On reaching Chickasha, Wilfred Compton telegraphed to Kansas City asking his brother if Lahoma was still at Mr. Gledware's house in the country. In the course of a few hours the reply came that she had already started home to Greer County, Texas. After reading the message, Wilfred haunted the station, not willing to let even the most unpromising freight train escape observation.
Everything that came down the track on this last reach of the railroad into Southwest Oklahoma, was crowded with people, cattle, household furniture, stores of hardware, groceries, dry-goods—all that man requires for his physical well-being. The town itself was swarming with eager jostling throngs bound for many diverse points, and friends of a day shouted hearty good-bys, or exchanged good-natured badinage, as they separated to meet no more.
Men on horseback leading heavily laden pack-horses, covered wagons from which peeped women and children half-reclining upon bedding, their eyes filled with grave wonder at a world so unlike their homes in the East or North—pyramids of undressed lumber fastened somehow upon four wheels and surmounted in precarious fashion by sprawling men whose faces and garments suggested Broadway, New York and Leadville, Colorado—Wilfred gazed upon the unending panorama. In those corded tents he saw the pioneer family already in possession of the new land; in the stacks of pine boards he beheld houses already sending up the smoke of peace and prosperity from their chimneys; and in the men and women who streamed by, their faces alight with hope, their bodies ready for the grapple with drought, flood, cyclone, famine, he saw the guaranty of a young and dominant state.
Strangers greeted one another with easy comrade-ship. Sometimes it was just, "Hello, neighbor!"—and if a warning were shouted across the street to one endangered by the current of swelling life, it might be— "Look out there, brother!" The sense of kinship tingled in the air, opening men's hearts and supplying aid to weaker brethren. Those who gathered along the track awaiting the arrival of the trains had already the air of old-timers, eager to extend the hospitality of a well-loved land.
In such a crowd Wilfred was standing when he first caught sight of Lahoma among those descending to the jostling platform. He had not known how she would look, and certainly she was much changed from the girl of fifteen, but he made his way to her side without the slightest hesitation.
"Lahoma!"
She turned sharply with a certain ease of movement suggesting fearless freedom. Her eyes looked straight into the young man's with penetrating keenness which instantly softened to pleasure. "Why I how glad I am to see you!" she cried, giving him her hand as they withdrew from the rush. "But how did you know me?"
"How did YOU know?" he returned, pleased and thrilled by her glowing brown hair, her eloquent eyes, her warm-tinted cheeks, her form, as erect as of yore, but not so thin—as pleased and thrilled as if all these belonged to him. "How did you know ME?" he repeated, looking and looking, as if he would never be able to believe that she had turned out so much better than he had ever dreamed she would.
"Oh," said Lahoma, "when I looked into your face, I saw myself as a girl sitting under the cedar trees in the cove, with Brick and Bill."
"Just you three?" demanded Wilfred wistfully—also smilingly.
"Oho!" exclaimed Lahoma, showing her perfect little teeth as if about to bite, in a way that filled him with fearful joy, "and so they showed you that letter!"
"JUST you three?" repeated Wilfred. "Just room enough in the cove for you—and Brick—and Bill?"
"Listen to me, Wilfred, and I will do the talking."
"Well?"
She lowered her voice to a whisper— "Lean your head closer."
Wilfred put down his head. "Is this close enough?" he whispered, feeling exalted. Men, women and children circled about them; the air vibrated with the shock of trunks and mail bags hurled upon the platform.
"No," said Lahoma, rising on tiptoe.
Wilfred took off his hat and got under hers.
She whispered in his ear, "Red Kimball came on this train—there he is—he hasn't seen me, yet—was in another coach."
"Well? Go on talking. Lahoma—I'd get closer if I could."
"S-H-H! He knows me, for he was a porter in our hotel. When he sees us he'll know I've come home to warn Brick. S-H-H! Then he'll try to keep me from doing it. Look—some of his gang are speaking to him—they've been waiting here to meet him—they'll go with him, I expect. We'll all be in the stage-coach together!"
"What do you want me to do to 'em, Lahoma?"
"I want you to pretend that you don't know me—and they mustn't find out your name is Compton, or they'll think Mr. Edgerton got word to you to join me here. Be a stranger till we're safe in the cove."
"All right. Good-by—but suppose I hadn't come?"
"Oh, I could have done without you," said Lahoma. "Or I think I could."
"You could never have done without me!" Wilfred declared decidedly.
"I can right NOW—" She drew away. "I'll get into the stage; don't follow too soon."
There were three stage-coaches drawn up at a short distance from the platform, and Lahoma went swiftly to the one bound for her part of the country. She was the first to enter; she was seated quietly in a corner when the two long seats that faced each other began filling up. The last to come were four men: one, tall, slender, red-faced and red-haired, two others of dark and lowering faces, who looked upon the former as their leader, and the last, Wilfred Compton, who had unobtrusively joined himself to this remnant of Red Kimball's gang.
The stage, which was built after the manner of the old-fashioned omnibus, afforded no opportunity of moving to and fro in the selection of seats, hence, when Red Kimball discovered Lahoma's identity—the exact moment of the discovery was marked by his violent start—she was safeguarded from his approach by her proximity to a very large woman flanked by a thin spinster. These were two sisters, going to the evening's station where the coach would stop for supper, and Lahoma discussed with them their plans and hopes with bright cheerfulness and ready friendship.
Wilfred watched Red Kimball as he glared in that direction, and guessed his thoughts. Although Kimball knew Lahoma, he was not sure that she knew him; and though he was convinced at once that she was on a mission of warning, that might be true without her knowing that he had left Kansas City. Red Kimball was burning to find out if he were a stranger to her, but at the same time fearful of disclosing himself. He muttered to his companions hoarsely, careful that Wilfred, whom he regarded askance, should overhear nothing that he said.
