Buck’s breath came quickly, and his simple heart was set thumping in his bosom. But his face was serious, and his eyes quite calm as he nodded.
“It’ll be dead easy for you to learn,” he said, a new deep note sounding in his voice. “You’ll learn anything I know, an’ much more, in no time. You can’t help but learn. You’ll be quicker to understand, quicker to feel all those things. Y’ see I’ve got no sort of cleverness—nor nuthin’. I jest look around an’ see things—an’ then, then I think I know.” He laughed quietly at his own conceit. “Oh, yes! sometimes I guess I know it all. An’ then I get sorry for folks that don’t, an’ I jest wonder how it comes everybody don’t understand—same as me. Then something happens.”
“Yes, yes.”
Joan was so eager she felt she could not wait for the pause that followed. Buck laughed.
“Something happens, same as it did yesterday,” he went on. “Oh, it’s big—it sure is!” he added. And he turned again to his contemplation of the hills.
But Joan promptly recalled his wandering attention.
“You mean—the storm?” she demanded.
Buck nodded.
“That—an’ the other.”
“What—other?”
“The washout,” he said.
Then, as he saw the look of perplexity in the wide violet eyes, he went on to explain—
“You ain’t heard? Why, there was a washout on Devil’s Hill, where for nigh a year they bin lookin’ for gold. Y’ see they knew the gold was there, but couldn’t jest locate it. For months an’ months they ain’t seen a sign o’ color. They bin right down to ‘hard pan.’ They wer’ jest starvin’ their lives clear out. But they’d sank the’r pile in that hill, an’ couldn’t bring ’emselves to quit. Then along comes the storm, an’ right wher’ they’re working it washes a great lump o’ the hill down. Hundreds o’ thousands o’ tons of rock an’ stuff it would have needed a train load of dynamite to shift.”
“Yes, yes.” Joan’s eagerness brought her a step nearer to him. “And they found——”
“Gold!” Buck laughed. “Lumps of it.”
“Gold—in lumps!” The girl’s eyes widened with an excitement which the discovery of the precious metal ever inspires.
The man watched her thoughtfully.
“Why aren’t you there?” Joan demanded suddenly.
“Can’t jest say.” Buck shrugged. “Maybe it’s because they bin lookin’ fer gold, an’—wal, I haven’t.”
“Gold—in lumps!” Again came the girl’s amazed exclamation, and Buck smiled at her enthusiasm.
“Sure. An’ they kind o’ blame you for it. They sort o’ fancy you brought ’em their luck. Y’ see it came when you got around their hut. They say ther’ wasn’t no luck to the place till you brought it. An’ now——”
Joan’s eyes shone.
“Oh, I’m so glad. I’m so glad I’ve brought them——”
But her expression of joy was never completed. She broke off with a sharp ejaculation, and the color died out of her cheeks, leaving her so ghastly pale that the man thought she was about to faint. She staggered back and leant for support against the wall of the barn, and Buck sprang to her side. In a moment, however, she stood up and imperiously waved him aside.
There was no mistaking the movement. Her whole manner seemed to have frozen up. The frank girlishness had died as completely as though it had never been, and the man stood abashed, and at a loss for understanding.
Now he saw before him a woman still beautiful, but a woman whose eyes had lost every vestige of that happy light. Despair was written in every feature, despair and utter hopelessness. Her mouth, that beautiful mouth so rich and delicate, was now tight shut as of one in great suffering, and deep, hard lines had suddenly gathered about the corners of it. The change smote him to the heart, but left him utterly helpless.
Realization had come. Joan had suddenly remembered all that lay behind her—all that had driven her to seek the remoteness of the wild Western world. She had sought toflee from the fate which her Aunt Mercy had told her was hers, and now she knew that she might as well try to flee from her own shadow.
Oh, the horror of it all! These people believed that she had brought them their luck.She knew that she had.What was the disaster that must follow? What lives must go down before the sword a terrible Fate had placed in her hand? For the moment panic held her in its grip. For a moment it seemed that death alone could save her from the dread consequences of the curse that was upon her. It was cruel, cruel—the desolation, the hopelessness of it all. And in her sudden anguish she prayed that death might be visited upon her.
But even amidst the horror of her realization the influence of the man’s presence was at work. She knew he was there a witness to the terror she could not hide, and so she strove for recovery.
Then she heard him speak, and at the sound of his quiet tone her nerves eased and she grew calmer.
“I don’t guess you recovered from the storm. I’d sure say you need rest,” Buck said in his gentle, solicitous fashion. And in her heart Joan thanked him for the encouragement his words gave her. He had asked no questions. He had expressed no astonishment, and yet she knew he must have realized that her trouble was no physical ailment.
“Yes,” she said, jumping at the opening he had given her, “I’m tired. I’ll—I’ll go back to the house.”
Buck nodded, disguising his anxiety beneath a calm that seemed so natural to him.
“Jest get back an’ rest. You needn’t worry any ’bout the hosses, an’ cows, an’ things. I’m fixin’ them for thenight, an’ I’ll be right along in the morning to do the chores. Y’ see I know this farm, an’ all that needs doin’. Guess I was raised on it,” he added, with a smile, “so the work’s sort o’ second nature to me.”
Joan’s chance had come, but she passed it by. She knew she ought to have refused his help. She ought to have, as Mrs. Ransford had said, sent him about his business. But she did nothing of the sort. She accepted. She did more. She held out her hand to him, and let him take it in both of his in a friendly pressure as she thanked him.
“I’m—I’m very grateful,” she said weakly. And the man flushed under his sunburn, while his temples hammered as the hot young blood mounted to his brain.
A moment later Buck stood staring at the angle of the barn round which Joan had just vanished. He was half-dazed, and the only thing that seemed absolutely real to him was the gentle pressure of her hand as it had rested in his. He could feel it still; he could feel every pressure of the soft, warm flesh where it had lain on his hard palms. And all the time he stood there his whole body thrilled with an emotion that was almost painful.
At last he stirred. He stooped and picked up the discarded fork. He had no definite purpose. He was scarcely aware of his action. He held it for a moment poised in the air. Then slowly he let the prongs of it rest on the ground, and, leaning his chin on his hands clasped about the haft, stared out at the hills and gave himself up to such a dream as never before had entered his life.
The sun was dipping behind the snowcaps, and for half an hour the work he had voluntarily undertaken remained untouched.
How much longer he would have remained lost in his wonderful dreaming it would have been impossible to tell. But he was ruthlessly awakened, and all his youthful ardor received a cold douche as the evening quiet was suddenly broken by the harsh voices of the crowd of gold-seekers, whom he suddenly beheld approaching the farm along the trail.
Buck wondered as he noted the extraordinary picture of jubilation which the approaching crowd presented. In all his association with these people he had never witnessed anything to equal it or even come near it. He never remembered anything like a real outburst of joy during the long, dreary months since they had first camped on the banks of Yellow Creek.
He watched the faces as they drew near. From the shelter of the barn, whither he had retreated, he had them in full view. He looked for the old, weary signs of their recent privations and sufferings. There were none, not one. They had passed as utterly as though they had never been.
It was a spectacle in which he found the greatest pleasure. The men were clad in their work-stained clothing, their only clothing. Their faces remained unwashed, and still bore the accumulations of dusty sweat from their day’s fevered labors. But it was the light in their eyes, their grinning faces, the buoyancy of their gait that held him. He heard their voices lifted in such a tone as would have seemed impossible only a few days ago. The loud, harsh laugh, accompanying inconsequent jests and jibes, it was good to hear. These men were tasting the sweets of a moment of perfect happiness. Buck knew well enough that soon, probably by the morrow, the momentwould have passed, and they would have settled again to the stern calling of their lives.
All his sympathy was with them, and their joy was reflected in his own feelings. Their hope was his hope, their buoyancy was his buoyancy. For his happiness was complete at the moment, and thus he was left free to feel with those others. Such was his own wonderful exaltation that the thought of the termination of these people’s suffering was the final note that made his joy complete.
He laid his fork aside and waited till they had passed his retreat. The object of their journey was obviously the farmhouse, and he felt that he must learn their further purpose. He remembered Joan’s going from him. He had seen the pain and trouble in her beautiful eyes, and so he feared that the sudden rush of animal spirits in these people would drive them to extravagances, well enough meant, but which might worry and even alarm her.
He moved quickly out of the barn and looked after them. They had reached the house, and stood like a herd of subdued and silly sheep waiting for a sign from their leader. It was a quaint sight. The laugh and jest had died out, and only was the foolish grin left. Yes, they certainly had a definite purpose in their minds, but they equally certainly were in doubt as to how it should be carried out.
Buck drew nearer without attracting their attention. The men were so deeply engaged with the dilemma of the moment that he might almost have joined the group without observation. But he merely desired to be on hand to help should the troubled girl need his help. He had no desire to take active part in the demonstration.As he came near he heard Beasley’s voice, and the very sound of it jarred unpleasantly on his ears. The man was talking in that half-cynical fashion which was never without an added venom behind it.
“Well,” he heard him exclaim derisively, “wot’s doin’? You’re all mighty big talkers back ther’ in camp, but I don’t seem to hear any bright suggestions goin’ around now. You start this gorl-durned racket like a pack o’ weak-headed fools, yearnin’ to pitch away what’s been chucked right into your fool laps jest fer one o’ Blue Grass Pete’s fat-head notions. Well, wot’s doin’? I ask.”
“You ke’p that ugly map o’ yours closed,” cried Pete hotly. “Youain’t bein’ robbed any.”
“Guess I’ll see to that,” retorted Beasley, with a grin. “The feller that robs me’ll need to chew razors fer a pastime. If it comes to that you’re yearnin’ fer glory at the Padre’s expense—as usual.”
Buck’s ears tingled, and he drew closer. Beasley always had a knack of so blending truth with his personal venom that it stung far more than downright insult. He wondered what the Padre’s generosity had been, and wherein lay its connection with their present purpose. The explanation was not long in coming, for Montana Ike took up the challenge amidst a storm of ominous murmurs from the gathered men.
“Don’t take nuthin’ from him,” cried the youngster scornfully. Then he turned on Beasley fiercely. “You need Buck around to set you right, Mister Lousy Beasley,” he cried. “We ain’t robbin’ anybody, an’ sure not the Padre. He found that nugget, an’ it’s his to give or do wot he likes with. The gal brought us the luck, an’ thePadre guessed it was only right she should have the first find. That nugget was the first find, an’ the Padre found it. Wal!” But as no reply was forthcoming he hurried on, turning his tongue loose in the best abuse he could command at the moment. “You’re a rotten sort o’ skunk anyway, an’ you ain’t got a decent thought in your diseased head. I’d like to say right here that you hate seein’ a sixty-ounce lump o’ gold in any other hands than your own dirty paws. That’s your trouble, so jest shut right up while better folks handles a matter wot’s a sight too delicate fer a rotten mind like yours.”
The smile had returned to every face except the foxy features of the ex-Churchman, who for once had no adequate retort ready. Curly Saunders nodded appreciation, and helped to solve the momentary dilemma prevailing.
“That’s sure done it fer you, Montana,” he cried gleefully. “You make the presentation. I’d say I never heard so elegant a flow of argyment in this yer camp. You’ll talk most pretty to the leddy.”
“An’ it ain’t fer me to say I can’t do it if need be, neither,” said Montana modestly. “Don’t guess it’s much of a stunt yappin’ pretty to a sorrel-topped gal.”
Abe Allinson laughed.
“It’s sure up to you, Ike,” he said. “Guess you best git busy right away.”
The rest waited for the youngster’s acceptance of the responsibility, which promptly came with perfect good-will.
“Gee! But you’re a gritty outfit,” he cried, with a wide grin. “Say, I guess you’d need a fence around you shootin’ jack-rabbits. Jack-rabbits is ter’ble fierce.Guess you’d most be skeered to death at a skippin’ lamb bleatin’ fer its mother. Can’t say I ever heerd tell as a feller need be skeered of a pair o’ gal’s eyes, nor a sight o’ red ha’r. You said it was red, Pete, didn’t you? I’d sure say a bright feller don’t need to worry any over talkin’ pretty to a gal like that. She’s up agin a proposition if she thinks she ken skeer me. Wher’ is she? Jest call her out. She’s goin’ to git her med’cine right here in the open. I ain’t doin’ no parlor tricks.”
The boy stood out from the crowd with a decided show of mild bravado, but he glanced about him, seeking the moral support of his fellows.
“You best knock on the door, Ike,” said Curly quietly.
Ike hesitated. Then he turned doubtfully to those behind.
“You—you mean that?” he inquired. “You ain’t foolin’ none?” Then, as though realizing his own weakness, he began to bluster. “Cos I ain’t takin’ no foolin’ in a racket o’ this sort. An’ any feller thinks he ken fool me’ll sure hate hisself when I’m through with him.”
A mild snicker greeted his “big talk,” and the boy flushed hotly. He was half-inclined to add further resentment, but, second thoughts prevailing, he abruptly turned to the door and hammered on it as though anticipating stern resistance from those within.
Inside the house Mrs. Ransford was debating the situation with her mistress. She had witnessed the advance of the besieging party, and, half-frightened and half-resentful, the latter perhaps the more plainly manifested, she was detailing in unmeasured terms her opinions and fears to the still harassed girl.
“Jest git a peek at ’em through the window, miss—‘ma’m’ I should say, on’y I don’t allus remember right, as you might say. Ther’s twenty an’ more o’ the lowest down bums ever I see outside a State penitentiary. They’re sure the most ter’blest lot ever I did see. An’ they got ’emselves fixed up wi’ guns an’ knives, an’ what not an’ sech, till you can’t see the color o’ their clothes fer the dirt on ’em. I’ll swar’ to goodness, as the sayin’ is, they ain’t never see no water sence they was christened, if they ever was christened, which I don’t believe no gospel preacher would ever so demean himself. An’ as fer soap, say, they couldn’t even spell it if you was to hand ’em the whole soap fact’ry literature of a fi’-cent daily noos-sheet. They’re jest ter’ble, an’ it seems to me we sure need a reg’ment o’ United States Cavalry settin’ around on horses an’ field guns to pertect us, ef we’re to farm this one-hossed layout. They’re ‘bad men,’ mum, miss—which I made a mistake ag’in—that’s wot they are. I’ve read about ’em in the fi’-cent comics, so I sure know ’em when I see ’em. You can’t never make no mistake. They’re jest goin’ to shoot us all up to glory, an’ they’ll dance around on our corpses, same as if they was nuthin’, nor no account anyways.”
In spite of her recent shock Joan found herself smiling at the strange mixture of fear and anger in the old woman’s manner. But she felt it necessary to check her flow of wild accusations. She guessed easily enough who the men were that were approaching the house, but their object remained a mystery.
“You’re hasty. You mustn’t judge these people by their appearance. They’re——”
But the feverish tongue was promptly set clacking again.
“An’ wot, I asks, is they to be judged by if not by wot they are? They jest come along a-yowlin’, an’ a-shootin’ off’n their guns an’ things, same as they allus do when they’s on the war-path. Scalps, that’s wot they’s after. Scalps, no more an’ no less. An’ to think o’ me at my time o’ life a-fallin’ a prey to Injuns, as you might say. Oh, if on’y my pore George D. Ransford was alive! He’d ’a’ give ’em scalps. He was a man, sure, even though he did set around playin’ poker all night when I was in labor with my twins. He was a great fighter was George D.—as the marks on my body ken show to this very day.”
At that instant there was a terrific knocking at the door which opened directly into the parlor in which the waiting women were standing, and the farm-wife jumped and staggered back, and, finally, collapsed into an adjacent chair.
“Sakes on us,” she cried, her fat face turning a sort of pea-green, “if only my pore George D.——”
But Joan’s patience could stand no more.
“For goodness’ sake go back to your kitchen, you absurd creature. I’ll see to the matter. I——”
But the old woman wobbled to her feet almost weeping.
“Now, don’t ’ee, miss,” she cried in her tearful anxiety, getting her form of address right the first time. “Don’t ’ee be rash. Ther’ll be blood spilt, ther’ sure will. Ther’s on’y one way, miss, you must talk ’em nice, an’, an’ if they go fer to take liberties, you—why you,” she edged toward her kitchen, “you jest send for me right away.”
She hurried out, and the moment she was out of sightfled precipitately to the farthest extremity of her own domain and armed herself with the heavy iron shaker of the cook-stove.
In the meantime Joan went to the door and flung it wide open. In spite of the farm-wife’s warnings she had not a shadow of doubt as to the peaceful object of the visitation, and rather felt that in some sort of way it was intended as an expression of good-will and greeting. Had not Buck told her that they held her in the light of some sort of benefactor? So she stood in the doorway erect and waiting, with a calm face, on which there was not a shadow of a smile.
She took in the gathering at a glance, and her eyes came to rest upon the foremost figure of Montana Ike. She noted his slim, boyish figure, the weak, animal expression shining in his furtive eyes. To her he looked just what he was, a virile specimen of reckless young manhood, of vicious and untamed spirit. She saw at once that he was standing out from his companions, and understood that, for the moment at least, he was their leader.
“Good-evening,” she said, her attitude mechanically unbending.
“Evenin’, miss,” responded Ike bravely, and then relapsed into a violent condition of blushing through his dirt.
He stood there paralyzed at the girl’s beauty. He just gaped foolishly at her, his eyes seeking refuge in dwelling upon the well-cut skirt she wore and the perfect whiteness of the lawn shirt-waist, which permitted the delicate pink tinge of her arms and shoulders to show through it.
All his bravery was gone—all his assurance. If his lifehad depended on it not one word of an address on behalf of his fellows could he have uttered.
Joan saw his confusion, and mercifully came to his rescue.
“You wish to see me?” she inquired, with a smile which plunged the boy into even more hopeless confusion.
As no answer was forthcoming she looked appealingly at the other faces.
“It’s very kind of you all to come here,” she said gently. “Is—is there anything I can—do for you?”
Suddenly Beasley’s voice made itself heard.
“Git busy, Ike, you’re spokesman,” he cried. “Git on with the presentation—ladle out the ad—dress. You’re kind o’ lookin’ foolish.”
He followed up his words with his unpleasant laugh, and it was the sting the youthful leader needed.
He turned fiercely on the speaker, his momentary paralysis all vanished.
“Ef I’m spokesman,” he cried, “guess we don’t need no buttin’ in from Beasley Melford.” Then he turned again quickly. “Astin’ your pardon, miss,” he added apologetically.
“That’s all right,” said Joan, smiling amiably. “What are you ‘spokesman’ for?”
The boy grinned foolishly.
“Can’t rightly say, missie.” Then he jerked his head in his comrades’ direction. “Guess if you was to astthem, they’d call theirselvesmen.”
“I didn’t say ‘who,’ I said ‘what,’” Joan protested, with a laugh at his desperately serious manner.
“‘What?’” he murmured, smearing his dirty forehead with a horny hand in the effort of his task. Then hebrightened. “Why, gener’ly speakin’,” he went on, with sudden enthusiasm, “they ain’t much better’n skippin’ sheep. Y’ see they want to but darsent. So—wal—they jest set me up to sling the hot air.”
The girl looked appealingly at the rough faces for assistance. But instead of help she only beheld an expression of general discontent turned on the unconscious back of the spokesman. And coming back to the boy she pursued the only course possible.
“I—I don’t think I quite understand,” she said.
Ike readily agreed with her.
“I’m durned sure you can’t,” he cried heartily. “They jest think it a rotten kind of a job handin’ a red-ha’r’d gal a few words an’ an a’mighty fine hunk o’ gold. That’s cos they ain’t been dragged up jest right. You can’t expect elegant feedin’ at a hog trough. Now it’s kind o’ diff’rent wi’ me. I——”
“Oh, quit,” cried the sharp voice of the exasperated Abe Allinson. And there was no doubt but he was speaking for the rest of the audience.
Pete followed him in a tone of equal resentment.
“That ain’t no sort o’ way ad—dressin’ a leddy,” he said angrily.
“Course it ain’t,” sneered Beasley. “Ther’s sure bats roostin’ in your belfry, Ike.”
The boy jumped round on the instant. His good-nature could stand the jibes of his comrades generally, but Beasley’s sneers neither he nor any one else could endure.
“Who’s that yappin’?” the youngster cried, glowering into the speaker’s face. “That the feller Buck called an outlaw passon?” he demanded. His right handslipped to the butt of his gun. “Say you,” he cried threateningly, “if you got anything to say I’m right here yearnin’ to listen.”
Joan saw the half-drawn weapon, and in the same instant became aware of a movement on the part of the man Beasley. She was horrified, expecting one of those fierce collisions she had heard about. But the moment passed, and, though she did not realize it, it was caused by Ike’s gun leaving its holster first.
Her woman’s fear urged her, and she raised a protesting hand.
“Please—please,” she cried, her eyes dilating with apprehension. “What have I done that you should come here to quarrel?”
Buck in the background smiled. He was mentally applauding the girl’s readiness, while he watched the others closely.
Ike turned to her again, and his anger had merged into a comical look of chagrin.
“Y’ see, missie,” he said in a fresh tone of apology, “ther’s fellers around here wi’ no sort o’ manners. They’re scairt to death makin’ a big talk to a red-ha’r’d gal, so I jest got to do it. An’ I sez it, it ain’t easy, folks like me speechin’ to folks like you——”
“Oh, git on!” cried Pete in a tired voice.
“Your hot air’s nigh freezin’,” laughed Soapy Kid.
“Quit it,” cried Ike hotly. “Ain’t they an ignorant lot o’ hogs?” he went on, appealing to the smiling girl. “Y’ see, missie, we’re right glad you come along. We’re prospectin’ this layout fer gold an’——”
“An’ we ain’t had no sort o’ luck till you got around,” added Pete hastily.
“In the storm,” nodded Curly Saunders.
“All mussed-up an’ beat to hell,” cried Ike, feeling that he was being ousted from his rights.
“Yes, an’ Buck carried you to home, an’ rode in fer the doc, an’ had you fixed right,” cried Abe.
Ike looked round indignantly.
“Say, is youse fellers makin’ this big talk or me? ain’t yearnin’, if any feller’s lookin’ fer glory.”
His challenge was received with a chorus of laughter.
“You’re doin’ fine,” cried the Kid.
Ike favored the speaker with a contemptuous stare and returned to his work. He shrugged.
“They ain’t no account anyway, missie,” he assured her, “guess they’re sore. Wal, y’ see you come along in the storm, an’ what should happen but the side o’ Devil’s Hill drops out, an’ sets gold rollin’ around like—like taters fallin’ through a rotten sack. ‘Gold?’ sez we, an’ gold it is. ‘Who bro’t us sech luck?’ we asts. An’ ther’ it is right ther’, so ther’ can’t be no mistake. Jest a pore, sick gal wi’ red ha’r, all beat to hell an’——”
“Gee, ain’t it beautiful!” sneered Curly.
Soapy pretended to weep, and Abe thumped him heavily on the back.
“Cheer up, Kid,” he grinned. “’Tain’t as bad as it seems. Ike’ll feel better after he’s had his vittles.”
Pete sniggered.
“Ain’t he comic?” he cried. Then, seizing the opportunity, while Ike turned round to retort he hustled him aside and usurped his place.
“Say, missie, it’s jest this, you’re the Golden Woman who bro’t us our luck. Some of us ain’t got your name right, nor nuthin’. Anyway that don’t figger nuthin’.We ain’t had no luck till you come along, so you’re jest our Golden Woman, an’ we’re goin’ to hand you——”
Joan started back as though the man had struck her. Her beautiful cheeks went a ghastly pallor.
“No—no!” she cried half-wildly.
“And why for not?” demanded Pete.
“But my name is Joan,” she cried, a terrible dread almost overpowering her. “You see ‘Golden’ isn’t my real name,” she explained, without pausing to think. “That’s only a nickname my father ga—gave me. I—I was christened ‘Joan.’”
Pete slapped his thigh heavily, and a great grin spread over his face.
“Say, don’t it beat the band?” he cried in wild delight. “Don’t it?” he repeated, appealing to the world at large. “‘Golden.’ That’s her name, an’ we only hit on it cos she’s got gold ha’r, an’ bro’t us gold. An’ all the time her pa used to call her ‘Golden.’ Can you beat it?” Then he looked into Joan’s face with admiring eyes. “Say, missie, that’s your name for jest as long as you stop around this layout. That’s her name, ain’t it, boys?” He appealed to the crowd. “Here, give it her good an’ plenty, boys. Hooray for the ‘Golden Woman’!”
Instantly the air was filled with a harsh cheering that left the girl almost weeping in her terror and misery. But the men saw nothing of the effect of their good-will. They were only too glad to be able to find such an outlet to their feelings. When the cheering ceased Pete thrust out an arm toward her. His palm was stretched open, and lying on it was the great yellow nugget that the Padre had found—the first find of the “strike.”
“That’s it, missie,” he cried, his wild eyes rolling delightedly.“Look right ther’. That’s fer you. The Padre found it, an’ it’s his to give, an’ he sent it to you. That’s the sort o’ luck you bro’t us.”
The crowd closed in with necks craning to observe the wonderful nugget of gold; to the finding of its kind their lives were devoted. Beasley was at Pete’s elbow, the greediest of them all.
“It wasn’t no scrapin’ an’ scratchin’ luck,” the enthusiastic Pete hurried on. “It was gold in hunks you bro’t us.”
Beasley’s eyes lit, and Buck, watching closely, edged in.
“It’s a present to you, missie,” Pete went on. “That’s wot we come for. Jest to hand you that nugget. Nigh sixty ounces solid gold, an’ the first found at this yer camp.”
Balanced on his hand he thrust it farther out for the girl to take, but she shrank back. Beasley saw the movement and laughed. He pointed at it and leered up into her face.
“You’re sure right,” he cried. “Don’t you touch it. Jest look at it. Say, can’t you fellers see, or are you blind? She ain’t blind. She can see. She’s seen wot’s ther’. It’s a death’s head. Gold? Gee, I tell you it’s a death’s head! Look at them eye-sockets,” he cried, pointing at the curious moulding of the nugget. “Ther’s the nose bones, an’ the jaw. Look at them teeth, too, all gold-filled, same as if a dentist had done ’em.” He laughed maliciously. “It’s a dandy present fer a lady. A keepsake!”
The men were crowding to see the markings which Beasley pointed out. They were quite plain. They were so obvious that something like horror lit the superstitiousfaces. Beasley, watching, saw that he had made his point, so he hurried on—
“Don’t you touch it, miss,” he cried gleefully, as though he thoroughly enjoyed delivering his warning. “It’s rotten luck if you do. That gold is Devil’s gold. It’s come from Devil’s Hill, in a Devil’s storm. It’s a death’s head, an’ there’s all the trouble in the world in it. There’s——”
His prophecy remained uncompleted. He was suddenly caught by a powerful hand, and the next instant he found himself swung to the outskirts of the crowd with terrific force.
In a furious rage he pulled himself together just in time to see Buck, pale with anger, seize the nugget from Pete’s outstretched palm.
“You don’t need to worry with the trouble in that gold,” he said with biting coldness, raising it at arm’s length above his head.
Then before any one was aware of his intention he flung it with all his force upon the flagstone at Joan’s feet. Quickly he stooped and picked it up again, and again flung it down with all his strength. He repeated the process several times, and finally held it out toward the troubled girl.
“You ken take it now,” he said, his whole manner softening. “Guess Beasley’s ‘death’s head’ has gone—to its grave. Ther’ ain’t no sort o’ trouble can hurt any, if—you only come down on it hard enough. The trouble ain’t in that gold now, only in the back of Beasley’s head. An’ when it gets loose, wal—I allow there’s folks around here won’t see it come your way. You can sure take it now.”
Joan reached out a timid hand, while her troubled violet eyes looked into Buck’s face as though fascinated. The man moved a step nearer, and the small hand closed over the battered nugget.
“Take it,” he said encouragingly. “It’s an expression of the good feelings of the boys. An’ I don’t guess you need be scared ofthem.”
Joan took the gold, but there was no smile in her eyes, no thanks on her lips. She stepped back to her doorway and passed within.
“I’m tired,” she said, and her words were solely addressed to Buck. He nodded, while she closed the door. Then he turned about.
“Wal!” he said.
And his manner was a decided dismissal.
The fur fort was a relic of ancient days, when the old-time traders of the North sent their legions of pelt hunters from the far limits of the northern ice-world to the sunny western slopes of the great American continent. It was at such a place as this, hemmed in amidst the foot-hills, that they established their factor and his handful of armed men; lonely sentries at the gates of the mountain world, to levy an exorbitant tax upon the harvest of furs within.
Here, within the ponderous stockade, now fallen into sore decay, behind iron-bound doors secured by mighty wooden locks, and barred with balks of timber, sheltered beneath the frowning muzzles of half a dozen futile carronades, they reveled in obscene orgies and committed their barbaric atrocities under the name of Justice and Commerce. Here they amassed wealth for the parent companies in distant lands, and ruthlessly despoiled the wild of its furry denizens.
These were the pioneers, sturdy savages little better than the red man himself, little better in their lives than the creatures upon which they preyed. But they were for the most part men, vigorous, dauntless men who not only made history, but prepared the way for those who were to come after, leaving them a heritage of unsurpassable magnificence.
Now, this old-time relic afforded a shelter for two lonelymen, whose only emulation of their predecessors was in the craft that was theirs. In all else there remained nothing in common, unless it were that common asset of all pioneers, a sturdy courage. They certainly lacked nothing of this. But whereas the courage of their predecessors, judging them by all historical records, in quality belonged largely to the more brutal side of life, these men had no such inspiration. Their calling was something in the nature of a passionate craving for the exercise of wits and instincts in a hard field where the creatures of the wild meet the human upon almost equal terms.
Isolation was nothing new to these men. The remotenesses of the back world had been their life for years. They understood its every mood, and met them with nerves in perfect tune. The mountains filled their whole outlook. They desired nothing better, nothing more.
