“How?” she asked.
“Oh, nuthin’ of consequence,” he said aggravatingly. “I was just thinking of the way folks are talking.” Then he laughed right out; and if Joan had only understood the man she would have known that his merriment was but the precursor of something still more unpleasant.
But such natures as his were quite foreign to her. She merely instinctively disliked him.
“What do you mean?” she asked unsuspiciously.
Beasley was serious again, and wore an air of deprecation when he answered her.
“Oh!” he exclaimed, “’tain’t nuthin’. Y’ see folks are always most ready to gas around. It’s ’bout them two boys. They’re hot about ’em. Y’ see Pete was a mighty popular feller, an’ Ike had good friends. Y’ see they werealways good spenders—an’ most folks like good spenders. But ther’—’tain’t nuthin’ that needs tellin’ you. Guess it’ll only make a dandy gal like you feel mean.”
The man’s purpose must have been evident to anybody less simple than Joan. As it was she jumped at the bait so skilfully held out.
“But you must tell me,” she said, remembering Mrs. Ransford’s remarks. “I insist on knowing if it is anything concerning me.”
Beasley’s air was perfect. His eyes were as frankly regretful as he could make them.
“Wal,” he said, “it certainly does concern you—but I’d rather not say it.”
“Go on.”
Joan’s face was coldly haughty.
“I wouldn’t take it too mean,” said Beasley warningly. “I sure wouldn’t. You see folks say a heap o’ things that is trash. They guess it’s your doin’ ’bout them boys. They reckon you played ’em one ag’in t’other for their wads, an’ both o’ them ag’in—Buck. Y’ see—mind I’m jest tellin’ you cos you asked—they guess you ast ’em both to supper that evenin’. Pete said he was ast, an’ Ike let on the same. You ast ’em both for the fun of the racket. An’ you had Buck around to watch the fun. Yes, they’re pretty hot. An’ you can’t blame ’em, believin’ as they do. One of ’em—I forget who it rightly was—he called you the camp Jonah. Said just as long as you wer’ around ther’d be trouble. He was all for askin’ you to clear right out. He said more than that, but I don’t guess you need to know it all.”
“But I do need to know it all. I need to know all they said, and—who said it.”
Joan’s eyes were blazing. Beasley made no attempt to conceal his satisfaction, and went on at once—
“Course I can’t give you names. But the facts I don’t guess I’m likely to forget—they made me so riled. They said that farm of yours was just a blind. It—it was—well, you’d come along here for all you could get—an’ that——”
Joan cut him short.
“That’s enough,” she cried. “You needn’t tell me any more. I—I understand. Oh, the brutal, heartless ruffians! Tell me. Who was it said these things? I demand to know. I insist on the names. Oh!”
The girl’s exasperation was even greater than Beasley had hoped for. He read, too, the shame and hurt underlying it, and his satisfaction was intense. He felt that he was paying her off for some of the obvious dislike she had always shown him, and it pleased him as it always pleased him when his mischief went home. But now, having achieved his end, he promptly set about wriggling clear of consequences, which was ever his method.
“I’d like to give you the names,” he said frankly. “But I can’t. You see, when fellers are drunk they say things they don’t mean, an’ it wouldn’t be fair to give them away. I jest told you so you’d be on your guard—just to tell you the folks are riled. But it ain’t as bad as it seems. I shut ’em up quick, feeling that no decent citizen could stand an’ hear a pretty gal slandered like that. An’ I’ll tell you this, Miss Golden, you owe me something for the way I made ’em quit. Still,” he added, with a leer, “I don’t need payment. You see, I was just playin’ the game.”
Joan was still furious. And somehow his wriggling did not ring true even in her simple ears.
“Then you won’t tell me who it was?” she cried.
Beasley shook his head.
“Nuthin’ doin’,” he said facetiously.
“Then you—you are a despicable coward,” she cried. “You—oh!” And she almost fled out of the hated creature’s storeroom.
Beasley looked after her. The satisfaction had gone from his eyes, leaving them wholly vindictive.
“Coward, am I, ma’m!” he muttered. Then he looked at the order for furniture which was still in his hand.
The sight of it made him laugh.
The telling of the Padre’s story cost Buck a wakeful night. It was not that he had any doubts either of the truth of the story, or of his friend. He needed no evidence to convince him of either. Or rather, such was his nature that no evidence could have broken his faith and friendship. Strength and loyalty were the key-note of his whole life. To him the Padre was little less than a god, in whom nothing could shake his belief. He honored him above all men in the world, and, such as it was, his own life, his strength, his every nerve, were at his service. Moreover, it is probable that his loyalty would have been no whit the less had the man pleaded guilty to the crime he was accused of.