The situation was such as could not very well continue during the days it would take the coach to reach Mangum but although Wilfred was conscious of the strain, he felt excitedly happy. Very little of his attention was given to Kimball, and a great deal to Lahoma. She was talking to the sisters about the baby of the one and the chickens of the other, offering advice on both subjects from the experience of a certain Mrs. Featherby whom she had known as a child.
"Mrs. Featherby was a very wonderful woman," Lahoma announced with conviction, "and the first woman I ever knew. And when her baby was teething..." The very large lady listened with great attention.
"She told me this when I was a small girl," Wilfred presently heard Lahoma saying. "And I treasured it in my mind. I stored myself with her experience about everything there is. It came to me, then, that if she moved away from Headquarters Mountain—that's my mountain—maybe no other woman would ever come there to live; so I stored myself, because I was determined to learn the business of being a woman."
The large woman gazed upon her admiringly. "I guess you learned, all right."
They had not gone five miles before the large woman and her younger sister were in love with Lahoma—but it hadn't taken Wilfred five miles. As he listened to her bright suggestions, and noted her living eyes, her impulsive gestures—for she could not talk without making little movements with her hands—and her flexible sympathetic voice, he saw her moving about a well-ordered household.... It was on his farm, of course; and the house was his,—and she was his Lahoma....
Red Kimball watched her with the same sidewise attention, but his face was brooding, his half-veiled eyes were red and threatening. What would happen in the nighttime as the stage pursued its lonely way across the bleak prairie? Since Red Kimball meant to appeal to the law in his revenge against Brick, there was no danger of his transgressing it openly. But in the darkness with two unscrupulous companions under his command, he would most probably execute some scheme to prevent Lahoma from reaching her destination.
The evening shadows were stretching far toward the east from the few trees that marked the dried bed of a stream, when the coach stopped among a collection of hovels and tents. As the horses were led away, the passengers dismounted, and both Wilfred and Red Kimball hurriedly drew close to Lahoma.
Lahoma, however, appeared unaware of their presence. The sisters had been met by the husband of the older, and as they gathered about the big wagon, Lahoma was urged to go home with them to supper.
"We're only a little ways out," she was told, "and we'll sure get you back before the stage leaves—the victuals at the station ain't fit to eat."
A very little insistence induced Lahoma to comply, and both the young man and the former highwayman saw her go with disappointment. Kimball and his friends went into the "Dining Hall" to gulp down a hasty meal, and Wilfred entered with them. He remained only a moment, however, just long enough to purchase a number of sandwiches which he stored away, as if meaning to eat them in the coach.
As soon as he was in the single street with the door closed behind him, he darted toward the stage barn, and by means of a handsome deposit obtained two horses. Springing upon one, he rode rapidly from the settlement, leading the other, and in a short time, came in sight of a cabin, which, with its outhouses, was the only building in all the wide expanse. From its appearance he knew it to be the one described to Lahoma, and he galloped up to the door with the certainty of finding her within. The big wagon had been unhitched, and the horses were fastened to its wheels, eating from the bed.
The family was about to sit down to supper; the first to discover Wilfred as he flitted past the single window in the side of the cabin, was Lahoma. Before he could knock on the door, she had opened it.
"Oh, Wilfred!" she reproached him, "they'll miss you and know you've come to consult with me about warning Brick."
"Quick, Lahoma!" said Wilfred, as if she had not spoken, "you can ride a horse, I suppose?" He smiled, but his eyes were sparkling with impatience.
In a flash, Lahoma's face was glowing with enthusiasm. She looked back into the room and cried, "Good-by!" Then Wilfred swung her to the back of the led horse. "We'll beat 'em!" cried Lahoma, as he sprang upon his horse. "Fast as you please—I've never been left behind, yet!"
The young man noted with sudden relief that she was dressed for the hardships of the prairie. It came to him with a sense of wonder that he had not noticed that before, perhaps from never having seen her in fashionable attire. As they galloped from the cabin, from whose door looked astonished faces, Lahoma answered his thought—
"Up there," she said, nodding her head toward the East, "I dressed for people—but out here, for wind and sand."
Looking back, she saw the family running out of the cottage, waving handkerchiefs and bonnets as in the mad joy of congratulation.
"They think we're running away together!" shouted Wilfred with exultation. The hurry of their flight, the certainty of pursuit, the prospect of dangers from man and nature, thrilled his blood, fixed his jaw, illumined his eye. All life seemed suddenly a flight across a level world whose cloud of yellow dust enveloped only himself and Lahoma. "They think we're running away together. Look at them, Lahoma. How happy they are at the idea!"
"They don't know there's nobody to object, if we don't," returned Lahoma gaily, as she urged on her steed. "Come along, Wilfred," she taunted, as his horse fell a neck behind hers, "what are you staying back THERE for? Tired? If we get into the trail before that coach starts, we'll have to put on all speed."
"Doing my best," he called, "but I made a bad bargain when I got this beast. This is his best lick, and it doesn't promise to last long. However, it was the only one left at the barn."
Lahoma slightly checked her animal. "That's a good thing, anyway—if there's none left, those horrible men can't follow."
Wilfred did not answer. He was sure the stage would be driven in pursuit at breakneck speed, and from the breathing of his horse he feared it could not long endure the contest. To be sure, Red Kimball and his men had no lawful excuse to offer the stage-driver for an attempt to stop them; but three men who had once been desperate highwaymen might not look for lawful excuses on a dark night in a dreary desert. Besides, Kimball might, with some show of reason, argue that since he was bent on the legitimate object of having a writ served on Brick Willock, he would be justified in preventing Brick from being warned out of the country.
