' I cried until it was light. In th' mornin' he come back an' asked for me an' took me outdoors an' talked to me. He talked.... He didn't do no preachin'; he didn't say nothin' about bein' good or bein' bad. He just said that that place wasn't fit for coyotes to live in, that I'd never see th' mountains or th' stars or th' sunshine livin' there. He said that.... An' he said he'd get me a job here in Yavapai....
"He did. Got me this job, in this hotel. He stuck by me when folks started to talk; he stopped it. He taught me to ride an' like horses an' dogs an' th' valley an' things like that. He give me things to read an' talked to me about 'em an' ... was good to me.
"I've always been like his sister. That's straight, M's. Lytton; that's no lie. He's been my brother; that's all. More 'n that, I'm about th' only woman he's looked at in three years until ... you come. He ain't a saint but he's ... an awful fine man."
She was silent a moment and stroked the hand she had taken in hers.
"That's all. That's all the' is to say. I've tried to get him, tried to make him care for me ... a lot; but I ain't his kind,"—with a slow shake of the head as she withdrew one hand. "I can never be his kind ... in that way. I've known it all along, but I've never let myself believe th' truth. He didn't know, didn't even guess. That's how hopeless it was. He ain't never seen that I'd do ... anythin' for him.
"When you come, I saw th' difference in him ... right off. He ... You're his kind, M's. Lytton. You're what he's waited for, what he's lookin' for. I was jealous. I hated you from th' first. I was nice to you 'cause he wanted it, 'cause that would make him happier. I fought against showin' what I felt for his sake ... for him. Then, to-day, when I seen how he looked after he'd had you in his arms where I've wanted to be always, as I've wanted to make him look, I....
"It made me kind of crazy. I felt like tellin' you what I was, lyin' about what I was to Bruce, thinkin' it might drive you away an' I might sometime make him love me. But, after I'd done it, after I got it into words, I knew it was against everything he'd ever taught me, against everything he'd ever been, an' that if you went 't would break his heart. That's why I come back to tell you I lied, to tell you how it is....
"You go to him now; you go before it's too late. I tried to come between you ... an' didn't. You go to him before somethin' does...."
She felt Ann's arm go about her and stifling her sobs she yielded to the pull until her head rested on the other woman's shoulder.
"Oh, Nora, I can't tell you how this makes me feel; I can't. I'll never be able to. There's nothing I can say at all, nothing I can do, even!"
The waitress lifted her face to peer closely at her.
"Just one thing you can do," she said, lowly. "Go to him now. That's what I come back here for—to tell you I lied, so you would go."
Ann straightened and shook her head sharply.
"That's impossible," she said, emphatically. "Impossible."
"Impossible, M's. Lytton?"—wiping her eyes.
"Yes, Nora."
"But why? He loves you!"
"When you were here before you gave the reason—I'm a married woman."
"But that ain't.... Why, do youloveyour husband?"
She grasped Ann's arm and shook it gently as she put that question in a voice that the tears had made hoarse, and leaned forward to catch the answer. For an interval Ann did not reply, gave no sign that she had heard, and Nora repeated her query with impressive slowness.
"It isn't a question of loving, Nora," she finally said. "I'm his wife; I have a wife's duty to perform."
"But do you love him?" the girl persisted.
"No, I don't any more ..."—sadly, yet without regret.
"An' you'd go back to him, M's. Lytton? You'd go back without lovin' him?"
Incredulity was in her tone.
"Of course. It is my place. He is coming to me soon, stronger, wiser, I hope, and there's a chance that we will find at least a little peace together."
"But the' won't be love,"—in a whisper.
Ann gave a little shudder and braced her shoulders backward.
"No, Nora. That is past. Besides, I—"
"Don't be afraid to admit it!" the girl urged, speaking rapidly. "Don't be afraid to tell me. I know what you're thinkin'. You love Bruce Bayard! I know; you can't hide it from me, M's. Lytton."
Ann's fingers twisted the coverlet.
"And if I do?" she asked weakly. "What if I do?"
"What if you do? Ain't lovin' a man answer enough for any woman?" cried the other. "Is the' anything else that holds folks together? Is the' anything else that makes men an' women happy? Does your bein' a man's wife mean happiness? Your promisin' to love him didn't make you love, did it? Because a preacher told you you was one didn't make it so, did it? Nobody can make you love him, not even yourself, 'cause you said it was duty that takes you back; that you don't love him. But you can't help lovin' Bruce Bayard!
"Oh, M's. Lytton, don't fool yourself about this duty! It's up to a man an' a woman to take love, to take happiness, when it comes. You can't set still an' watch it go by an' hope to have it come again; real happiness don't happen but once in most of our lives. I know. I've been down ... I've been happy, too ... I know!
"An' duty! Why, ma'am, duty like you think you ought to do, is waste! You're young, you're healthy, you're pretty. You'll waste your best years, you'll waste your health, you'll waste your looks on duty! You'll waste all your love; you'll get old an' bitter an'....