No, it was not the story he had listened to which kept him wakeful. It was not the rights or wrongs, or the significance of it, that inspired his unrest. It was something of a far more personal note.
It was the full awakening of a mind and heart to a true understanding of themselves. And the manner of his awakening had been little short of staggering. He loved, and his love had risen up before his eyes in a manner the full meaning of which he had only just realized. It was his friend who had brought about his awakening, his friend who had put into brief words that which had been to him nothing but a delicious dream.
The man’s words rang through his brain the night long.
“Why? Why?” they said. “Because you love this little Joan, daughter of my greatest friend. Because I owe it to you—to her, to face my accusers and prove my innocence.”
That brief passionate declaration had changed the whole outlook of his life. The old days, the old thoughts, the old unexpressed feelings and hazy ambitions had gone—swept away in one wave of absorbing passion. There was neither future nor past to him now. He lived in the thought of this woman’s delightful presence, and beyond that he could see nothing.
Vaguely he knew that much must lay before him. The past, well, that was nothing. He understood that the drift of life’s stream could no longer carry him along without his own effort at guidance. He knew that somewhere beyond this dream a great battle of Life lay waiting for his participation. He felt that henceforth he was one of those struggling units he had always regarded as outside his life. And all because of this wonderful sunlight of love which shone deep into the remotest cells of brain and heart. He felt strong for whatever lay before him. This perfect sunshine, so harmonious with every feeling, thrilled him with a virile longing to go out and proclaim his defiance against the waiting hordes in Life’s eternal battle. No road could be so rough as to leave him shrinking, no fight so fierce that he was not confident of victory, no trouble so great that it could not be borne with perfect cheerfulness. As he had awakened to love so had he awakened to life, yearning and eager.
As the long night wore on his thought became clearer,more definite. So that before his eyes closed at last in a broken slumber he came to many decisions for the immediate future. The greatest, the most momentous of these was that he must see Joan again without delay. He tried to view this in perfect coolness, but though the decision remained with him the fever of doubt and despair seized him, and he became the victim of every fear known to the human lover’s heart. To him who had never known the meaning of fear his dread became tenfold appalling. He must see her—and perhaps for the last time in his life. This interview might well terminate once and for all every thought of earthly happiness, and fling him back upon the meagre solace of a wilderness, which now, without Joan, would be desolation indeed.
Yet he knew that the chances must be faced now and at once. For himself he would probably have delayed, rather basking in the sunshine of uncertainty than risk witnessing the swift gathering clouds which must rob him of all light forever. But he was not thinking only of himself. There was that other, that white-haired, lonely man who had said, “Because you love this little Joan.”
The wonderful unselfishness of the Padre had a greater power to stir Buck’s heart than any other appeal. His sacrifice must not be permitted without a struggle. He knew the man, and he knew how useless mere objection would be. Therefore his duty lay plain before him. Joan must decide, and on her decision must his plans all be founded. He had no reason to hope for a return of his love. On the contrary, it seemed absurd even to hope, and in such an event then the Padre’s sacrifice would be unnecessary. If on the other hand—but he dared not let the thought take shape. All he knew was that withJoan at his side no power of law should touch one single white hair of the Padre’s head, while the breath of life remained in his body.
It was a big thought in the midst of the most selfish of human passions. It was a thought so wide, that, in every aspect, it spoke of the great world which had been this man’s lifelong study. It told of sublime lessons well learned. Of a mind and heart as big, and broad, and loyal as was the book from which the lessons had been studied.
With the morning light came a further steadiness of decision. But with it also came an added apprehension, and lack of mental peace. The world was radiant about him with the wonder of his love, but his horizon was lost in a mist of uncertainty and even dread.
The morning dragged as such intervening hours ever drag, but at length they were done with, and the momentous time arrived. Neither he nor the Padre had referred again to their talk. That was their way. Nor did any question pass between them until Cæsar stood saddled before the door.
The Padre was leaning against the door casing with his pipe in his mouth. His steady eyes were gravely thoughtful.
“Where you making this afternoon?” he inquired, as Buck swung into the saddle.
Buck nodded in the direction of Joan’s home.
“The farm.”
The Padre’s eyes smiled kindly.
“Good luck,” he said. And Buck nodded his thanks as he rode away.
But Buck’s outward calm was studied. For once in hislife his confidence had utterly failed him. He rode over the trail in a dazed condition which left him almost hopeless by the time he reached the familiar corrals of the girl’s home. As a consequence he reduced Cæsar’s pace to a walk with something almost childlike in his desire to postpone what he now felt must be his farewell to the wonderful dream that had been his.
But even at a walk the journey must come to an end. In his case it came all too soon for his peace of mind, and, to his added disquiet, he found himself at the door of the old barn. Just for one moment he hesitated. Then he lightly dropped to the ground. The next moment the horse itself had taken the initiative. With none of its master’s scruples it clattered into the barn, and, walking straight into its old familiar stall, commenced to search in the corners of the manger for the sweet-scented hay usually awaiting it.
The lead was irresistible to the man. He followed the creature in, removed its bridle and loosened the cinchas of the saddle. Then he went out in search of hay.
His quest occupied several minutes. But finally he returned with an ample armful and filled up the manger. Then came upon him a further avalanche of doubt, and he stood beside his horse, stupidly smoothing the beautiful creature’s warm, velvet neck while it nuzzled its fodder.
“Why—is that you, Buck?”
The exclamation startled the man out of his reverie and set his pulses hammering madly. He turned to behold Joan framed in the doorway. For a moment he stared stupidly at her, his dark eyes almost fearful. Then his answer came quietly, distinctly, and without a tremor to betray the feelings which really stirred him.
“It surely is,” he said. Then he added, “I didn’t know I was coming along when you were up at the fort yesterday.”
But Joan was thinking only how glad she was of his coming. His explanation did not matter in the least. She had been home from the camp something over an hour, and had seen some one ride up to the barn without recognizing Buck or the familiar Cæsar. So she had hastened to investigate. Something of her gladness at sight of him was in the manner of her greeting now, and Buck’s despondency began to fall from him as he realized her unfeigned pleasure.
“I’m so glad you came,” Joan went on impulsively. “So glad, so glad. I’ve been in camp to order things for—for my aunt’s coming. You know your Padre told me to send for her. I mailed the letter this morning.”
“You—sent for your aunt?”
In a moment the whole hideous position of the Padre came upon him, smothering all his own personal feelings, all his pleasure, all his doubts and fears.
“Why—yes.” Joan’s eyes opened wide in alarm. “Have I done wrong? He said, send for her.”
Buck shook his head and moved out of the stall.
“You sure done dead right. The Padre said it.”
“Then what was the meaning in your—what you said?”
Buck smiled.
“Nothing—just nothing.”
Joan eyed him a moment in some doubt. Then she passed the matter over, and again the pleasure at his coming shone forth.
“Oh, Buck,” she cried, “there are some mean peoplein the world. I’ve been talking to that horror, Beasley. He is a horror, isn’t he? He’s been telling me something of the talk of the camp. He’s been telling me how—how popular I am,” she finished up with a mirthless laugh.
“Popular? I—I don’t get you.”
Buck’s whole expression had changed at the mention of Beasley’s name. Joan had no reason to inquire his opinion of the storekeeper.
“You wouldn’t,” she hastened on. “You could never understand such wicked meanness as that man is capable of. I’m sure he hates me, and only told me these—these things to make me miserable. And I was feeling so happy, too, after seeing your Padre,” she added regretfully.
“An’ what are the things he’s been sayin’?”
Buck’s jaws were set.
“Oh, I can’t tell you what he said, except—except that the men think I’m responsible for the death of those two. The other things were too awful. It seems I’m—I’m the talk of the camp in—in an awful way. He says they hate me. But I believe it’s simply him. You see, he’s tried to—to ingratiate himself with me—oh, it’s some time back, and I—well, I never could stand him, after that time when the boys gave me the gold. I wish they had never given me that gold. He still persists it’s unlucky, and I—I’m beginning to think so, too.”
“Did he—insult you?” Buck asked sharply, ignoring the rest.
Joan looked quickly into the man’s hot eyes, and in that moment realized the necessity for prudence. The fierce spirit was shining there. That only partly tamed spirit, which made her so glad when she thought of it.
“Oh, no,” she said. “It wasn’t that he insulted me.No—no. Don’t think that. Only he went out of his way to tell me these things, to make me miserable. I was angry then, but I’ve got over it now. It—it doesn’t matter. You see I just told you because—because——”
“If that man insulted you, I’d—kill him!”
Buck had drawn nearer to her. His tall figure was leaning forward, and his eyes, so fiercely alight, burned down into hers in a manner that half frightened her, yet carried with it a feeling that thrilled her heart with an almost painful delight. There was something so magnetic in this man’s outburst, something so sweeping to her responsive nature. It was almost as though he had taken her in his two strong hands and made her yield obedience to his dominating will. It gave her a strange and wonderful confidence. It made her feel as if this power of his must possess the same convincing strength for the rest of the world. That he must sway all who came into contact with him. Her gladness at his visit increased. It was good to feel that he was near at hand.
But her woman’s mind sought to restrain him.