They galloped on in silence, Lahoma slightly holding back. Night rapidly drew on.
Before them, the trail, beaten and rutted, stretched interminably, losing itself in the darkness before it slipped over the rounded margin of the world. As darkness increased, the trail seemed to waver before their eyes like a gray scarf that the wind stirs on the ground. On either side of it, the nature of the country varied with strange abruptness, now an unbroken stretch of dead sage-brush showing like isolated tufts in a gigantic clothes-brush—suddenly, a wilderness of white sand shifting as the wind rose—again, broken rocks sown broadcast. Before final darkness came, the trail itself was varicolored, sometimes white with alkali, sometimes skirting low hills whose sides showed a deep blue, streaked with crimson.
But now all was black, sand, alkali, gypsum-beds, for the night had fallen.
In their wide detour they had endeavored to escape detection from the stage-station, but sheltered by no appreciable inequalities of land, and denied the refuge that even a small grove might have furnished, they had, as it were, been held up to view on the prairie; and though so far away, their horses had been as distinctly outlined as two ants scurrying across a white page.
Wilfred reflected. "If Kimball, when he came out of that restaurant, happened to look in this direction, he must have seen us; and the first inquiry at the barn would inform him who're on the horses.' But he said nothing until, from the rear, came the sound long-dreaded, telling, though far away, of bounding horses and groaning wheels.
"Lahoma!"
"Yes—I hear them."
"My horse is about used up. We'll have to side-trail, or they'll ride us down."
"I could go on," Lahoma answered, as she drew bard on the bit, "but I wouldn't like to leave you here by yourself."
"You couldn't travel that distance by yourself. And good as your horse is, it wouldn't last. But thank you for thinking of me," he added, smiling in the darkness, as he dismounted. "Let me lead your horse as well as my own."
"No," said Lahoma, "if leading is to be done, I'll do my part." She leaped lightly to the ground and seized her bridle. Side by side they slowly ventured from the trail into the invisible country on the left. They found themselves treading short dead mesquit that did not greatly obstruct their progress.
"Keep going," Wilfred said, when she paused for breath. "It wouldn't do for our horses to whinny, for those fellows would hear them if it was thundering. Give me your hand."
"Here it is," Lahoma felt about in the darkness. "My! but I'm glad I've got you, Wilfred! Oh, how they are dashing along! Listen how the man is lashing his whip over those four horses. Wish we could see 'em—must be grand, tearing along at that rate!"
The stage was rapidly coming up abreast of them, and Wilfred felt her grasp tighten. There was a flash of lights, a glimpse of the driver's face as of creased leather as he raised his whip above his head—then noise and cloud of dust passed on and the lights became trailing sparks that in a minute or two the wind seemed to blow out.
"My poor Brick!" Lahoma wailed. "Do you think he'll take good enough care of himself from what I wrote in my letters? But no, he doesn't think Red Kimball is coming yet, for I didn't know it till after I'd written. He's with Bill now, waiting for another letter. Or for a telegram."
"No, no, Lahoma," Wilfred tried to sooth her. "He has been hiding for days. Why should he come out just at the wrong time? You wrote that you'd not send any more messages. Brick will be on the lookout for Kimball. He is sure to be watching out for him."
"I know Brick," Lahoma protested, seemingly all at once overcome by the fatigues of her journey and the hopelessness of the situation. "I was afraid he wouldn't agree to hide at all; and just as soon as you came away, and there wasn't any more prospects of letters, he'd get lonesome, and tire of staying away from home. He's in that cove this minute, and he'll be there when Red Kimball takes the sheriff after him." Her voice quivered with distress.
"Don't be afraid, Lahoma," urged Wilfred, slipping his arm protectingly about her. "Don't grieve—I'm sure Brick is in a safe place."
"Well, I'M not in danger," said Lahoma, with-drawing from his involuntary embrace. "Don't take ME for Brick! Maybe you're right—but no, I'm sure he wouldn't be willing to stay out in the mountains week after week—and during these cold nights! For it is cold, right now. We must hurry on, Wilfred."
"There's one comfort," said Wilfred, as they retraced their way toward the trail. "Mr. Gledware won't appear as a witness against Brick. We'll get him cleared, easy enough."
"But Mr. Gledware WILL appear against him, and he'll swear anything that Red Kimball wants."
"I thought he agreed to do that only on condition that a certain pin—"
"YES! But Red Kimball brought him that pin just before I left!"
"Brought him the pin that the Indian had?"
"Yes, the pearl and onyx pin. And Mr. Gledware seemed to consider it so important that I know Red Feather would never have given it up while he had life."
"Then...?"
Lahoma shuddered. "YES! You see, NOW, what a fiend Red Kimball is. And you know, NOW, what a hold he has over Mr. Gledware,—can make him testify in such a way as to ruin my poor Brick. If Brick knew this, he'd understand how important it is to flee for his life and never, never let himself be taken. But he thinks nobody could get the better of Red Feather. You see, if he just dreamed what has happened, he'd KNOW Mr. Gledware can convict him."
"We must reach Brick Willock before Red Kimball gets his warrant!" exclaimed Wilfred desperately.
"Yes, we must, we must!" Lahoma was growing slightly hysterical. "I won't mind any hardship, any danger—but what are we to do? You won't let me ride on alone—and you wouldn't be willing to leave me here and take the good horse yourself."
"You're quite right about that!" returned the young man promptly. "We can only mount again, and go as fast as my miserable beast can travel, hoping for some chance to come our way. We have the advantage of not being in the stage where Kimball could keep an eye on us."
"I ought to be more thankful for that than I am," Lahoma sighed. They mounted, but as they rode forward, Wilfred's horse lagged more and more.
"It's slow sailing," Wilfred remarked, "but it will give us a chance to talk. By the way, do you feel ready for supper?" From his overcoat pocket he drew forth the sandwiches.
It seemed to Lahoma to show an unfeeling heart to experience hunger at such a time, and to find the ham sandwiches good; but it was none the less true that they were good, and the mustard with which the ham was plastered added a tang of hope and returned a defiant answer to the cold inquiry of the north wind.
After they had eaten and the remaining sandwiches had been carefully stowed away in Wilfred's capacious pocket, they pressed forward with renewed energy on the part of all save Wilfred's horse. By dint of constant urging it was kept going faster than a walk though it was obsessed by a consuming desire to lie down. In order to keep Lahoma's mind from dwelling on their difficulties and on Brick's peril, the young man maintained conversation at high pressure, ably seconded by his companion who was anxious to show herself undaunted.
Wilfred chose as the topic to engage Lahoma's mind, the future of Oklahoma Territory. The theme filled him with enthusiasm such as no long-settled commonwealth is able to inspire, and though Lahoma considered herself a Texan, she was able to enter into his spirit from having always lived at the margin of the new country. Wilfred dwelt on the day when Oklahoma would no longer be represented in congress by a delegate without the right to vote, but would take its place as a state whose constitution should be something new and inspiring in the history of civil documents.
Wilfred meant to have a part in the framing of that constitution and as he outlined some of his theories of government, Lahoma listened with quick sympathy and appreciation. A new feeling for him, something like admiration, something like pride, stirred within her. Here was a man who meant to do things, things eminently worth a man's time and strength; and yet, for all his high purposes, there was no look, no tone, to indicate that he held himself at a higher valuation than those for whom he meant to labor. As in time of stress the strongest man is given the heaviest burden, so he seemed to take to himself a leading part in the future of his country that all who dwelt within its borders might find it a freer, a richer, a better country because of him.
"You'll call me ambitious," said Wilfred, glowing. "Well, I am. You'll accuse me of wanting power. So I do!"
Her eyes flashed. "And I'm ambitious for you!" she cried. "Go ahead and get power. Take the earth! Don't stop till you reach the sea—that's the spirit of the West. But how did you ever think of these things?"
"During my long winters on my quarter-section, nobody in sight—just the prairie and me. Nothing else to think about except the country that's new-born. So I studied out a good many things, just thinking about Oklahoma and—and—"
Lahoma said softly, "I KNEW there was SOMETHING ELSE you thought about."
"Yes," exclaimed Wilfred, thrilled. "Yes—there WAS something else!"
"A little girl, I guess," murmured Lahoma gently, with a touch of compassion in her tone.
"You've guessed it, Lahoma—yes, the dearest little girl in the world."
"I wish she could have cared for you—THAT way—like your voice sounds," murmured Lahoma.
"Maybe she can," Wilfred's voice grew firmer. "Yes—she MUST!"
"Have you found a gold-mine?"
"What are you talking about, Lahoma? What has a gold-mine to do with it?"
"Because nothing else goes," returned Lahoma decisively. "You might get single statehood for Oklahoma, and write the constitution yourself, and be elected governor—but you'd look just the same to Annabel, unless you had a gold-mine."
Wilfred gave a jerk at his bridle. "Who's talking about Annabel?" he cried rather sharply. He had forgotten that there was an Annabel.
"Everybody is," returned Lahoma, somewhat sharply on her own account, "everybody is, or ought to be!"
"Iam not," retorted Wilfred, springing to the ground just in time—for his horse, on being checked, had promptly lain down.
"Then that's what you get!" remarked Lahoma severely, staring down at the dark blur on the trail which her imagination correctly interpreted as the horse stretched out on its side.
The wind increased in fury. Fortunately it was at their back. Wilfred pressed forward on foot, leading Lahoma's horse; and, partly on account of their unequal position, partly because of awkward reserve, no more was said for a long time. She bent forward to shelter her face from the stinging blast while he trod firmly and methodically on and on, braced slightly backward against the wind, which was like a hand pushing him forward.
The voice of the wind filled the night. It whistled and shrieked in minor keys, dying away at brief intervals to come again with a rush and roar. It penetrated him to the bone, for he had compelled her to wrap herself in his overcoat, and when the first stinging grains of fiercely driven sleet pelted his cheek, he smothered a cry of dismay over her exposed situation.
It could not be far past midnight. The prospect of a snow-storm in the bleak lands of the Kiowa appalled him, but even while facing that possibility his mind was busy with Lahoma's attitude toward himself. Evidently it had never occurred to her that Annabel had vanished from his fancy years ago; now that she knew, she was displeased—most unreasonably so, he thought. Lahoma did not approve of Annabel—why should she want him to remain passively under her yoke? Unconsciously his form stiffened in protest as he trudged forward. The wind, so far from showing signs of abatement, slightly increased, no longer with intervals of pause. The sleet changed rapidly first to snow, then to rain—then hail, snow and rain alternated, or descended simultaneously, always driven with cruel force by the relentless wind.
At last Lahoma shouted, "It's a regular norther! How're you getting along, Wilfred?"
Despite their discomfort, his heart leaped at this unexpected note of comradeship. Had she already forgiven him for not loving Annabel? "Oh, Lahoma!" he cried with sudden tenderness, "what will become of you?"
She returned gravely, "What will become of Brick? Northers are bad, but not so bad as some men—Red Kimball, for instance." A terrific blast shook the half-frozen overcoat about her shoulders as if to snatch it away. "Don't you wish the Indians built their villages closer to the trail? Ugh! Hadn't we better burrow a storm-cellar in the sand? I feel awfully high up in the air."
"Poor Lahoma!"
"Believe I'll walk with you, Wilfred; I'm turning to a lady-icicle."
"Do! I know it would warm you up—a little." His teeth showed an inclination to chatter. "Come—I'll help you down. Can you find my arm?"
At that moment the horse gave a violent lunge, then came to a standstill, quivering and snorting with fright. Wilfred's groping arm found the saddle empty.
"I didn't have to climb down," announced her uncertain voice from a distance. It came seemingly from the level of the plain.
"You've fallen—you are hurt!" he exclaimed, but he could not go to her because the horse refused to budge from the spot and he dared not loosen his hold.
"Well, I'm a little warmer, anyway!" Her voice approached slowly. "That was quick exercise; I didn't know I was going to do it till I was down. Lit on my feet, anyhow. Why don't you come to meet me?"
"This miserable beast won't move a foot. Come and hold him, Lahoma, while I examine in front, to find out what's scared him."
"All right. Where are you? Can you find my hand?"
"Can't I!" retorted Wilfred, clasping it in a tight grasp.
"Gracious, how wet we are!" she panted, "and blown about. And frozen."
"And scolded," he added plaintively.
"But, Wilfred, it never entered my mind that I was the little girl. Would I have brought up the subject if I'd known the truth? I never would. That's why I felt you took advantage ... a man ought to bring up that subject himself even if I AM a girl out West and—"
"But Lahoma—"
"And not another word do I want you to say about it. EVER. At least, tonight. PLEASE, Wilfred! So I can think about it. I'll hold the horse—you go on and find out what's the matter.
"Besides, you said—you KNOW you said, when we were strolling—that—that I didn't understand such matters. And that you'd tell me when it was TIME...."
"It's time now, Lahoma, time for you to be somebody's sweetheart—and you said—you KNOW you said, when we were strolling—that I'd fill the bill for you."
"But I brought up the subject myself, and I mean to close it, right short off, for it's a man's subject. Oh, how trembly this horse is!"
"But, Lahoma!"
"Well, what is it?"
"I just wanted to say your name." He started away. "It sounds good to me."
"Yes, it stands for Oklahoma."
"It stands for much more than that!" he called.
"Yes," she persisted in misunderstanding him, "something big and grand."
"Not so big," he cried, now at some distance, "but what there's room for more than Brick and Bill in the cove!"
If she answered, the wind drowned her words. With extended arms he groped along the trail with exceeding caution. Suddenly his foot touched an object which on examination proved to be a human body, a gaping wound in its breast.
"Found anything?" called Lahoma, her voice shivering.
He rose quickly and almost stumbled over another object. It was a second body, stiffened in death.
"I'll be there in a minute," he called, his voice grave and steady. After a brief pause he added—"I've found one of the horses—it's dead."
"Oh, oh!" she exclaimed. "They've driven it to death."
Wilfred had found a bullet hole behind its ear, but he said nothing.
Suddenly the horse held by Lahoma gave a plunge, broke away and went galloping back over the trail they had traversed, pursued by Lahoma's cry of dismay. "I couldn't hold him," she gasped. "He lifted me clear off the ground...."
Wilfred was also dismayed, but he preserved an accent of calm as he felt his way toward her, uttering encouragement for which their condition offered no foundation. But his forced cheerfulness suddenly changed to real congratulation when his extended hand struck against an upright wheel.
"Lahoma, here's the stage-coach. It's standing just as we saw it last, except for the horses."
"The stage-coach!" she marveled, coming toward him. "Oh, Wilfred, I see now what's happened. One of the horses dropped dead, and Red Kimball and his men jumped on the other three.... But I wonder what became of the driver?"
"Get inside!" he ordered. "Thank God, we've found SOMETHING that we can get inside of. That'll shelter us till morning, anyway, and then we can determine what's to be done."
Once in the coach, they were safe from the wind which howled above and around them, rattling the small windows and making the springs creak. There was no help for the discomfort of soaking garments, but Wilfred lighted a reserve lantern and placed it in a corner, while thick leather cushions and stage-blankets offered some prospect of rest.
As no plans could be formed until morning revealed their real plight, they agreed that all conversation should be foregone in order to recuperate from the hardships of the day for the trials of tomorrow. Lahoma soon fell asleep after her exhausting journey of a day and half a night since leaving the train at Chickasha.
For hours Wilfred sat opposite, staring at her worn face, pathetic in its youthful roundness from which the bloom had vanished, wondering at her grace, beauty, helplessness and perfect faith in him. That faith revealed in every line of the form lying along the seat, and spoke from the unconscious face from which the brown hair was outspread to dry.
How oddly her voice had sounded, how strange had been its accent when she said, "It never entered my mind thatIwas the little girl!" Had she been sorry for the thought to come? Did she think less of him because he had not remained true to Annabel? Would it not have been far better to wait until reaching their destination before hinting of love? Even while perplexed over these problems, and while charmed by that appealing face with the softly parted lips, by the figure that stirred in the rhythm of slumber, other thoughts, other objects weighed upon him—the two dead men, the dead horse just outside. One of those men might be Red Kimball; other bodies might lie there which he had failed to discover. Had the stage been attacked by Indians, or by white desperadoes who found shelter in the Kiowa country? In either case, might not the enemy be hovering about the trail, possibly waiting to descend on the coach?
Armed and watchful, Wilfred waited through the hours. When no longer able to bear the uncertainty, he crept from the stage with the lantern, and examined the recent scene of a furious struggle. There were only two slain—the driver and one of Red Kimball's companions. Either Kimball and his other comrade had escaped, or had been captured. If any of the attacking party had fallen, the bodies had been borne away. Blood-stains indicated that more than two had been shot. From that ghastly sight it was a relief to find himself once more enclosed by the coach walls with Lahoma so peacefully sleeping.
Once he fell into a doze from which he was startled by the impression that soft noises, not of wind or rain, were creeping over the earth. He sat erect with the confused fancy that wolves were slinking among the wheels, were glaring up at the windows, were dragging away the corpses. The sudden movement of his hand as it grasped his pistol awoke Lahoma.
She opened her eyes wide, but did not lift her cheek from the arm that lay along the cushion. "There you are," she said, "just as I was dreaming."
He pretended not to be uneasy, but his ears strained to catch the meaning of those mysterious movements of the night. Her voice cut across the vague murmur of the open plain:
"You only came once!"
Although her eyes were wide, she was apparently but half-awake; not a muscle moved as she looked into his face. "I thought," she murmured, "it was on account of Annabel."
"I went away because I loved you," he answered softly. "I promised Brick I'd go if I felt myself caring—and nobody could help caring for you. That's why I left the country. Just as soon as we laughed together—it happened. That's why I didn't come again."
"Yes," sighed Lahoma, as if it was not so hard to understand, now.
"And that's why I've come back," he added. "Because I've kept on loving you."
"Yes," she sighed again. She closed her eyes and seemed to fall asleep. Perhaps it was a sort of knowing sleep that lost most of the world but clung tenaciously to a few ideas. The noises of the night died away. Presently he heard her murmur as a little smile crept about the parted lips, "The cove's pretty big ... there's more room than I thought."
When she was wide awake, daylight had slipped through the windows. "Oh, Wilfred!" she exclaimed, sitting suddenly erect, and putting her hands to her head mechanically. "Is—are we all right?"
"All right," said the young man cheerily. "There's a good deal of snow on the ground but it was blown off the trail for the most part. Some friends have provided us with the means of going forward."
"But I don't understand.'
"We'll finish the sandwiches, and melt some snow for water, and then mount. Look—see those two Indian ponies fastened to the tongue of the stage? They'll carry us to the next station like the wind."
She stared from the window, bewildered.
"I don't know any more about them than you," he answered her thoughts. "But there they are and here we are." He said nothing about the bodies evidently carried away by those who had brought the ponies. "It's all a mystery—a mystery of the plains. I haven't unraveled the very first thread of—it. What's the use? The western way is to take what comes, isn't it, whether northers or ponies? There's a much bigger mystery than all that filling my mind."
"What is that?"
"You."
She bent over the sandwich with heightened color. "Poor Brick!" she murmured as if to divert his thoughts. But his sympathy just then was not for Brick.
"Lahoma, you said that this is a subject a man should bring up."
She looked at him brightly, still flushing. "Well?"
"I'm bringing it up, Lahoma."
"But we must be planning to save Brick from arrest."
"I'm hoping we'll get home in time—note that I say HOME, Lahoma. I refer to the cove. I'm hoping we'll reach home in time to forestall Red Kimball. We've lost a great deal of time, but Brick doubtless is safely hiding. And when we get to the journey's end—Lahoma, do you know what naturally comes at the journey's end?"
"A marriage."
"I thought that was what you meant."
"Will you marry me at the journey's end?"
Lahoma turned very red and laid down the sandwich. Then she laughed. Then she started up. "Let's get on the ponies!" she cried.
The snow, that morning, lay in drifts from five to eight inches across the trail, and to the height of several feet up against those rock walls raising, as on vast artificial tables, the higher stretches of the Kiowa country. But by noon the plain was scarcely streaked with white and when the sun set there was nothing to suggest that a snowflake had ever fallen in that sand-strewn world. The interminable reaches, broken only by the level uplands marked from the plain by their perpendicular walls, and the Wichita Mountains, as faint and unsubstantial to the eye as curved images of smoke against the sky—these dreary monotonies and remotenesses naturally oppress the traveler with a sense of his insignificance. The vast silences, too, of brooding, treeless wastes, sun-baked river-beds, shadowless brown squares standing for miles at a brief height above the shadowless brown floor of the plain—silences amidst which only the wind finds a voice—these, too, insist drearily on the nothingness of man.
But Wilfred and Lahoma were not thus affected. The somethingness of man had never to them been so thrillingly evident. They saw and heard that which was not, except for those having eyes and ears to apprehend—roses in the sand, bird-song in the desert. And when the rude cabins and hasty tents of the last stage-station in Greer County showed dark and white against the horizon of a spring-like morning, Wilfred cried exultantly:
"The end of the journey!"
And Lahoma, suddenly showing in her cheeks all the roses that had opened in her dreams, repeated gaily, yet a little brokenly:
"The end of the journey!"
The end of the journey meant a wedding. The plains blossom with endless flower-gardens and the mountains sing together when the end of the journey means a wedding.
Leaving Lahoma at the small new hotel from whose boards the sun began boiling out resin as soon as it was well aloft, Wilfred hurried after a fresh horse to carry him at once to the cove, ten miles away. Warning must be given to Brick Willock first of all. Lahoma even had a wild hope that Brick might devise some means whereby he could attend the wedding without danger of arrest, but to Wilfred this seemed impossible.
He had gone but a few steps from the hotel when he came face to face with the sheriff of Greer County. Cutting short his old friend's outburst of pleasure:
"Look here, Mizzoo," said Wilfred, drawing him aside from the curious throng on the sidewalk, "have you got a warrant against Brick Willock?"
Mizzoo tapped his breast. "Here!", he said; "know where he is?"
Wilfred sighed with relief: "At any rate, YOU don't!" he cried.
"No—'rat him! Where're you going, Bill?"
"I want a horse..."
"No use riding over to the cove," remarked his friend, with a grin. "That is, unless you want to call on some friends of mine—deputies; they're living in the dugout, just laying for Brick to show himself."
"But, MIZZOO!" expostulated Wilfred, "why are you taking so much trouble against my best friend? The warrant ought to be enough; and if you can't get a chance to serve it on him, that's not your fault. Your deputies haven't any right in that cove, and I'm going to smoke 'em out."