"If the's anything under heaven that's a crime, it's wasted love! Oh, M's. Lytton, I wasted my love when I was a kid, 'cause I didn't know better. I sold mine for money. For God's sake, don't sell yours for duty! If the's anything your God meant folks to do was to get what joy they can out of life. He wouldn't want you to think of bein' Ned Lytton's wife as ... as your duty. He ... God ain't that kind, M's. Lytton; he ain't!"
"Nora, Nora, don't say these things!" Ann pleaded. "You're wrong, you must be! Don't tempt me to ... these new ways ... don't...."
"New!" the girl broke in. "It ain't new, what I've been sayin'. It's as old as men an' women. It's as old as th' world. Th' things you try to make yourself believe are th' new ones. Love was old before folks first thought about duty. It seems new, because you ain't ever let yourself see straight ... you never had to until now."
"Nora, stop I You must stop! You can't be right ... you can't be!"
The waitress trembled against Ann and commenced to cry under the strain of her earnestness.
"But I know I'm right, M's. Lytton, I know I am! I know what you're doin'. Do—don't you see that you wouldn't be much different from what I was, if you went back to your husband, hatin' him an' lovin' another? Happiness comes just once; it's a sin to let it go by!"
Slowly Ann withdrew her embrace from the girl. She sat with hands limp in her lap until Nora's sobbing had subsided to mere long-drawn breaths; then she rose and walked to the window, looking out into the moonlit night. And when Nora, drying her eyes, regaining control of her emotions, started to speak again she saw that Ann was lost in thought, that it was unnecessary to argue further, so she went quietly from the room. The rattle of the knob, the sound of the closing door did not rouse the woman she left behind. Ann only stared out at the far hills which were a murky blot in the cold light; stared with eyes that did not see, for out of the storm of that night a new creature was coming into active life within her and the re-birth was so wonderful that it quite deadened her physical senses.
Lytton had gone for a ride in the hills, leaving Bayard alone at the ranch, busying himself with accomplishing many odds and ends of tasks which had been neglected in the weeks that his attention had been divided between his cattle and the troubles of Ann. Ned was back to his usual strength, now; also, his mending mental attitude had made him a better companion, a less trying patient. He rode daily, he helped somewhat with the ranch work, his sleeps were long and untroubled. The first time a horse had carried him from sight Bayard had scarcely expected to see him back again; he had firmly believed that Lytton would ride directly to Yavapai and fill himself with whiskey. When he came riding into the ranch, tired, glad to be home once more, Bruce knew that the man was not wholly unappreciative, that his earlier remonstrances at remaining at the Circle A had not always been genuine.
"Mighty white of you, old chap," he had said, after dismounting. "Mighty white of you to treat me like this. Some day I'll pay you back."
"You'll pay me back by gettin' to be good an' strong an' goin' out an' bein' a man," the rancher had answered, and Lytton had laughed at his seriousness.
No intimation of his wife's nearness had been given to Lytton. Isolated as they were, far off the beaten path of travel, few people ever stopped at the ranch and, when stray visitors had dropped in, chance or Bayard's diplomacy had prevented their discovering the other man's presence. Not once after their argument over the rights of a man to his wife had Ned referred to Ann and in that Bruce found both a conscious and an unconscious comfort: the first sort because it hurt him brutally to be reminded of the girl as this man's mate, and the other because the fact that while Lytton had only bitterness for Ann Bayard could wholly justify his own attention to her, his own love.
Day after day the progress continued uninterrupted, Bruce making it a point to have his charge ride alone, unless Ned himself expressed a desire to go in company. The rancher believed that if the other were ever to be strong enough to resist the temptation to return to his old haunts and ways, now was the time. Although Lytton's attitude was, except at rare intervals, subtly resentful, his passive acceptance of the conditions under which he lived was evidence that he saw the wisdom in remaining at the ranch and those hours alone on horseback, out of sight, away from any influencing contact, were the first tests. Bayard was delighted to see that his work did not collapse the moment he removed from it his watchful support. And yet, while he took pride in this accomplishment, he went about his daily work with a sense of depression constantly on him. It was as though some inevitable calamity impended, as though, almost, hope had been removed from his future. He tried not to allow himself to think of Ann Lytton. He knew that to let his fancies and emotions go unrestrained for an hour would rouse in his heart a hatred so intense, so compelling, that he would rise in all his strength during some of Lytton's moods and do the man violence; or, if not that, then, when talking to her, he would lose self-control and break his word to her and to himself that not again so long as she loved her husband would he speak of his regard for her.
But the end of that phase was approaching. Within a few days Lytton would know that his wife was in the country, would go to her, and Bayard's interval of protectorate over them both, which at least gave him opportunity to see the woman he loved, would come to its conclusion.
Now, as he worked on a broken hinge of the corral gate his heart was heavy and, finally, to force himself to stop brooding, he broke into song: