The mellow evening light glows with a living warmth of color upon hill, and valley, and plain. The myriad tints shine in perfect harmony, for Nature is incapable of discord whether in her reign of beauty or her moments of terror. Discord belongs to the imperfect human eye, the human brain, the human heart. Thus must the most perfect human creation be ever imperfect.
But Nature’s perfections are never lost upon the human mind. They are not intended to be lost. They serve well their purpose of elevating, of uplifting all thought, and affording inspiration for all that which is good and beautiful in hearts thrilling with emotions which need strong support to save them from their own weaknesses.
Something of this influence was at work in the hearts of a man and a girl riding over the hard sand trail in the pleasant evening light. The man’s youthful heart was thrilling with a hope he dared not attempt to define, and could not if he would. His every feeling was inspired by a joy he had no proper understanding of. The glance of his dark eyes bespoke his mood, and his buoyancy seemed to communicate itself to the great horse under him. All he knew was that the glory of the day was all about him, and, beside him, Joan was riding the Padre’s sturdy horse.
The girl at his side was no less uplifted. At the moment shadows troubled her not at all. They were gone, merged into soft, hazy gauzes through which peeped the scenes of life as she desired life to be, and every picture was rose-tinted with the wonderful light of an evening sun.
Her fair young face was radiant; a wonderful happiness shone in the violet depths of her eyes. Her sweet lips were parted, displaying her even, white teeth, and her whole expression was much that of a child who, for the first time, opens its eyes to the real joy of living. Every now and again she drew a deep, long sigh of content and enjoyment.
For a while they rode in silence, their bodies swaying easily to the rhythmic gait of the horses. Their direction lay toward the sun, that direction which ever makes for hope. Ahead of them, and behind them, lay the forest of tall, garbless trunks, their foliage-crowned, disheveled heads nodding in the light breezes from the hilltops, which left the lower atmosphere undisturbed. The scented air, pungent with pleasant odors, swept them by as their horses loped easily along. It was a moment of perfect peace, a moment when life could hold no shadows.
But such feelings are only for the silent moments of perfect companionship. The spoken word, which indexes thought, robs them of half their charm and beauty. The girl felt something of this as the calm voice of her companion broke the wonderful spell.
“That feller’s shaping well,” he said, his thoughts for the moment evidently upon the practical side of her comfort.
The girl nodded. That look of rapturous joy had left her, and she too became practical.
“I think so—when Mrs. Ransford leaves him alone,” she said, with a little laugh. “She declares it is always necessary to harass a ‘hired’ man from daylight to dark. If I were he I’d get out into the pastures, or hay sloughs, or forest, or somewhere, and stay there till she’d gone to bed. Really, Buck, she’s a terrible woman.”
In the growing weeks of companionship Joan had learned to use this man’s name as familiarly as though she had known him all her life. It would have seemed absurd to call him anything but Buck now. Besides, she liked doing so. The name fitted him. “Buck;” it suggested to her—spirit, independence, courage, everything that was manly; and she had long ago decided that he was all these things—and more.
Buck laughed in his quiet fashion. He rarely laughed loudly. Joan thought it sounded more like a deep-throated gurgle.
“She sure is,” he declared heartily.
“Of course,” Joan smiled. “You have crossed swords with her.”
The man shook his head.
“Not me,” he said. “She did the battlin’. Guess I sat tight. You see, words ain’t as easy to a man, as to—some women.”
Joan enjoyed the tact of his remark. She leant forward and smoothed the silky neck of the Padre’s horse, and Buck’s admiring eyes took in the perfect lines of her well-cut habit. He had never seen anything like it before, and failed to understand the excellence of its tailoring, but he knew that everything about this girl was wonderfullybeautiful, and he would have liked to have been able to tell her so.
As he watched her he could not help thinking of the moment when he had held her in his arms. It was a thought almost always with him, a thought which never failed to stir his pulses and set them racing.
“But you see I can’t do without her,” the girl went on as she sat up in her saddle again. “She’s a good worker, herself. She’s taught me a good deal already. Oh, yes,” she smiled at his look of incredulity, “I’ve begun my lessons. I am learning all I can, preparing for the bigger lessons of this—this”—she gave a comprehensive glance at the hills—“wonderful world.”
Buck nodded. But he rode on in silence, his face for the moment clouded with deep thought. He was thinking of that night in Beasley’s store. He was thinking of what might have happened there if those women had carried out their purpose. He was wondering what the lessons might be that this girl might yet find herself confronted with. The matter troubled him. And Joan’s surreptitious glance into his face warned her that the cloud had obscured his sun.
The man finally broke the silence.
“Have you got any menfolk?” he asked abruptly.
Joan turned quickly.
“No—why?”
“An uncle—a brother. Maybe a—father?”
There was something almost anxious in Buck’s manner as he enumerated the possible relationships.
But the girl shook her head at each one, and he went on in a tone of disappointment.
“It’s kind of a pity,” he observed. Then, in answer tothe girl’s quick look of inquiry, he added evasively: “You see it’s lonesome for a gal—out in these hills.”
Joan knew that that was not the reason of his inquiry, and she smiled quietly at her horse’s ears.
“Why did you want to know if I had—menfolk?” she asked. “I mean the real reason.” She looked up frankly smiling, and compelled his attention.
Buck was not easy to corner, even though he had no experience of women. Again Joan heard his strange gurgle, and her smile broadened.
“You could sure learn your lessons easier with your menfolk around to help you,” he said.
For a second the girl’s face dropped. Then she laughed good-humoredly.
“You’re smart, Buck,” she exclaimed. “But—but you’re most exasperating. Still, I’ll tell you. The only relative I have in the world, that I know of, is—Aunt Mercy.”
“Ah! she’s a woman.”
“Yes, a woman.”
“It’s a pity.” Suddenly Buck pointed ahead at a great mass of towering rock above the trees. “There’s Devil’s Hill!” he exclaimed.
Joan looked up, all eager delight to behold this wonderful hill Buck had brought her out to see. She expected something unusual, for already she had listened to several accounts of this place and the gold “strike” she was supposed to have brought about. Nor was she disappointed now, at least at first. She stared with wondering eyes at the weird, black giant raising its ugly head in a frowning threat above them, and gave a gasp of surprise.
Then in a moment her surprise died out, and into hereyes crept a strange look of repulsion and even fear. She had no words to offer. She made no move. It was almost as if she sat fascinated like some harmless bird held by the hypnotic stare of a python. So long did she remain silent that Buck at last turned and looked into her face. And something like alarm caught and held him when he beheld her gray look of horror as she faced the gloomy crags mounting up before them.
He too looked out ahead. But his imagination failed him, and his eyes came back to her. The change in her happy, smiling eyes was incredible. Her smile had gone utterly—the bright color of her cheeks. There was no awe in her look, neither curiosity nor admiration. To him it almost seemed that her whole body was thrilled with an utter repugnance and loathing at what she beheld.
“It’s—ugly,” he hazarded at last.
“It’s—it’s dreadful.” The girl’s reply came in a tone there was no mistaking. It was one of concentrated detestation.
“You don’t—like it?” Buck felt helpless.
But Joan’s next words left him without any doubt.
“I—I think I—hate it,” she said harshly.
Buck drew rein on the instant.
“Then we’ll get back to home.”
But Joan had no such intention.
“No—no!” she exclaimed quickly. “We’ll go on. I want to see it. I—Imustsee it.”
Her manner had suddenly become agitated, and Buck was left wondering the more. She was stirred with strange feelings which embodied a dozen different emotions, and it was the sight of that great black crown, like the head of a Gorgon, which had inspired them. Its fascinationwas one of cruel attraction. Its familiarity suggested association with some part of her life. It seemed as if she belonged to it, or that it belonged to her—that in some curious way it was actually a part of her life. And all the time her detestation, her fear surged through her heart and left her revolting. But she knew she must go on. Its fascination claimed her and drew her, calling to her with a summons she dared not disobey—had no real desire to disobey.
It was she who took the lead now. She pressed on at a rapid gallop. Her fair young face was set and cold. She remained silent, and her manner forbade the man’s interruption.
But Buck kept pace with her, and a great sympathy held him silent too. He had no real understanding of her mood, only he knew that, for the moment, his presence had no place in her thought.
So they drew toward the shadow of the hill. Each was lost in disturbed reflections. Joan was waiting, expectant of she knew not what, and the man, filled with puzzlement, knew that the solution lay only with the girl beside him.
It had been his thought to point out the things which his practiced mind suggested as of interest, but now, as he beheld the rapt expression of her face, it all became different. Therefore he checked the eager Cæsar and let her lead the way.
Joan had no observation for anything as she rode on right up to the very shadow of the suspended lake. Then, almost mechanically, as though urged by some unseen hand, she drew up sharply. She was no longer looking at the hill, she sat in her saddle limply, and stared vacantlyat the rough workings of the miners which had been abandoned for the day.
Still Buck waited in silence.
At last he had his reward. The girl made a movement almost like a shiver. Then she sat up erect. The color came back to her cheeks and she turned to him with eyes in which a ghost of a smile flitted.
“I—I had forgotten,” she said half-apologetically. “This is what has brought prosperity to the camp. This is what has saved them from starvation. We—we should owe it gratitude.”
“I don’t guess the rocks need gratitude,” replied Buck quietly.
“No!”
Joan looked up at the black roof above her and shivered.
“It’s a weird place, where one might well expect weird happenings.”
Buck smiled. He was beginning to obtain some insight into the girl’s mood. So used was he to the gloomy hill that its effect was quite lost on him. Now he knew that some superstitious chord had been struck in the girl’s feelings, and this strange hill had been the medium of its expression.
He suddenly leant forward. Resting on the horn of his saddle he looked into the fair face he so loved. He had seen that haunted look in her face before. He remembered his first meeting with her at the barn. Its termination had troubled him then. It had troubled him since. He remembered the incident when the gold had been presented to her. Again he had witnessed that hunted, terrified look, that strange overpowering of some painful thought—or memory.
Now he felt that she needed support, and strove with all his power to afford it her.
“Guess ther’s nothing weird outside the mind of man,” he said. “Anyway, nothing that needs to scare folk.” He turned and surveyed the hill and the wonderful green country surrounding them. “Get a look around,” he went on, with a comprehensive gesture. “This rock—it’s just rock, natural rock; it’s rock you’ll find most anywhere. It’s got dumped down right here wher’ most things are green, an’ dandy, an’ beautiful to the eye; so it looks queer, an’ sets your thoughts gropin’ among the cobwebs of mystery. Ther’s sure no life to it but the life of rock. This great overhang has just been cut by washouts of centuries in spring, when the creek’s in flood, an’ it just happens ther’s a hot sulphur lake on top, fed by a spring. I’ve known it these years an’ years. Guess it’s sure always been the same. It ain’t got enough to it to scare a jack-rabbit.”
Joan shook her head. But the man was glad to see the return of her natural expression, and that her smiling eyes were filled with a growing interest He knew that her strange mood was passing.
He went on at once in his most deliberate fashion.
“You needn’t to shake your head,” he said, with a smile of confidence. “It’s jest the same with everything. It sure is. We make life what it is for ourselves. It’s the same for everybody, an’ each feller gets busy makin’ it different. The feller that gets chasin’ trouble don’t need to run. He only needs to set around and shout. Guess it’ll come along if he’s yearnin’ for it. But it don’t come on its own. That’s sure as sure. Keep brain an’ body busy doin’ the things that lie handy, an’ whenyou got to make good among the rocks of life, why, I sure guess you won’t find a rock half big enough to stop you.”
Watching the deep glowing eyes of the man Joan felt that his confidence was not merely the confidence of brave words. A single glance into his purposeful face left the definite impression that his was a strength that is given to few. It was the strength of a simple, honest mind as yet unfouled by the grosser evils of an effete civilization. His was the force and courage of the wild—the impulse which governs all creatures who live in the midst of Nature’s battle-grounds.
“That’s—that’s because you’re so strong you feel that way,” she said, making no attempt to disguise the admiration she felt. “The burden of life does not always fall so easily. There are things, too, in spite of what you say, that we cannot control—evils, I mean evils which afflict us.”
Buck glanced away down the creek. Then his eyes came back to her, and a new resolve lay behind them.
“I’m no stronger than others,” he said. “Guess I haven’t ha’f the strength of some. I’d say——” he paused. Then he went on, his eyes gazing fearlessly into hers: “I’d say I haven’t ha’f the strength of a gal who gives up the city—a young gal jest beginning a woman’s life with ’most everything in her favor—an’ comes right out here to farm without a livin’ soul to pass her a hand. I ain’t got ha’f the courage of a gal who does that jest because she’s chased by thoughts that worry her an’ make her days no better than to set her—hatin’ them. Strength? Say, when you ken laff an’ all the time feel that life ain’t ha’f so pleasant as death, why, I’d sure say ther’ ain’t no greater strength this side of the check-taker’s box.”
Joan could hardly believe her ears as she listened. Astonishment, resentment, helplessness, incredulity, all struggled for place. How had this man discovered her secret? How? How? What did he know besides? For a moment her feelings robbed her of speech and betrayed themselves in her expressive face.
But the man’s smile, so easy, so disarming, held her. He saw and understood, and he hastened to reassure her.
“Guess I ain’t pryin’,” he said bluntly. “These things just come along to my tongue, feeling you were troubled at this—hill. You’ve told me a heap since you come to the farm. You told me things which I don’t guess you wer’ yearnin’ to tell any one. But you didn’t tell ’em with your tongue. An’ I don’t guess you need to. Set your mind easy. You’re scared to death of some trouble which ain’t of your seekin’—wal, I don’t believe in such trouble.”
Then he laughed in so unconcerned, so buoyant and whole-hearted a fashion that Joan’s confidence and hope leapt again.
“Say,” he added, as he saw the brightening of her face, “when you fancy that trouble’s gettin’ around, when you fancy it’s good an’ big, an’ a whole heap to carry, why, you can pass it right on to me. I’m yearnin’ to get busy with jest sech a proposition.”
Buck’s manner was irresistible. Joan felt herself swept along by it. She longed there and then to tell him the whole of her miserable little story. Yes, he made it seem so small to her now. He made it, at the moment, seem like nothing. It was almost as though he had literally lifted her burden and was bearing the lion’s share of it himself. Her heart thrilled with gratitude, with joy inthis man’s wonderful comradeship. She longed to open her heart to him—to implore him to shield her from all those terrible anxieties which beset her. She longed to feel the clasp of his strong hand in hers and know that it was there to support her always. She felt all these things without one shadow of fear—somehow his very presence dispelled her shadows.
But only did she permit her warm smile to convey something of all she felt as she rejected his offer.
“You don’t know what you are asking,” she said gently. Then she shook her head. “It is impossible. No one can shift the burdens of life on to the shoulders of another—however willing they be. No one has the right to attempt it. As we are born, so we must live. The life that is ours is ours alone.”
Buck caught at her words with a sudden outburst of passionate remonstrance.
“You’re wrong—dead wrong,” he declared vehemently, his eyes glowing with the depth of feeling stirring him, a hot flush forcing its way through the deep tanning of his cheeks. “No gal has a right to carry trouble with a man around to help. She’s made for the sunlight, for the warmth an’ ease of life. She’s made to set around an’ take in all those good things the good God meant for her so she can pass ’em right on to the kiddies still to be born. A woman’s jest the mother of the world. An’ the men she sets on it are there to see her right. The woman who don’t see it that way is wrong—dead wrong. An’ the man that don’t get right up on to his hind legs an’ do those things—wal, he ain’t a man.”
It was a moment Joan would never forget. As long as she lived that eager face, with eyes alight, the rapidtongue pouring out the sentiments of his simple heart must ever remain with her. It was a picture of virile manhood such as in her earliest youth she had dreamed of, a dream which had grown dimmer and dimmer as she progressed toward womanhood and learned the ways of the life that had been hers. Here it was in all reality, in all its pristine simplicity, but—she gathered up her reins and moved her horse round, heading him toward home.
“I’m glad I came out here—in the wilderness,” she said earnestly. “I’m glad, too, that I came to see this great black hill. Yes, and I’m glad to think that I have begun the lessons which this great big world is going to teach me. For the rest—we’d better go home. Look! The daylight is going.”
Nearly three months had passed and all Beasley Melford’s affairs were amply prospering. His new saloon was the joy of his heart. It had been completed more than a week, which week had been something in the nature of a triumph of financial success. The camp was booming as he had never dared to hope it would boom. Traders were opening up business all round him, and the output of gold was increasing every day. But, with all this rapid development, with all the wrangling and competition going on about him, he was the centre of the commercial interests of Yellow Creek, and his saloon was the centre of all its traffic.
But he was quite alive to the fact that he must maintain his position and custom by keeping well in line, even just a little ahead of all competition. He knew that to rest on his oars would be to court swift disaster. It must be his constant thought to make his place more and more attractive, to listen to the voice of public requirements, and seize every opportunity of catering for them.
His saloon was no better than a gambling-hell and drinking-booth, the dry goods side of his enterprise being almost insignificant. For he knew that the more surely his customers could indulge in such pastimes in comparative comfort the more surely he would keep them. So he made these things the basis of his trade. But therewere other needs to be provided for. Therefore, on the completion of his new saloon, and the moment his vanity had been satisfied by the erection of a great board top, set up on the pitch of the roof, announcing in blatant lettering that it was “Melford’s Hotel,” he set to work to erect a dance hall and a livery barn. He foresaw the necessity of running a stage, and he never lost sight of the fact that a great number of the women of the class he wished to see about were invading the place. Then, too, the dance hall could be used as a boarding establishment for those who had no homes of their own.
It was a precious thought, and, after a journey to Leeson Butte to consult his partner, these matters were put in hand. He no longer worked single-handed. His establishment was increased by the advent of a bartender, a Chinese cook, and a livery stable keeper. These, and some casual labor from among the loafers, supplied him with all the help he so far found necessary.
The bar and the gambling-tables were always his own care. These were the things he would never trust to other hands. The bartender was his helper only, who was never allowed to escape the observation of his lynx eyes.
Yes, Beasley Melford was flourishing as he intended to flourish, and his satisfaction was enormous. In the mornings he was always busy supervising the work, in the afternoons he gave himself what leisure his restless spirit demanded. But in the evenings he gathered his harvest by rascally methods of flagrant extortion.
It was during the latter part of his afternoon leisure that he was suddenly disturbed by the appearance of Montana Ike in his bar. He was stretched full length upon his counter, comfortably reviewing a perfect mazeof mental calculations upon the many schemes which he had in hand, when the youngster pushed the swing door open and blustered in.
Beasley was sitting up in an instant. He hated this sort of sudden disturbance. He hated men who rushed at him. He could never be certain of their intentions. When he saw who his visitor was there was very little friendliness in his greeting.
“Wot in hell you want rushin’ that way?” he demanded arrogantly. “Guess your thirst ain’t on a time limit.”
But the ginger-headed youth ignored his ill-temper. He was too full of his own affairs. He simply grinned.
“Fish out them durned scales o’ yours,” he cried gleefully. “Fish ’em out, an’ set your big weights on ’em. Ther’ ain’t goin’ to be no chat nor drink till you weighed in. Then I guess the drink’ll be right up to you.”
Beasley’s mood changed like lightning. He swung over behind his bar and dropped to the floor on the other side, his eyes alight, and every faculty alert for trade.
“Wot’s it?” he demanded. “Struck it big?” he went on as the dingy gold scales were produced from the shelf at the back. Then he laughed amiably. “It needs to be big, wakin’ me in my slack time.”
“Oh, it’s big enuff,” cried Ike confidently, his eager, young, animal face alight with pleasure.
He watched the other with impatient eyes as he deliberately picked out the weights. But Beasley was too slow, and, with an impatient exclamation, he snatched up the biggest of them and set it on the somewhat delicate scales with a heavy hand.
“Say, you’re rapid as a sick funeral,” he cried. “I ain’t got no time to waste. What I got here’ll need that—an’ more. Ther’!”
Beasley’s temper was never easy, and his narrow eyes began to sparkle.
“You’re mighty fresh,” he cried. “Guess I’m——”
But his remark remained unfinished. With a boisterous laugh the boy flung a small canvas bag on the counter and emptied its contents before the other’s astonished eyes.
“Ther’,” he cried gleefully. “I want dollars an’ dollars from you. An’ you’ll sure see they ain’t duds.”
Beasley’s eyes opened wide. In a moment he had forgotten his ill-humor.
From the gold spread out before him he looked up into the other’s face with a half-suspicious, wholly incredulous stare.
“You got that from your claim—to-day?” he asked.
“An’ wher’ in hell else?”
“Sure!” Beasley fingered the precious nuggets lovingly. “Gee! Ther’s nigh five hundred dollars there.”
“Fi’ hundred—an’ more,” cried Ike anxiously.
But Beasley’s astonishment was quickly hidden under his commercial instincts. He would have called them “commercial.”
“We’ll soon fix that,” he said, setting the scales.
Ike leant against the bar watching the man finger his precious ore as he placed each of the six nuggets in the scale and weighed them separately. He took the result down on paper and worked their separate values out at his own market prices. In five minutes the work wascompleted, and the man behind the bar looked up with a grin.
“I don’t gener’ly make a bad guess,” he said blandly. “But I reckoned ’em a bit high this journey. Ther’s four hundred an’ seventy-six dollars comin’ to you—ha’f cash an’ ha’f credit. Is it a deal?”
The other’s face flamed up. A volcanic heat set him almost shouting.
“To hell!” he cried fiercely. “Ther’s fi’ hundred dollars ther’ if ther’s a cent. An’ I want it all cash.”
Beasley shook his head. He had this boy’s exact measure, and knew just how to handle him.
“The scales don’t lie,” he said. “But ther’, it’s the way wi’ youse fellers. You see a chunk o’ gold an’ you don’t see the quartz stickin’ around it. Here, I’ll put a hundred an’ seventy-six credit an’ the rest cash. I can’t speak fairer.”
He drew a roll of bills from his hip-pocket and began counting the three hundred out. He knew the sight of them was the best argument he could use. It never failed. Nor did it do so now.
Ike grumbled and protested in the foulest language he was capable of, but he grabbed the dollars when they were handed to him, and stowed them into his hip-pocket with an eagerness which suggested that he feared the other might repent of his bargain. And Beasley quickly swept the precious nuggets away and securely locked them in his safe, with the certain knowledge that his profit on the deal was more than cent for cent.
“You’ll take rye,” he said as he returned his keys to his pocket. “An’ seein’ it’s your good day, an’ it’s on me, we’ll have it out o’ this thirteen-year-old bottle.”
He pushed the bottle across the counter and watched Ike pour himself out a full “four fingers.” The sight of his gluttony made Beasley feel glad that the thirteen-year-old bottle had been replenished that morning from the common “rot-gut” cask. After their drink he became expansive.
“That’s an elegant claim of yours, Ike,” he said, taking up his favorite position on the bar. “It’s chock full of alluvial. Don’t scarcely need washing. Guess I must ha’ paid you two thousand dollars an’ more since—since we got busy. Your luck was mighty busy when they cast the lots.”
“Luck? Guess I’m the luckiest hoboe in this layout,” Ike cried with a confidence that never seemed to require the support of rye whisky.
Beasley’s eyes sparkled maliciously.
“How about Pete?” he grinned. He knew that Ike had an utter detestation of Pete, and did not have to guess at the reason. “I paid him more than that by fi’ hundred. How’s that?”
“Tcha’! Pete ain’t no account anyways,” Ike retorted angrily. “Say, he pitches his dollars to glory at poker ’most every night. Pete ain’t got no sort o’ savee. You don’t see me bustin’ my wad that way.”
“How about the gals? Guess you hand ’em a tidy pile.”
“Gals!” Ike suddenly became thoughtful. His gaze wandered toward the window. Then he abruptly turned back to the bar and clamored for another drink. “We’ll have that thirteen-year-old,” he cried. “An’ guess I’ll have a double dose. Gals!” he went on, with a sneer, as the other watched him fill a brimming tumbler.
“Ther’s sure on’y one gal around here. That’s why I got around now. Guess I’m payin’ her a ‘party’ call right now, ’fore the folks get around. Say, I’m goin’ to marry that gal. She’s sure a golden woman. Golden! Gee, it sounds good!”
Beasley grinned. He was on a hot trail and he warmed to his work.
“Goin’ to ask her now?” he inquired amiably, eyeing the spirit the man had poured out.
Ike laughed self-consciously.
“Sure,” he said, draining his glass.
“What about Pete?”
Ike looked sharply into the other’s grinning face. Then he banged his glass angrily on the counter and moved toward the door.
“Pete ken go plumb to hell!” he cried furiously over his shoulder as he passed out.
Beasley dropped nimbly from his counter and looked after him through the window. He saw him vault into the saddle and race away down the trail in the direction of the farm.
His eyes were smiling wickedly.
“Don’t guess Pete’s chasin’ ther’ to suit you, Master Ike,” he muttered. “Marry that gal, eh? Not on your life. You pore silly guys! You’re beat before you start—beat a mile. Buck’s got you smashed to a pulp. Kind of wish I’d given you less cash and more credit. Hello!”
He swung round as the door was again thrust open. This time it was Blue Grass Pete who strode into the room.
“Wher’s Ike?” he demanded without preamble themoment he beheld the grinning face of the saloon-keeper.
“Gee!” Beasley’s grin suddenly broke out into a loud laugh. He brought his two hands down on the counter and gave himself up to the joy of the moment.
Pete watched him with growing unfriendliness.
“You’re rattled some,” he said at last, with elaborate sarcasm. Then, as Beasley stood up choking with laughter and rubbing his eyes, he went on: “Seems to me I asked you a civil question.”
Beasley nodded, and guffawed again.
“You sure did,” he said at last, stifling his mirth as he beheld the other’s threatening frown. “Well, I ain’t laffin’ at you. It’s—it’s jest at things.”
But Pete had no sense of humor. He disliked Beasley, and simply wanted his information now.
“Ike been along?” he demanded doggedly.
Beasley spluttered. Then he subsided into a malicious grin again.
“Sure,” he said. “He’s been in with a fat wad. Say, he’s a lucky swine. ’Most everything comes his way. Guess he can’t never touch bad. He’s ahead on the game, he’s a golden-haired pet with the gals, an’ he gits gold in—lumps.”
But Pete’s dark face and hungry eyes showed no appreciation, and Beasley knew that the man’s mood was an ugly one.
“Wher’s he now?”
“Can’t jest say. I didn’t ask him wher’ he was goin’. Y’ see I cashed his gold, and we had a drink. He seemed excited some. Guess he was sort of priming himself. Maybe he’s gone along to the gals. Have a drink?”
“No—yes, give us a horn of rye.”
The man behind the bar pushed the bottle across.
“What you needin’ him for?” he asked with apparent unconcern.
Pete snatched at his drink.
“That ain’t your affair,” he retorted surlily.
“Sure it ain’t. I jest asked—casual.”
Pete banged his empty glass on the counter.
“I’m needin’ him bad,” he cried, his eyes furiously alight. “I’m needin’ him cos I know the racket he’s on. See? He quit his claim early cos—cos——”
“Cos he’s goin’ to pay a ‘party’ call on that Golden Woman,” cried Beasley, appearing to have made a sudden discovery. “I got it, now. That’s why he was in sech a hurry. That’s why he needed a good dose o’ rye. Say, that feller means marryin’ that gal. I’ve heard tell he’s got it all fixed with her. I’ve heard tell she’s dead sweet on him. Wal, I ain’t sure but wot it’s natural. He’s a good looker; so is she. An’ he’s a bright boy. Guess he’s got the grit to look after a gal good. He’s a pretty scrapper. Another drink?”
Pete refilled his glass. His fury was at bursting-point, and Beasley reveled in the devil now looking out of his angry eyes.
“He’s gone across ther’ now?” he demanded, after swallowing his second drink. His question was ominously quiet.
Beasley saw the man’s hands finger the guns at his waist. It was a movement the sight of which gave him a wonderful satisfaction.
“Seems like it,” he said. “Though course I can’t rightly say. I see him ride off down the trail that way——”
“Here, I’ll take another drink. I’m goin’ after——”
“Say, you ain’t goin’ to butt in with two folks courtin’?” cried Beasley, blandly innocent.
But Pete had no reply. He drained his third drink and, flinging the glass down, bolted out of the bar; while Beasley turned with a malicious chuckle, and scrupulously entered up three drinks against the man’s name on the slate.
“I’d give somethin’ to see it,” he muttered. Then he rubbed out the entry he had made. “Guess I’ll make it six drinks. He’s too rattled to remember.”
Ten minutes later a number of men were lounging in the saloon, and Beasley, in the leisure of administering to their wants, was relating to them the story of the afternoon’s events. At the conclusion he added his own comment, which was not without definite purpose.
“Say, if they ain’t jest like two dogs worritin’ a bone you got me plumb beat,” he said. Then he added with an air of outraged virtue: “I’d like to say right here she’s jest playin’ them fellers for their wads. Oh, she’s a keen one, her eyes is right on to business. She’ll sure have ’em shootin’ each other right up. Seems to me a gal like that ain’t no right in this yer city. She’s a scandal to the place. An’ a danger. Wot we fellers needs to figure on is the liberty an’ safety of our citizens, an’ anything calc’lated to be a danger to that needs to git seen to.”
Some of the men concurred half-heartedly. They were men who had come into the camp with the rush, and were anxious to keep in with the saloon-keeper. Still, even they were very little stirred by his appeal. They cared not the least bit in the world who was shot up, or who did the shooting, so long as they were not personally concerned beyond the rôle of spectators.
So for once his mischief fell flat. It was too early in the day to make the impression he needed. They were not sufficiently primed with rye. So Beasley contented himself with insinuating the bottle toward doubtful customers, and easing his disappointment by making all the trade he could.
But presently a diversion occurred by the advent of Buck. He rode up, his great horse loaded down with the carcasses of three splendid deer. He had brought them in for sale. Game was a precious thing in this camp, where a diet of simple beef ruled.
The moment he displayed his wares there was a rush to bid for them, and Beasley, much to his chagrin, found himself forced to pay boom prices before he could secure them for retailing. He paid ungraciously enough. If there was one man more than another in the camp he begrudged anything to it was Buck. Besides, it made him utterly furious to think that he never came up against this man on any debatable matter but what he managed to come off worst.
However, his policy forced him to stifle his resentment, and he paid, mentally adding another item to the long list of his personal animosities to be wiped out at some future date.
But Buck’s presence was an opportunity for mischief not to be altogether missed. Nor was Beasley the man to let the moment pass without availing himself of it. Buck’s interest in Joan was something to be played upon at all times. Therefore he drew him aside in a manner as portentous and ingratiating as he could make it.
Buck, wondering at his drift, submitted all unwillingly.
“Say,” Beasley began, the moment they were out ofear-shot of the rest, “guess you ain’t bin around the farm lately—I mean this afternoon?”
Buck looked him coldly in the eye.
“No—why?”
Beasley returned his look in consummate irritation. He pretended to be annoyed at his coolness. He shrugged and turned away, speaking over his shoulder as he went.
“Oh, nuthin’! Guess it might be as well if you had.”
He went back to his bar, and in a moment was busy again at his trade. Buck looked after him for one doubting second. Then he too turned away and went out to his horse.
Joan was smiling happily, watching the waging of a droll little farmyard warfare. Just now her life was running very smoothly, and the shadows of memory were steadily receding. She had almost forgotten the few unpleasant moments when she had first beheld the repellent ugliness of Devil’s Hill nearly a week ago. Since then nothing had occurred to raise fresh alarm, and memory, with that pleasant knack inspired of perfect physical health, had gently mellowed and lost something of its power to disturb.
It was a curious scene. The farm was still, so still, in the glowing afternoon heat. The cattle were out in the pastures filling themselves with the succulent grass and dozing the long daylight hours away. The “hired” man was out with the team, breaking a new patch of prairie land in the interim between the haying and harvesting. The hogs were gently snuffling in their pens, and a few hens and cockerels were amiably flirting whilst scratching about amongst the barn litter in that busy, inconsequent manner so suggestive to the human mind of effort for the sheer delight of being busy.
It was a scene such as she had often dreamed of, and something which very nearly approached her ideal.
Here, in one corner of the yard, where she stood, sun-bonneted to shelter her face from the burning attentionsof the summer sun, leaning idly against a water barrel standing at the corner of the barn, she watched the farmyard comedy which was rapidly threatening to disturb the general peace. A large hen with a late-hatched brood of chicks, whose colors suggested the polygamous conditions under which her matrimonial affairs were carried on, with feathers ruffled and comb flaming, with head lowered and beak agape, was angrily defying an absurd-looking pig which had scarcely passed its sucking age.
They had met quite suddenly round the corner of the implement shed. For the moment they stood disconcerted, while the agitated hen clucked alarm at her offspring. The pig, squealing in a high treble, was standing with snout twitching and front feet apart, a picture of idiotic confusion. Perhaps the hen, with the superior feminine knowledge of her age, understood something of the situation, and appreciated the young porker’s inability. Anyway, she took the initiative in aggression, and, vainly struggling to cover her rather riotous brood with outspread wings, cackled furiously and prepared for the onslaught which secretly she knew was not forthcoming.
The porker’s mind seemed to be in a whirl of doubt, for he looked vainly from side to side to find some adequate means of escape. His sense did not carry him sufficiently far to prompt him to turn tail and bolt for safety. He just stood there and continued his helpless baby squealing. This was all the old hen needed to drive her to extremities. Realizing his weakness she gave one fluttering spring, scattering her chicks in all directions, pecked the pig’s nose violently, turned something like a somersault as she landed on the ground, gathered herself together, and incontinently fled, leavingher brood to care for themselves. Thus the pig was left looking after her with an expression in its silly eyes that suggested to the girl nothing so much as an amazed wonder as to what the fuss was all about.
Joan stood convulsed with laughter. The pig interested her vastly more than the hen, and she waited the further working of its stupid mind. But she was disappointed. Its momentary confusion had passed, and, lowering its pink snout, it groveled on in search of offal, the delights of which its young mind was just awakening to.
She had moved away to pass on toward the house when she was startled by the sound of a harsh laugh close behind her. She turned and found herself staring into the grinning face of Montana Ike.
She was angry and not without a qualm of apprehension. This man had become a constant caller at the farm at all sorts of odd and unexpected moments. And his attitude was such that she thoroughly resented him. In his vaunting, braggadocio manner he had assumed a sort of proprietary interest in her and her affairs.
The moment she faced him, his confident attitude became more pronounced.
“Comic, ain’t it?” he suggested. Then he added, as though to assure her of his appreciation: “Nigh as comic as a cirkis.”
But all Joan’s delight in the scene was gone. Her beautiful eyes were sparkling angrily. She made up her mind then and there to be rude to the man. She would not have him about the place.
“What do you want?” she inquired bluntly.
The boy’s grin remained, but his furtive eyes opened a shade wider.
“Wot do I want? Gee! You’re feelin’ friendly.” Then he put on a manner he intended to be facetious. “An’ me left my patch o’ pay-dirt, an’ all, to pay a ‘party’ call. Say, Miss Golden, that ain’t sassiety ways in this yer camp.”