Mizzoo chewed, with a deprecatory shake of his head. "See here, old tap," he murmured, "don't you say nothing about being Brick Willock's friend. The whole country is roused against him. Heard of them three bodies?"
Wilfred explained that he had just come to town.
"Well, good lord, then, the pleasure I'm going to have in telling you something you don't know, and something that's full of meat! Let's go wheres we can sit down—this ain't no standing news." The lank red-faced sheriff started across the street without looking to see if he were followed.
He did not stop till he was in his room at the hotel. "Now," he said, locking the door, "sit down. Yes, you BET. I got a warrant against Brick Willock! It was sworn out by a fellow named Jeremiah Kimball—you know him as 'Red.' The form's regular, charges weighty. Brick Willock was once a member of Red Kimball's gang; he's the only one that didn't come in to get his amnesty. See? Well, he killed Red's brother—shot 'im. Gledware's coming on to witness to it. Willock will claim he done the deed to save Gledware's life—his and his little gal's. But Gledware will show it was otherwise. Red told me all about it. Brick's a murderer, and worst of all, he's a murderer without an amnesty—that's the only difference between him and Red. Well, old tap, I took my oath to do my duty. You know what that signifies."
"But there's no truth in all this rot. Brick HAD to shoot Kansas Kimball—"
"Well, let him show that in court. My business is to take him alive. That ain't all, that's just the preface. Listen! If you'll believe me, the stage that Red and his pards was in—coming here to swear out the warrant, they was—that there stage was set on by this friend of yours—yes, Brick has gathered together some of his old pards and is a highwayman—why, he shot one of Red's witnesses, and he shot the driver!"
"I know something about that holdup," cried Wilfred scornfully. "It must have been done by Indians."
"Red SAW Brick amongst the gang. He RECOGNIZED him. Well, Red and his other pard gets on horses they cuts loose, and comes like lightning, and gets here, and tells the story—and maybe you think this community ain't a-rearing and a-charging and a-sniffing for blood! There'd be more excitement against Brick Willock if there was more community, but such as they is, is concentrated."
"Mizzoo, listen to reason. Don't you understand that Red wants revenge, and has misrepresented this Indian attack to tally with his other lies?"
"I wouldn't say nothing against Red, old tap. It ain't gentlemanly to call dead folk liars."
"Dead folk!" echoed Wilfred, starting up.
"I KNOWED you didn't understand that Red's off the trail forever," Mizzoo rejoined gently. "I knowed you wouldn't be accusing him so rancid, had you been posted on his funeral."
Wilfred felt a great relief, then a great wonder.
"He's dead. I don't say he's better off, I don't know; but I guess the world is. I don't like to censure them that's departed. Brick Willock is still with us, and him the county can't say enough against. His life wouldn't be worth two bits if anybody laid eyes on 'im. Consider his high-handed doings. Wasn't it enough in the past to kill Red's brother, but what he must needs collect his pals, stop the stage-coach, shoot two men trying to get Red, and one of 'em the innocent driver? You say, yes. But hold on, that ain't all he done. No, sir. The very next day after Red swore out that warrant—and it was yesterday, if you ask ME—what is saw, when we men of Mangum comes out of our doors? Three corpses lying on the sidewalk, side by side. You say, what corpses? Wait. I'm coming to that. One was that driver; one was the pard that got shot with the driver. The other was Red Kimball his own self."
"I knew the bodies had been carried away from the trail," exclaimed Wilfred in perplexity. He related his discoveries of the stormy night.
"But you didn't know they had been brung to town all this distance to be laid beside Red. You didn't know Red had been stabbed so he could be added, too. You didn't know the three of them had been left on the street to rile up every man with blood in his veins. Why, Wilfred, it's an insult to the whole state of Texas, Such high-handed doings ain't to be bore. If Brick Willock don't want to be tried in court, is that an excuse for killing off all that might witness against him? It might of been ONCE. But we're determined to have a county of law-abiding citizens. Such free living has got to be nipped in the bud, or we'll have another No-Man's Land. We're determined to live under the laws. This is civilization. The cattle business is dead, land is getting tied up by title-deeds, the deer's gone, and there's nothing left but civilization. And I am the—er—as sheriff of Greer County I am a—I am the angel of civilization, you may say."
Mizzoo started up, too excited to notice Wilfred's suddenly distorted face. It was no time to display a sense of the ludicrous; the young man hotly burst into passionate argument and reasonable hypothesis.
"We've got civilization," Mizzoo declared doggedly, "and we aim to hold on to her, you bet! There's going to be no such doings as three corpses stretched out on the sidewalk for breakfast, not while I'm at the helm. How'd that look, if wrote up for the New York papers? That ain't all—remember that ghost I used to worry my life out over, trying to meet up with on the trail? Him, or her or it, that haunted every step of the way from Abilene to the Gulf of Mexico? It's a flitting, that ghost is! Well, I don't claim that no ghost is in my jurisdiction. Brick's flesh and blood, there's bone to him. As my aunt (Miss Sue of Missouri) used to say, 'he's some MAN.'"
Waving aside Mizzoo's ghost, Wilfred elaborated his theory of an Indian attack, described Brick's peaceable disposition, his gentleness to Lahoma—then dwelt on the friendship between himself and Brick, and the relations between himself and Brick's ward.
"It all comes to this," Mizzoo declared: "if you could make me think Willock a harmless lamb and as innocent, it wouldn't change conditions. This neighborhood calls for his life and'd take it if in reach; and my warrant calls for his arrest. All I can promise is to get him, if possible, behind the bars before the mob gets him in a rope. As my aunt, whom I have oft-times quoted my aunt (Miss Sue of Missouri, a woman of elegant sense)—'that's the word,' she used to say, 'with the bark on it!'"