“Please—please don’t talk like that,” she said, in a tone that carried no real conviction. “No, Beasley would not dare insult me—for himself.”
The girl drew back to the oat-box, and seated herself. Buck’s moment of passion had brought a deep flush to his cheeks, and his dark eyes moved restlessly.
“Why did you tell me?”
There was no escaping the swift directness of this man’s mind. His question came with little less force than had been his threat against Beasley. He was still lashed by his thought of the wretched saloon-keeper.
But Joan had no answer ready. Why had she told him? She knew. She knew in a vague sort of way. She had told him because she had been sure of his sympathy. She had told him because she knew his strength, and to lean on that always helped her. Without questioning herself, or her feelings, she had come to rely upon him in all things.
But his sharp interrogation had given her pause. She repeated his question to herself, and somehow found herself avoiding his gaze. Somehow she could give him no answer.
Buck chafed for a moment in desperate silence. He turned his hot eyes toward the door, and stared out at the distant hills. Cæsar rattled his collar chain, and scattered the hay in his search for the choicest morsels. The heavy draft horses were slumbering where they stood. Presently the man’s eyes came back to the girl, devouring the beauty of her still averted face.
“Say,” he went on presently, “you never felt so that your head would burst, so that the only thing worth while doin’ would be to kill some one?” He smiled. “That’s how I feel, when I know Beasley’s been talkin’ to you.”
Joan turned to him with a responsive smile. She was glad he was talking again. A strange discomfort, a nervousness not altogether unpleasant had somehow taken hold of her, and the sound of his voice relieved her.
She shook her head.
“No,” she said frankly. “I—don’t think I ever feel that way. But I don’t like Beasley.”
Buck’s heat had passed. He laughed.
“That was sure a fool question to ask,” he said. “Say, it ’ud be like askin’ a dove to get busy with a gun.”
“I’ve heard doves are by no means the gentle creatures popular belief would have them.”
“Guess ther’s doves—an’ doves,” Buck said enigmatically. “I can’t jest see you bustin’ to hurt a fly.”
“Not even Beasley?”
Joan laughed slily.
But Buck ignored the challenge. He stirred restlessly. He thrust his fingers into the side pockets of the waist-coat he wore hanging open. He withdrew them, and shifted his feet. Then, with a sudden, impatient movement, he thrust his slouch hat back from his forehead.
“Guess I can’t say these things right,” he gulped out with a swift, impulsive rush. “What I want to say is that’s how I feel when anything happens amiss your way. I want to say it don’t matter if it’s Beasley, or—or jest things that can’t be helped. I want to get around and set ’em right for you——”
Joan’s eyes were startled. A sudden pallor had replaced the smile on her lips, and drained the rich, warm color from her cheeks.
“You’ve always done those things for me, Buck,” she interrupted him hastily. “You’ve been the kindest—the best——”
“Don’t say those things,” Buck broke in with a hardly restrained passion. “It hurts to hear ’em. Kindest? Best? Say, when a man feels same as me, words like them hurt, hurt right in through here,” he tapped his chest with an awkward gesture. “They drive a man nigh crazy. A man don’t want to hear them from the woman he loves. Yes, loves!”
The man’s dark eyes were burning, and as the girl rose from her seat he reached out one brown hand to detainher. But his gesture was needless. She made no move to go. She stood before him, her proud young face now flushing, now pale with emotion, her wonderful eyes veiled lest he should read in their depths feelings that she was struggling to conceal. Her rounded bosom rose and fell with the furious beatings of a heart she could not still.
“No, no,” the man rushed on, “you got to hear me, if it makes you hate me fer the rest of your life. I’m nothing but jest a plain feller who’s lived all his life in this back country. I’ve got no education, nothin’ but jest what I am—here. An’ I love you, I love you like nothing else in all the world. Say,” he went on, the first hot rush of his words checking, “I bin gropin’ around these hills learning all that’s bin set there for me to learn. I tried to learn my lessons right. I done my best. But this one thing they couldn’t teach me. Something which I guess most every feller’s got to learn some time. An’ you’ve taught me that.
“Say.” The restraint lost its power, and the man’s great passion swept him on in a swift torrent. “I never knew a gal since I was raised. I never knew how she could git right hold of your heart, an’ make the rest of the world seem nothing. I never knew how jest one woman could set the sun shining when her blue eyes smiled, and the storm of thunder crowding over, when those eyes were full of tears. I never dreamed how she could get around in fancy, and walk by your side smilin’ and talkin’ to you when you wandered over these lonesome hills at your work. I never knew how she could come along an’ raise you up when you’re down, an’ most everything looks black. I’ve learned these things now. I’ve learned ’em because you taught me.”