His attempt at pleasantry went for nothing. Joan, studying the man closely, saw that his face was flushed, and, even at that distance, she could smell the drink he had been imbibing. She must get rid of him, but it was not so easy to her gentle nature. However, she took a firm stand.
“Maybe not,” she said coldly. “But when people make ‘party’ calls they generally do it at convenient times. I’m very busy.”
The man laughed in the harsh manner she disliked and rather feared.
“Kind o’ seemed busy when I got around. Y’ see you was sure that busy you didn’t hear my hoss comin’ along, you never see me git off him an’ leave him back ther’, an’ me come along over an’ stand watchin’ you doin’ nuthin’ fer nigh fi’ minutes. Oh, you’re sure busy!”
Joan flushed. She knew she had lied, but to be told so by this man was infuriating. She made no attempt to further disguise her feelings.
“I said I was busy,” she cried deliberately. “Surely that should be sufficient.”
But the man had no intention of accepting his dismissal.
“It jest depends wot a feller’s come around for,” he said, no whit disconcerted. “Mebbe you won’t find you’re busy when you heard what I got to say.” Helaughed immoderately. Beasley’s whisky was at work, and he had no fear for the purpose in hand.
Suddenly he dived a hand into his hip-pocket and drew out the bills the saloon-keeper had paid him.
“Look at them,” he cried in a voice that was high-pitched with elation. “Ther’s dollars an’ dollars ther’, but ’tain’t nuthin’ to wot’s to come. Say, I got another cache o’ gold waitin’ back ther’ at my shack, but I ain’t handin’ it to Beasley,” he went on cunningly. “Oh, no, not me! I’m a business guy, I am. I hold that up, an’ all the rest I git from my patch, an’ I’m goin’ to cash it in Leeson Butte, at the bank, fer a proper exchange. See? Oh, I ain’t no sucker, I ain’t. An’ a feller needs a heap o’ dollars, treatin’ his gal right.”
Joan hardly knew how to deal with such a situation. Besides, the now obvious condition of the man alarmed her. However, he gave her no opportunity to reply. For, delighted with his own talk, he went on promptly—
“Now I tho’t a whole heap since I got this wad. A wad like this takes you thinkin’, that is, ef you ain’t a low-down rattle-brain like Pete, or a psalm-smitin’ son-of-a-moose like that feller, Buck. Course they ain’t got no sort o’ savvee, anyways, so they don’t count nuthin’. But wi’ a feller like me things is diff’rent. Now, this is what I got fixed. Y’ see you can’t have no sort of a time in this yer camp, but it’s diff’rent in Leeson Butte. Guess we’ll get a buggy from the camp an’ drive into Leeson. Ther’s dance halls ther’, an’ they run a decent faro joint at a place I know. An’ they sell elegant rye, too. Wal, we’ll git that buggy, an’ git fixed up reg’lar in Leeson, an’ have a bully time, an’ git right back to here an’ run this yer farm between us. How’s that?”
“I—I don’t think I understand.”
Joan’s alarm grew. This man was deliberately proposing to marry her. Supported by the nerve his half-drunken condition inspired, his senses were so inflamed that he took the whole matter for granted. She looked into his sensual young face, the hard eyes, and at the loose lips that surrounded his unclean teeth, and something like panic seized her. However, she knew she must not show her fear.
But he was waiting. And in reality her reply came without any hesitation. She shook her head.
“You’ve made a mistake,” she said decidedly but gently. “I have no intention of marrying anybody.” Then, taking her courage in both hands, she permitted something of her dislike and contempt to creep into her manner. “It seems to me you take a great deal too much for granted. You come here when you think you will, wholly uninvited, and, from the first, you hint broadly that you regard me as—as the person you intend to marry. That is presumption, to put it mildly, and I have no use for people who—presume.”
She moved as though to return to the house. But Ike, all his confidence suddenly merged into a volcanic heat, reached out a hand to detain her. His hand came into rough contact with the soft flesh of her shoulder, and, shaking it off, she faced him with flaming eyes.
“Don’t dare to do that again,” she cried, with bosom heaving. “Go, leave this farm instantly. Remember you are trespassing here!”
Her anger had outweighed all her alarm, even, perhaps, all discretion. For the man was in no mood to accept his dismissal easily.
“So that’s it, is it?” he cried with a sudden hoarseness. “Oho, my lady! We’re putting on airs,” he sneered. “Not good enough, eh? Presuming, am I? An’ who in blazes are you that you can’t be touched? Seems to me a decent honest citizen’s jest as good fer you as fer any other gal, an’ my dollars are clean. What in thunder’s amiss?” Then his heat lessened, and his manner became more ingratiating. “See here, Golden,” he went on persuasively, “you don’t mean that, sure! Wot’s the matter with me? I ain’t weak-kneed, nor nuthin’. I ain’t scared o’ no man. I’d scrap the devil ef you ast me. An’ say, just think wot we ken do with the dollars. You’d make a real upstander in a swell house, with folks waitin’ around on you, an’ di’monds an’ things. Say, I’m jest bustin’ to make good like that. You can’t jest think how much gold ther’ is in my patch—an’ you brought it along with you. You give it to me—your luck.”
There was something almost pathetic in his pleading, and for a brief moment a shade of sympathy softened the girl.
“Please don’t persist, Ike,” she said almost gently. “Still, I can never marry you. It’s—it’s—absurd,” she added, with a touch of impatience she could not wholly keep back.
But that touch of impatience suddenly set fire again to the man’s underlying intolerance of being thwarted.