Wilfred permitted himself the pleasure of taunting Mizzoo with the very evident truth that before Willock was hanged or imprisoned, he must first be caught.
Mizzoo grinned good-naturedly. "Yap. Well, we've got a clew locked up in jail right now that could tell us something, I judge, and will tell us something before set free; its name is Bill Atkins. He's a wise old coon, but as sour as a boiled owl,—nothing as yet to be negotiated with him than if he was a bobcat catched in a trap. We're hoping time'll mellow him—time and the prospect of being took out and swung from the nearest limb—speaking literary, not by nature, as you know trees is as scarce about here as Brick Willock himself."
Wilfred insisted on an immediate visit to Bill. "Brick declared he wouldn't tell Bill his hiding-place," he said, "for he didn't want to get him into trouble. He'll tell me if he knows anything—and if he doesn't, it's an outrage to shut him up, old as he is, and as rheumatic as he's old."
On the way to the rudely improvised prison, Mizzoo defended himself. "He wasn't too old and rheumatic to fight like a wildcat—why, he had to be lifted up bodily and carried into his cell. Not a word can we get out of him, or a bite of grub into him. I believe that old codger's just too obstinate to die!"
When they reached the prison door, the crowd gathered about them, eager for news, watching Mizzoo unfasten the door as if he were unlocking the secret to Willock's whereabouts. There were loud imprecations on the head of the murderer, and fierce prophecies as to what would happen to Bill if he preserved his incriminating silence. It seemed but a moment before hurrying forms from many directions packed themselves into a mass before the jail.
The cells were in the basement. The only entrance to the building was by means of a flight of six steps leading to an unroofed platform before the door of the story proper. Mizzoo and Wilfred, standing on this platform, were lifted above the heads of perhaps a hundred men who watched eagerly the dangling bunch of keys. Mizzoo had stationed three deputies at the foot of the steps to keep back the mob, for if the excited men once rushed into the jail nothing could check their course. The deputies, tall broad-shouldered fellows, pushed back the threatening tide, always with good-natured protests,—words half bantering, half appealing, repulsive thrusts of the arms, rough but inflicting no hurt. So peaceful a minute before had been the Square, it was difficult to comprehend the sudden spirit of danger.
Mizzoo whispered to Wilfred, "We'd better get in as quick as possible."
The words were lost in the increasing roar of voices. He spoke again:
"When I swing open the door, that bunch will try to make a run for it. You jump inside and I'll be after you like a shot.... We'll lock ourselves in—"
"Hey, Mizzoo!" shouted a voice from the crowd, "bring out that old cuss. Drag him to the platform, we want to hear what he's got to say.
"Say, Mr. Sheriff! Tell him if he won't come to us, we'll go to him. We've got to know where Brick Willock's hiding, and that's all about it."
"Sure!" growled a third. "What kind of a town is this, anyway? A refuge for highwaymen and murderers?"
A struggle took place at the foot of the stairs, not so good-naturedly as heretofore. A reasoning voice was heard: "Just let me say a word to the boys."
"Yes!" called others, "let's hear HIM!"
There was a surging forward, and a man was lifted literally over the heads of the three deputies; he reached the platform breathless, disheveled, but triumphant. It was the survivor of Red Kimball's band.
Mizzoo, mistaking his coming for a general rush, had hastily relocked the door, and he and Wilfred defended themselves with drawn revolvers.
"I ain't up here to do no harm," called the ex-highwayman. "I ain't got the spirit for warfare. My chief is killed, my pards is dead. Even that innocent stage-driver what knew nothing of us, is killed in the attack that Brick Willock made on us in the dark and behind our backs. How're you going to grow when the whole world knows you ain't nothing but a den of snakes? You may claim it's all Brick Willock. I say if he's bigger than the town, if he murders and stabs and you can't help it, then the town ain't as good as him. My life's in danger. I don't know if I'll draw another breath. What kind of a reputation is that for you to send abroad? There's a man in this jail can tell you where Willock's hiding. Good day!"
The speaker was down the steps in two leaps, and the deputies drew aside to let him pass out. Civic pride, above all, civic ambition, had been touched to the quick. A hoarse roar followed the speech, and cries for Bill grew frantic. Mizzoo, afraid to unlock the door, stared at Wilfred in perplexity.
"I told you they had civilization on the brain," he muttered. "The old times are past. I daresn't make a move toward that lock."
"Drop the keys behind you—I'll get 'em," Wilfred murmured. "Step a little forward. Say something to 'em."
"Ain't got nothing to say," growled Mizzoo, glaring at the mob. "These boys are in the right of it, that's how I feel—cuss that obstinate old bobcat! it's his own fault if they string him up."
"Here they come!" Wilfred exclaimed.
"Steady now, old Mizzoo—we've whipped packs of wolves before today—coyotes crazy with hunger—big gray loafers in the rocks—eh, Mizzoo?" He shouted to the deputies who had been pushed against the railing: "Give it to 'em, boys!"
But the deputies did not fire, and the mob, though chafing with mad impatience, did not advance. It was a single figure that swept up the steps, unobstructed, aided, indeed, by the mass of packed men in the street—a figure slight and erect, tingling with the necessity of action to which every vein and muscle responded, tingling so vitally, so electrically, that the crowd also tingled, not understanding, but none the less thrilled.
"Lahoma!" Wilfred was at her side. "You here!"
"Yes, I'm here," she returned breathlessly, her face flaming with excitement. "I'm going to talk to these people—let me have that—" She took the revolver from his unresisting hand, uncocked it, and slipped it into her bosom. Then she faced the mob and held up her empty hand.