He laughed with a sort of defiance at what he felt must sound ridiculous in her ears. “You asked me to teach you! Me teach you! Say, it’s you taught me—everything. It’s you taught me life ain’t just a day’s work an’ a night’s sleep. It’s you taught me that life’s a wonderful, wonderful dream of joy an’ delight. It’s you taught me the sun’s shining just formealone, an’ every breath of these mountains is just to makemefeel good. It’s you taught me to feel there’s nothing on God’s earth I couldn’t and wouldn’t do to make you happy. You, who taught me to Live! You, with your wonderful blue eyes, an’ your beautiful, beautiful face. You, with your mind as white an’ pure as the mountain snow, an’ your heart as precious as the gold our folks are forever chasin’. I love you, Joan. I love you, every moment I live. I love you so my two hands ain’t enough by a hundred to get helping you. I love you better than all the world. You’re jest—jest my whole life!”
He stood with his arms outstretched toward the shrinking girl. His whole body was shaking with the passion that had sent his words pouring in a tide of unthought, unconsidered appeal. He had no understanding of whither his words had carried him. All he knew was that he loved this girl with his whole soul and body. That she could love him in return was something unbelievable, yet he must tell her. He must tell her all that was in his simple heart.
He waited. It seemed ages, but in reality it was only moments.
Presently Joan looked up. She raised her eyes timidly, and in a moment Buck saw that they were filled with unshed tears. He started forward, but she shrank backfarther. But it was not with repugnance. Her movement was almost reluctant, yet it was decided. It was sufficient for the man, and slowly, hopelessly he dropped his arms to his sides as the girl’s voice so full of distress at last broke the silence.
“Oh, Buck, Buck, why—oh, why have you said these things to me? You don’t know what you have done. Oh, it was cruel of you.”
“Cruel?” Buck started. The color faded from his cheeks. “Me cruel—to you?”
“Yes, yes. Don’t you understand? Can’t you see? Now—now there is nothing left but—disaster. Oh, to think that I should have brought this upon you—you of all men!”
Buck’s eyes suddenly lit. Unversed as he was in all such matters, he was not blind to the feeling underlying her words. But the light swiftly died from his eyes as he beheld the great tears roll slowly down the girl’s fair cheeks, and her face droop forward into her hands.
In a moment all restraint was banished in the uprising of his great love. Without a thought of consequences he bridged the intervening space at one step, and, in an instant, his arms were about the slim, yielding figure he so tenderly loved. In a moment his voice, low, tender, yet wonderful in its consoling strength, was encouraging her.
“Disaster?” he said. “Disaster because I love you? Where? How? Say, there’s no disaster in my love for you. There can’t be. All I ask, all I need is jest to make your path—easier. Your troubles ain’t yours any longer. They sure ain’t. They’re mine, now, if you’ll jest hand ’em to me. Disaster? No, no, little gal. Don’t you to cry. Don’t. Your eyes weren’t made for cryin’. They’rejest given you to be a man’s hope. For you to see just how much love he’s got for you.”
Joan submitted to his embrace for just so long as he was speaking. Then she looked up with terrified eyes and released herself.
“No, no, Buck. I must not listen. I dare not. It is my fate. My terrible fate. You don’t understand. Beasley was right. Iwasresponsible for Ike’s death. For Pete’s death. But not in the way he meant. It is my curse. They loved me, and—disaster followed instantly. Can’t you see? Can’t you see? Oh, my dear, can’t you see that this same disaster must dog you—now?”
Buck stared. Then he gathered himself together.
“Your fate?”
“Yes, yes. I am cursed. Oh,” Joan suddenly gave a shrill laugh that was painful to hear. “Every man that has ever told me—what you have told me—has met with disaster, and—death.”
For one second no sound broke the stillness of the barn but the restless movements of Cæsar. Then, suddenly, a laugh, a clear, buoyant laugh, full of defiance, full of incredulity, rang through the building.
It was Buck. He moved forward, and in a moment the girl was lying close upon his breast.
“Is that the reason you mustn’t, daren’t, listen to me?” he cried, in a voice thrilling with hope and confidence. “Is that the only reason? Jest because of death an’ disaster to me? Jest that, an’—nothing more? Tell me, little gal. Tell me or—or I’ll go mad.”
“Yes, yes. But oh, you don’t——”
“Yes, I do. Say, Joan, my little, little gal. Tell me.Tell me right now. You ain’t—hatin’ me for—for loving you so bad. Tell me.”
Joan hid her face, and the tall man had to bend low to catch her words.
“I couldn’t hate you, Buck. I—I——”
But Buck heard no more. He almost forcibly lifted the beautiful, tearful face to his, as he bent and smothered it with kisses.