“Absurd, is it?” He laughed with a curious viciousness which once more disturbed the girl. “Absurd fer you to marry me,” he cried harshly. “Absurd fer you, cos I ain’t got no smarmy eddication, cos I ain’t dressed in swaller tails an’ kids, same as city folks. Oh, I know!You’re a leddy—a city-raised leddy, an’ I—I’m jest a prairie hog. That’s it. You ain’t got no use fer me. You jest come along right here an’ laff, an’ laff at us folks. Oh, you needn’t to say you hav’n’t!” as she raised a protesting hand. “Think I’m blind, think I’m deaf. Me! Say, you shown it right along jest so plain ther’ wer’n’t no need to tell it in langwidge.” He broke off for a moment as though his anger had robbed him of further speech, and Joan watched the growing purpose in his hot eyes. Her own face was the color of marble. She was inwardly trembling, but she stood her ground with eyes stonily cold. She made no attempt to speak now, or defend herself against his accusations. She knew it would be useless. Only she longed in her mind for the presence of Buck to protect her from the insult she felt to be coming. Nor was she mistaken.
The man’s pause gave way before the surge of his anger.
“See here,” he suddenly cried, as though he had just arrived at a decision. “I ain’t an easy man to laff at, as the folks around here knows. Ther’ ain’t no man around here can laff at Montana Ike, an’ I don’t guess no gal wi’ red ha’r’s goin’ to neither. See?” He glanced swiftly round the farm. There was no one in sight. Suddenly one great hand shot out and he seized the girl by the arm in a crushing, powerful grasp and dragged her to him.
“You guess you ken laff at me,” he cried, seizing her with both hands and holding her in spite of her struggles. “Wal, you ken laff after you kissed me. You ken laff, oh, yes! when I tell the folks you kissed me. Seems to me the laff’ll mostly be with me.”
He drew her toward him while she struggled violently.Then she shrieked for help, but she knew the only help she could hope for was the wholly inadequate help of her housekeeper. She shrieked Mrs. Ransford’s name with all her power, while the man’s face came nearer. It was quite hopeless; she knew she could not defend herself. And the half-drunken man was laughing as though he enjoyed her terror.
She felt his hot breath on her cheeks, she closed her eyes to shut out the sight of his grinning face. He released his hold with one hand and flung his arm about her waist. She fought with might and main, shrieking with all the power of her lungs. She suddenly felt the impress of his hot lips on her cheek, not once, but a dozen times. Then of a sudden he released her with a bitter oath, as the shrieking voice of Mrs. Ransford sounded close by, and the thwack of a heavy broom fell upon his head and shoulders.
“I’ll teach you, you miser’ble hoboe!” cried the old woman’s strident voice as her powerful arms swung her lusty broom aloft. “I’ll teach you, you scallawag!” Thwack fell the broom, and, releasing Joan, the man sought to protect his head with his arms. “I’ll give you a dose you won’t fergit, you scum o’ creation!” Thwack went the broom again. “Wait till the folks hear tell o’ this, you miser’ble, miser’ble cur!” Again the broom fell, and the man turned to flee. “You’d run, would you? Git a fork, Miss Joan!” With a surprising rush the fat creature lunged another smash at the man’s head with her favorite weapon.
The blow fell short, for Ike had made good his retreat. And curiously enough he made no attempt to disarm her, or otherwise stand his ground once he was beyond therange of her blows. Perhaps he realized the immensity of his outrage, perhaps he foresaw what might be the result to himself when the story of his assault reached the camp. Perhaps it was simply that he had a wholesome terror of this undoubted virago. Anyway, he bolted for his horse and vaulted into the saddle, galloping away as though pursued by something far more hurtful than a fat farm-wife’s avalanche of vituperation.
“Mussy on us!” cried the old woman, flinging her broom to the ground as the man passed out of sight. “Mussy me, wot’s he done to you, my pretty?” she cried, rushing to the girl’s side and catching her to her great bosom. “There, there, don’t ’e cry, don’t ’e to cry for a scallawag like that,” she said, as the girl buried her face on her shoulder and sobbed as though her heart would break. “There, there,” she went on, patting the girl’s shoulder, “don’t ’e demean yerself weppin’ over a miser’ble skunk like that. Kiss yer, did he? Kiss yer! Him! Wal, he won’t kiss nobody no more when the folks is put wise. An’ I’ll see they gets it all. You, a ’Merican gal, kissed by a hog like that. Here, wipe yer cheeks wi’ this overall; guess they’ll sure fester if you don’t. Ther’, that’s better,” she went on as Joan, choking back her sobs, presently released herself from her bear-like embrace.
“It’s my own fault,” the girl said tearfully. “I ought never to have spoken to him at all. I——”
But Mrs. Ransford gave her no chance to finish what she had to say.
“Wot did I tell you?” she cried, with a power of self-righteousness. “Wot did I tell you? You ain’t got no right to git a hob-a-nobbin’ with sech scum. They’re all scallawags, every one of ’em. Men!—say, these yer hillsis the muck-hole o’ creation, an’ the men is the muck. I orter know. Didn’t I marry George D. Ransford, an’ didn’t I raise twins by him, as you might say, an’ didn’t I learn thereby, an’ therewith, as the sayin’ is, that wi’ muck around there’s jest one way o’ cleanin’ it up an’ that’s with a broom! Come right into the house, pretty. You’re needin’ hot milk to soothe your nerves, my pore, pore! Come right in. Guess I’m a match fer any male muck around these hills. Mussy on us, what’s that!”
Both women started and stood staring with anxious, terrified eyes down the trail which led to the camp. Two shots had been fired almost simultaneously, and now, as they waited in horrified silence, two more shots rang out, echoing against the hills in the still air with ominous threat. After that all was quiet again.
Presently the strained look in the farm-wife’s face relaxed, and she turned to her charge.
“That’s him,” she cried, with a swift return to her angry, contemptuous manner. “It’s him showin’ off—like all them scallawags. Come right in, missie,” she added, holding out her hands to lead the girl home.
But her kindly intention received an unexpected shock. Joan brushed her roughly aside, and her look was almost of one suddenly demented.
“No, no,” she cried in a voice of hysterical passion. “You don’t understand. You can’t understand. Those shots—oh! It is my fate—my curse. I must go!”
And she fled down the trail in the direction whence the sound had proceeded—fled, leaving Mrs. Ransford staring stupidly after her, a prey to utter bewilderment.