Yet it seemed strange that this should be. For the Padre had not always lived beyond the fringes of civilization. He was a man of education, a man of thought and even culture. These things must have been obvious to the most casual observer. In Buck’s case it was easier to understand. He had known no other life than this. And yet he, too, might well have been expected to look askance at a future lost to all those things which he knew to lay beyond. Was he not at the threshold of life? Were not his veins thrilling with the rich, red tide of youth? Were not all those instincts which go to make up the sum of young human life as much a part of him as of those others who haunted the banks of Yellow Creek? The whole scheme was surely unusual. The Padre’s instinct was to roam deeper and deeper into the wild, and Buck, offered his release from its wondrous thrall, had refused it.
Thus they embraced this new home. The vast and often decaying timbers, hewn out of the very forests they loved, cried out with all the old associations they bore and held them. The miniature citadel contained within the trenchant stockade, the old pelt stores, roofless and worm-eaten, the armory which still suggested the clank of half-armored men, who lived only for the joy of defying death. The factor’s house, whence, in the days gone by, the orders for battle had been issued, and the sentence of life and death had been handed out with scant regard for justice. Then there were the ruined walls of the common-room, where the fighting men had caroused and slept. The scenes of frightful orgies held in this place were easy to conjure. All these things counted in a manner which perhaps remained unacknowledged by either. But nevertheless they were as surely a part of the lure as the chase itself, with all its elemental attraction.
They had restored just as much of the old factor’s house as they needed for their simple wants. Two rooms were all they occupied, two rooms as simple and plain as their own lives. Buck had added a new roof of logs and clay plaster. He had set up two stretchers with straw-stuffed paillasses for beds. He had manufactured a powerful table, and set it upon legs cut from pine saplings. To this he had added the removal of a cook-stove and two chairs, and their own personal wardrobe from the farm, and so the place was complete. Yet not quite. There was an arm rack upon the wall of the living-room, an arm rack that had at one time doubtless supported the old flintlocks of the early fur hunters. This he had restored, and laden it with their own armory and the spare traps of their craft; while their only luxury was the fastening up besidethe doorway of a frameless looking-glass for shaving purposes.
They required a place to sleep in, a place in which to store their produce, a place in which to break their fast and eat their meal at dusk. Here it lay, ready to their hand, affording them just these simple necessities, and so they adopted it.
But the new life troubled the Padre in moments when he allowed himself to dwell upon the younger man’s future. He had offered him his release, at the time he had parted with the farm, from a sense of simple duty. It would have been a sore blow to him had Buck accepted, yet he would have submitted readily, even gladly, for he felt that with the passing of the farm out of their hands he had far more certainly robbed Buck of all provision for his future than he had deprived himself, who was the actual owner. He felt that in seeking to help the little starving colony he had done it, in reality, at Buck’s expense.
Something of this was in his mind as he pushed away from their frugal breakfast-table. He stood in the doorway filling his pipe, while Buck cleared the tin plates and pannikins and plunged them into the boiler of hot water on the stove.
He leant his stalwart shoulders against the door casing, and stared out at the wooded valley which crossed the front of the house. Beyond it, over the opposite rise, he could see the dim outline of the crest of Devil’s Hill several miles away.
He felt that by rights Buck should be there—somewhere there beyond the valley. Not because the youngster had any desire for the wealth that was flowing into the greedyhands of the gold-seekers. It was simply the thought of a man who knows far more of the world than he cares to remember. He felt that in all honesty he should point out the duties of a man to himself in these days when advancement alone counts, and manhood, without worldly position, goes for so very little. He was not quite sure that Buck didn’t perfectly understand these things for himself. He had such a wonderful understanding and insight. However, his duty was plain, and it was not his way to shrink from it.
Buck was sprinkling the earth floor preparatory to sweeping it when the Padre let his eyes wander back into the room.
“Got things fixed?” he inquired casually.
“Mostly.” Buck began to sweep with that practiced hand which never raises a dust on an earthen floor.
The Padre watched his movements thoughtfully.
“Seems queer seeing you sweeping and doing chores like a—a hired girl.” He laughed presently.
Buck looked up and rested on his broom. He smilingly surveyed his early benefactor and friend.
“What’s worryin’?” he inquired in his direct fashion.
The Padre stirred uneasily. He knocked the ashes from his pipe and pressed the glowing tobacco down with the head of a rusty nail.
“Oh, nothing worrying,” he said, turning back to his survey of the valley beyond the decaying stockade. “The sun’ll be over the hilltops in half an hour,” he went on.
But the manner of his answer told Buck all he wanted to know. He too glanced out beyond the valley.
“Yes,” he ejaculated, and went on sweeping. A momentlater he paused again. “Guess I can’t be out at the traps till noon. Mebbe you ken do without me—till then?”
“Sure.” The Padre nodded at the valley. Then he added: “I’ve been thinking.”
“’Bout that gold strike? ’Bout me? You bin thinkin’ I ought to quit the traps, an’—make good wi’ them. I know.”
The elder man turned back sharply and looked into the dark eyes with a shrewd smile.
“You generally get what I’m thinking,” he said.
“Guess you’re not much of a riddle—to me,” Buck laughed, drawing the moist dust into a heap preparatory to picking it up.
The Padre laughed too.
“Maybe you know how I’m feeling about things, then? Y’ see there’s nothing for you now but half the farm money. That’s yours anyway. It isn’t a pile. Seems to me you ought to be—out there making a big position for yourself.” He nodded in the direction of Devil’s Hill.
“Out of gold?”
“Why not? It’s an opportunity.”
“What for?” Buck inquired, without a semblance of enthusiasm.
“Why, for going ahead—with other folks.”
Buck nodded.
“I know. Goin’ to a city with a big pile. A big house. Elegant clothes. Hired servants. Congress. Goin’ around with a splash of big type in the noospapers.”
“That’s not quite all, Buck.” The man at the door shook his head. “A man when he rises doesn’t need to go in for—well, for vulgar display. There are a heap ofother things besides. What about the intellectual side of civilization? What about the advancement of good causes? What about—well, all those things we reckon worth while out here? Then, too, you’ll be marrying some day.”