After a few moments he stood her away from him, holding her slight shoulders, one in each hand. His dark eyes were glowing with a wild happiness, a wonderful, reckless fire, as he peered into her blushing face.
“You love me, little gal? You love me? Was ther’ ever such a thought in the mind of sane man? You love me? The great big God’s been mighty good to me. Disaster? Death? Let all the powers of man or devil come along, an’ I’ll drive ’em back to the hell they belong to.”
The hills roll away, banking on every side, mounting up, pile on pile, like the mighty waves of a storm-swept ocean. The darkening splendor, the magnificent ruggedness crowds down upon the narrow open places with a strange sense of oppression, almost of desolation. It seems as if nothing on earth could ever be so great as that magnificent world, nothing could ever be so small as the life which peoples it.
The oppression, the desolation grows. The silent shadows of the endless woods crowd with a suggestion of horrors untold, of mysteries too profound to be even guessed at. A strange feeling as of a reign of enchantment pervading sets the flesh of the superstitious creeping. And the narrow, patchy sunlight, by its brilliant contrast, only serves to aggravate the sensitive nerves.
Yet in the woods lurk few enough dangers. It is only their dark stillness. They are still, still in the calm of the brightest day, or in the chill of a windless night. A timid bear, a wolf who spends its desolate life in dismal protest against a solitary fate, the crashing rush of a startled caribou, the deliberate bellow of a bull moose, strayed far south from its northern fastnesses. These are the harmless creatures peopling the obscure recesses. For the rest, they are the weird suggestions of a sensitive imagination.
The awe, however, is undeniable and the mind of man can never wholly escape it. Familiarity may temper, but inborn human superstition is indestructible. The brooding silence will shadow the lightest nature. The storms must ever inspire wonder. The gloom hushes the voice. And so the growing dread. Man may curse the hills in his brutal moments, the thoughtful may be driven to despair, the laughter-loving may seek solace in tears of depression. But the fascination clings. There is no escape. The cloy of the seductive drug holds to that world of mystery, and they come to it again, and yet again.
Something of all this was vaguely drifting through the mind of one of the occupants of a four-horsed, two-wheeled spring cart as it rose upon the monstrous shoulder of one of the greater hills. Before it lay a view of a dark and wild descent, sloping away unto the very bowels of a pit of gloom. The trail was vague and bush-grown, and crowding trees dangerously narrowed it. To the right the hill fell sharply away at the edge of the track, an abyss that might well have been bottomless for aught that could be seen from above. To the left the crown of the hill rose sheer and barren, and only at its foot grew the vegetation that so perilously narrowed the track. Then, ahead, where the trail vanished, a misty hollow, dark and deep—the narrowing walls of a black canyon.
The blue eyes of the teamster were troubled. Was there ever such a country for white man to travel? His horses were jaded. Their lean sides were tuckered. Gray streaks of sweat scored them from shoulder to flank.
The man lolled heavily in his driving seat in the mannerof the prairie teamster. He knew there was trouble ahead, but it was practically all he did know of the journey before him.
As the cart topped the rise he bestirred himself. His whip flicked the air without touching the horses, and he chirrupped encouragingly. The weary but willing creatures raised their drooping heads, their ribs expanded as they drew their “tugs” taut, and, at a slow, shuffling trot, they began the descent.
A voice from behind caused the man to glance swiftly over his shoulder.
“It’s no use asking you where we are now, I suppose?” it said in a peevish tone.
But the teamster’s mood was its match.
“Not a heap, I guess, ma’m,” he retorted, and gave up his attention to avoiding the precipice on his right.
“How far is the place supposed to be?”
The woman’s unease was very evident. Her eyes were upon the darkening walls of the canyon toward which they were traveling.
“Eighty miles from Crowsfoot. That’s how the boss said, anyways.”
“How far have we come now?”
The man laughed. There seemed to be something humorous in his passenger’s inquiries.
“Crowsfoot to Snarth’s farm, thirty-five miles, good. Snarth’s to Rattler Head, thirty. Sixty-five. Fifteen into this precious camp on Yellow Creek. Guess we bin comin’ along good since sun-up, an’ now it’s noon. Countin’ our stop fer breakfast we ought to make thirty odd miles. Guess we come a good hundred.” He laughed again.
The woman gave an exclamation of impatience and vexation.
“I think your employer ought to be ashamed of himself sending you to do the journey. You don’t know where you are, or what direction we’re going in. The horses are nearly foundered, and we may be miles and miles from our destination. What are you going to do?”
“Ke’p goin’ jest as long as the hosses ken ke’p foot to the ground. Guess we’ll ease ’em at the bottom, here. It’s nigh feed time. Say, ma’m, it ain’t no use worritin’. We’ll git som’eres sure. The sun’s dead ahead.”
“What’s the use of that?” Mercy Lascelles snapped at the man’s easy acceptance of the situation. “I wish now I’d come by Leeson Butte.”
“That’s sure how the boss said,” retorted the man. “The Leeson trail is the right one. It’s a good trail, an’ I know most every inch of it. You was set comin’ round through the hills. Guessed you’d had enough prairie on the railroad. It’s up to you. Howsum, we’ll make somewheres by nightfall. Seems to me I got a notion o’ that hill, yonder. That one, out there,” he went on, pointing with his whip at a bald, black cone rising in the distance against the sky. “That kind o’ seems like the peak o’ Devil’s Hill. I ain’t jest sure, but it seems like.”
Mercy looked in the direction. Her eyes were more angry than anxious, yet anxiety was her principal feeling.
“I hope to goodness it is. Devil’s Hill. A nice name. That’s where the camp is, isn’t it? I wish you’d hurry on.”
The teamster spat over the dashboard. A grim smile crept into his eyes. His passenger had worried him withtroublesome questions all the journey, and he had long since given up cursing his boss for sending him on the job.
“’Tain’t no use,” he said shortly. Then he explained. “Y’ see, it ’ud be easy droppin’ over the side of this. Guess you ain’t yearnin’ fer glory that way?”
“We’ll never get in at this pace,” the woman cried impatiently.
But the teamster was losing patience, too. Suddenly he became very polite, and his pale blue eyes smiled mischievously down upon his horses’ backs.
“Guess we don’t need to hurry a heap, ma’m,” he said. “Y’ see, in these hills you never can tell. Now we’re headin’ fer that yer canyon. Maybe the trail ends right ther’.”
“Good gracious, man, then what are we going to do?”
“Do? Why, y’ see, ma’m, we’ll have to break a fresh trail—if that dogone holler ain’t one o’ them bottomless muskegs,” he added thoughtfully.
He flicked his whip and spat again. His passenger’s voice rose to a sharp staccato.
“Then for goodness’ sake why go on?” she demanded.
“Wal, y’ see, you can’t never tell till you get ther’ in these hills. Maybe that canyon is a river, an’ if so the entrance to it’s nigh sure a muskeg. A bottomless muskeg. You seen ’em, ain’t you? No? Wal, they’re swamps, an’ if we get into one, why, I guess ther’s jest Hail Columby, or some other fool thing waitin’ for us at the bottom. Still ther’ mayn’t be no muskeg. As I sez, you never can tell, tho’ ther’ most gener’ly is. Mebbe that’s jest a blank wall without no trail. Mebbe this trail ends at a sheer drop of a few hundred feet an’ more.Mebbe agin the trail peters out ’fore we get ther’. That’s the way in these yer hills, ma’m; you never can tell if you get lost. An’ gittin’ lost is so mighty easy. Course we ain’t likely to starve till we’ve eat up these yer dogone ol’ hosses. Never eaten hoss? No? ’Tain’t so bad. Course water’s easy, if you don’t light on one o’ them fever swamps. Mountain fever’s pretty bad. Still, I don’t guess we’ll git worried that way, ma’m. I’d sure say you’re pretty tough fer mountain fever to git a holt of. It’s the time that’s the wust. It might take us weeks gittin’ out,—once you git lost proper. But even so I don’t guess ther’s nothin’ wuss than timber wolves to worry us. They’re mean. Y’ see they’re nigh allus starvin’—or guess they are. B’ars don’t count a heap, less you kind o’ run into ’em at breedin’ season. Le’s see, this is August. No, ’tain’t breedin’ season.” He sighed as if relieved. Then he stirred quickly and glanced round, his face perfectly serious. “Guess you got a gun? It’s allus good to hev a gun round. You never ken tell in these yer hills—when you git lost proper.”
“Oh, you’re a perfect fool. Go on with your driving.” Mercy sat back in her seat fuming, while the teamster sighed, gently smiling down at his horses.
“Mebbe you’re right, ma’m,” he said amiably. “These dogone hills makes fools o’ most fellers, when they git lost proper—as I’d sure say we are now.”
But the man had achieved his object. The woman desisted from further questioning. She sat quite still, conscious of the unpleasant fact that the man was laughing at her, and also perfectly aware that his incompetence was responsible for the fact that they were utterly lost amongst the wild hills about them.
She was very angry. Angry with the man, angry with herself, for not being guided by the hotel keeper at Crowsfoot, but more than all she was angry with Joan for bidding her make the journey.