Buck picked up the dust and carefully emptied it into the blazing stove. He watched it burn for a moment, and then replaced the round iron top.
“Marryin’ needs—all those things?” he inquired at last.
“Well, I wouldn’t say that,” returned the other quickly. He knew something was lying behind Buck’s quiet manner, and it made him a little uncomfortable. “Most men find a means of marrying when they want to—if they’re men. Look here,” he went on, with a sudden outburst of simple candor, “I want to be fair to you, and I want you to be fair to yourself. There’s an opportunity over there”—he pointed with his pipe in the direction of Devil’s Hill—“an opportunity to make a pile, which will help you to take a position in the world. I don’t want you to stay with me from any mistaken sense of gratitude or duty. It is my lot, and my desire, to remain in these hills. But you—you’ve got your life before you. You can rise to the top if you want to. I know you. I know your capacity. Take your share of the farm money, and—get busy.”
“An’ if I don’t want to—get busy?” Buck’s dark eyes were alight with a curious, intense warmth.
The Padre shrugged and pushed his pipe into the corner of his mouth.
“There’s nothing more to be said,” he replied.
“But ther’ is, Padre. There sure is,” cried Buck, stepping over to him and laying one hand on the great shouldernearest him. “I get all you say. I’ve got it long ago. You bin worryin’ to say all this since ever you got back from sellin’ the farm. An’ it’s like you. But you an’ me don’t jest figger alike. You got twenty more years of the world than me, so your eyes look around you different. That’s natural. You’re guessin’ that hill is an opportunity for me. Wal, I’m guessin’ it ain’t. Mebbe it is for others, but not for me. I got my opportunity twenty years ago, an’ you give me that opportunity. I was starvin’ to death then, an’ you helped me out. You’re my opportunity, an’ it makes me glad to think of it. Wher’ you go I go, an’ when we both done, why, I guess it won’t be hard to see that what I done an’ what you done was meant for us both to do. We’re huntin’ pelts for a livin’ now, an’ when the time comes for us to quit it, why, we’ll both quit it together, an’ so it’ll go on. It don’t matter wher’ it takes us. Say,” he went on, turning away abruptly. “Guess I’ll jest haul the drinkin’ water before I get.”
The Padre turned his quiet eyes on the slim back.
“And what about when you think of marrying?” he asked shrewdly.
Buck paused to push the boiler off the stove. He shook his head and pointed at the sky.
“Guess the sun’s gettin’ up,” he said.
The Padre laughed and prepared to depart.
“Where you off to this morning?” he inquired presently.
“That gal ain’t got a hired man, yet,” Buck explained simply, as he picked up his saddle. Then he added ingenuously, “Y’ see I don’t guess she ken do the chores, an’ the old woman ain’t got time to—for talkin’.”
The Padre nodded while he bent over the breech of his Winchester. He had no wish for Buck to see the smile his words had conjured.
Buck swung his saddle on to his shoulder and passed out of the hut in the direction of the building he had converted into a barn. And when he had gone the Padre looked after him.
“He says she’s handsome, with red-gold hair and blue eyes,” he murmured. Then a far-away look stole into his steady eyes, and their stare fixed itself upon the doorway of the barn through which Buck had just vanished. “Curious,” he muttered. “They’ve nicknamed her ‘Golden,’ which happened to be a nickname—her father gave her.”
He stood for some moments lost in thought. Then, suddenly pulling himself together, he shouldered his rifle and disappeared into the woods.
Joan was idling dispiritedly over her breakfast. A long, wakeful night had at last ended in the usual aching head and eyes ringed with shadows. She felt dreary, and looked forward drearily to inspecting her farm—which, in her normal state, would have inspired nothing but perfect delight—with something like apprehension.
Her beginning in the new life had been swamped in a series of disastrous events which left her convinced of the impossibility of escape from the painful shadow of the past. All night her brain had been whirling in a perfect chaos of thought as she reviewed her advent to the farm. There had been nothing, from her point of view, but disaster upon disaster. First her arrival. Then—why, then the “luck” of the gold find. In her eyes, what was that but the threat of disaster to come? Had not her aunt told her that this extraordinary luck that she must ever bring was part of the curse shadowing her life? Then the coincidence of her nickname. It was truly hideous. The very incongruity of it made it seem the most terrible disaster of all. Surely, more than anything else, it pointed the hand of Fate. It was her father’s nickname for her, and he—he had been the worst sufferer at her hands.
The whole thing seemed so hopeless, so useless. What was the use of her struggle against this hateful fate? Aspirit of rebellion urged her, and she felt half-inclined to abandon herself to the life that was hers; to harden herself, and, taking the cup life offered her, drain it to the dregs. Why should she waste her life battling with a force which seemed all-powerful? Why should she submit to the terror of it? What were the affairs of these others to her? She was not responsible. Nothing in the whole sane world of ethics could hold her responsible.
The spirit of rebellion, for the moment, obtained the upper hand. She had youth; Fortune had bestowed a face and figure upon her that she need not be ashamed of, and a healthy capacity for enjoyment. Then why should she abandon all these gifts because of a fate for which she was in no way responsible?
She pushed back her chair from the table, and crossed to the open front door.
The sun was not yet up, and the morning air was dewy and fresh with perfumes such as she had never experienced in St. Ellis. It was—yes, it was good to be alive on such a day in spite of everything.
She glanced out over the little farm—her farm. Yes, it was all hers, bought and paid for, and she still had money for all her needs and to do those things she wanted to do. She turned away and looked back into the little parlor with its simple furnishings, its mannish odds and ends upon the wall. She heard the sounds of the old housekeeper busy in her heavy, blundering way with the domestic work of her home. She had so many plans for the future, and every one in its inception had given her the greatest delight. Now—now this hideous skeleton had stepped from its cupboard and robbed her of every joy. No, she would not stand it. She wouldsteel her heart to these stupid, girlish superstitions. She would—
Her gloomy reflections were abruptly cut short. There was a rush and clatter. In a perfect whirlwind of haste a horseman dashed up, dragged his horse back on to its haunches as he pulled up, and flung out of the saddle.
It was the boy, Montana Ike. He grabbed his disreputable hat from his ginger head, and stared agape at the vision of loveliness he had come in search of.
“Good—good-morning,” Joan said, hardly knowing how to greet this strange apparition.
The boy nodded, and moistened his lips as though consumed by a sudden thirst.
For a moment they stared stupidly at each other. Then Joan, feeling the awkwardness of the situation, endeavored to relieve it.
“Daylight?” she exclaimed interrogatively, “and you not yet out at the—where the gold is?”
Ike shook his head and grinned the harder. Then his tongue loosened, and his words came with a sudden rush that left the girl wondering.
“Y’ see the folks is eatin’ breakfast,” he said. “Y’ see I jest cut it right out, an’ come along. I heard Pete—you know Blue Grass Pete—he’s a low-down Kentuckian—he said he tho’t some un orter git around hyar case you was queer after last night. Sed he guessed he would. Guess I’ll git back ’fore they’re busy. It’ll take ’em all hustlin’ to git ahead o’ me.”
“That’s very kind,” Joan replied mechanically. But the encouragement was scarcely needed. The boy rushed on, like a river in flood time.
“Oh, it ain’t zac’ly kind!” he said. “Y’ see they’re mostly a low-down lot, an’ Pete’s the low-downest. He’s bad, is Pete, an’ ain’t no bizness around a leddy. Then Beasley Melford. He’s jest a durned skunk anyways. Don’t guess Curly Saunders ain’t much account neither. He makes you sick to death around a whisky bottle. Abe Allinson, he’s sort o’ mean, too. Y’ see Abe’s Slaney Dick’s pardner, an’ they bin workin’ gold so long they ain’t got a tho’t in their gray heads ’cept gold an’ rot-gut rye. Still, they’re better’n the Kid. The Kid’s soft, so we call him Soapy. Guess you orter know ’em all right away. Y’ see it’s easy a gal misbelievin’ the rights o’ folks.”
Joan smiled. Something of the man’s object was becoming plain.
She studied his face while he was proceeding to metaphorically nail up each of these men’s coffins, and the curious animal alertness of it held her interest. His eyes were wide and restless, and a hardness marked the corners of his rather loose mouth. She wondered if that hardness were natural, or whether it had been acquired in the precarious life that these people lived.
“It’s just as well to know—everybody,” she said gently.
“Oh, it sure is, in a country like this,” the man went on confidently. “That’s why I come along. Fellers chasin’ gold is a hell of a bad outfit. Y’ see, I ain’t bin long chasin’ gold, an’ I don’t figger to keep at it long neither. Y’ see, I got a good claim. Guess it’s sure the best. We drew lots for ’em last night. It was the Padre fixed that up. He’s a great feller, the Padre. An’ I got the best one—wher’ the Padre found that nugget you got.Oh, I’m lucky—dead lucky! Guess I’ll git a pile out o’ my claim, sure. A great big pile. Then I’m goin’ to live swell in a big city an’ have a great big outfit of folks workin’ fer me. An’ I’ll git hooked up with a swell gal. It’ll be a bully proposition. Guess the gal’ll be lucky, cos I’ll have such a big pile.”
The youngster’s enthusiasm and conceit were astounding. Nor could Joan help the coldness they inspired in her voice.
“She will be lucky—marrying you,” she agreed. “But—aren’t you afraid you’ll miss something if the others get out to the hill before you? I mean, they being such a bad lot.”
The man became serious for a second before he answered. Then, in a moment, his face brightened into a grin of confidence.
“Course you can’t trust ’em,” he said, quite missing Joan’s desire to be rid of him. “But I don’t guess any of ’em’s likely to try monkey tricks. Guess if any feller robbed me I’d shoot him down in his tracks. They know that, sure. Oh, no, they won’t play no monkey tricks. An’ anyway, I ain’t givin’ ’em a chance.”
He moved toward his horse and replaced the reins over its neck in spite of his brave words. Joan understood. She saw the meanness underlying his pretended solicitation for her well-being. All her sex instincts were aroused, and she quite understood the purpose of the somewhat brutal youth.
“You’re quite right to give them no chances,” she said coldly. “And now, I s’pose, you’re going right out to your claim?”
“I am that,” exclaimed the other, with a gleam ofcupidity in his shifty eyes. “I’m goin’ right away to dig lumps of gold fer to buy di’monds fer that gal.”
He laughed uproariously at his pleasantry as he leapt into the saddle. But in a moment his mirth had passed, and his whole expression suddenly hardened as he bent down from the saddle.
“But ef Pete comes around you git busy an’ boot him right out. Pete’s bad—a real bad un. He’s wuss’n Beasley. Wal, I won’t say he’s wuss. But he’s as bad. Git me?”
Joan nodded. She had no alternative. The fellow sickened her. She had been ready to meet him as one of these irresponsible people, ignorant, perhaps dissipated, but at least well-meaning. But here she found the lower, meaner traits of manhood she thought were only to be found amongst the dregs of a city. It was not a pleasant experience, and she was glad to be rid of him.
“I think I understand. Good-bye.”
“You’re a bright gal, you sure are,” the youth vouchsafed cordially. “I guessed you’d understand. I like gals who understand quick. That’s the sort o’ gal I’m goin’ to hitch up with.” He grinned, and crushed his hat well down on his head. “Wal, so long. See you ag’in. Course I can’t git around till after I finish on my claim. Guess you won’t feel lonesome tho’, you got to git your farm fixed right. Wal, so long.”
Joan nodded as the man rode off, thankful for the termination of his vicious, whirlwind visit. Utterly disgusted, she turned back to the house to find Mrs. Ransford standing in the doorway.
“What’s he want?” the old woman demanded in her most uncompromising manner.
The girl laughed mirthlessly.
“I think he wants a little honesty and kindliness knocked into his very warped nature,” she declared, with a sigh.
“Warped? Warped?” The old woman caught at the word, and it seemed to set her groping in search of adequate epithets in which to express her feelings. “I don’t know what that means. But he’s it anyways—they all are.”
And she vanished again into the culinary kingdom over which she presided.