Yet she had been unable to resist the girl’s appeal. Her inability was not from any sentimental feeling or sympathy. Such feelings could never touch her. But the appeal of the manner in which her curse still followed the girl, and the details she had read through the lines of her letter, a letter detailing the circumstances of her life on Yellow Creek, and written under the impulse and hope inspired by the Padre’s support had given her the keenest interest. All the mystical side of her nature had been stirred in a manner she could not deny, had no desire to deny.
Yes, she had come to investigate, to observe, to seek the truth of her own pronouncement. She had come without scruple, to watch their effect. To weigh them in the balance of her scientific mysticism. She had come to watch the struggles of the young girl in the toils which enveloped her. Her mind was the diseased mind of the fanatic, prompted by a nature in which cruelty held chief place.
But now had come this delay. Such was her nature that personal danger ever appalled her. Death and disaster in the abstract were nothing to her, but their shadows brushing her own person was something more than terrifying. And as she thought of the immensity of the world about her, the gloom, the awful hush, the spirit of the hills got hold of her and left her full of apprehension.
The teamster now devoted his whole attention to hiswhereabouts. His passenger’s interminable questioning silenced, he felt more at his ease. And feeling at his ease he was able to bring his prairie-trained faculties to bear on the matter in hand. As they progressed down the slope he closely observed the tall, distant crown which he thought he recognized, and finally made up his mind that his estimate was right. It certainly was the cone crown of Devil’s Hill. Thus his certainty now only left him concerned with the ultimate development of the trail they were on.
It was quite impossible to tell what that might be. The road seemed to be making directly for the mouth of the canyon, and yet all his experience warned him that such a destination would be unusual. It must turn away. Yet where? How?
He searched ahead on the hillside above him for a modification of its slope. And a long way ahead he fancied he detected such an indication. But even so, the modification was so slight that there seemed little enough hope.
He kept on with dogged persistence. To return was not to be thought of yet. Any approach to vacillation now would be quite fatal.
The trail was fading out to little more than a double cattle track, and the farther he looked along it the more indistinct it seemed to become. Yet it continued, and the ever downward slope went on, and on.
His anxious eyes were painfully alert. Where? Where? He was asking himself with every jog of his weary horses. Then all of a sudden his questions ceased, and a decided relief leapt into his eyes as he drew his horses up to a halt.
He turned to his passenger and pointed with his whipat the hill abreast of them, his eyes undoubtedly witnessing his relief.
“See that, ma’m?” he cried. And Mercy beheld a narrow, rough flight of steps cut in the face of the hill. Each step was deliberately protected with a timber facing securely staked against “washouts,” and though the workmanship was rough it was evidently the handiwork of men who thought only of endurance. It rose from the trail-side in a slanting direction, and, adopting the easiest course on the slope, wound its way to the very crown of the hill, over the top of which it vanished.
“Well?”
The woman’s inquiry was ungracious enough.
“Why, that’s the meanin’ o’ this yer trail.” The man pointed above. “That sure leads somewheres.”
“I suppose it does.”
Mercy snapped her reply.
“Sure,” said the man. “There’s shelter up ther’, anyways. An’ by the looks o’ them steps I’d say folks is livin’ ther’ right now.”
“Then for goodness’ sake go up and see, and don’t sit there wasting time. I never had to deal with such a perfect fool in my life. Pass the reins over to me, and I’ll wait here.”
The man grinned. But instead of handing her the reins he secured them to the iron rail of the cart.
“Guess them hosses know best wot to do ’emselves,” he observed quietly, as he scrambled from the cart. “Best let ’em stand theirselves, ma’m,—you never know wot’s along the end of that trail—muskegs is——” His final jibe was lost in a deep-throated chuckle as he began the steep ascent before him.
Mercy watched him with angry eyes. The man added impertinence to his foolishness, and the combination was altogether too much for her temper. But for the fact that she required his services, she would well have wished that he might fall and break his neck. But her chief concern was to reach her destination, so she watched him climb the long steps in the hope that some comforting result might follow.
As the man rose higher and higher, and his figure grew smaller, his climb possessed an even greater interest for Mercy Lascelles than she admitted. She began to appreciate the peril of it, and peril, in others, always held her fascinated.
He was forced to move slowly, clinging closely with both hands to the steps above him. It would be easy to slip and fall, and she waited for that fall. She waited with nerves straining and every faculty alert.
So absorbed was she that she had forgotten the horses, forgotten her own position, everything, in the interest of the moment. Had it been otherwise, she must have noticed that something had attracted the drooping horses’ attention. She must have observed the suddenly lifted heads, and pricked ears. But these things passed her by, as did the approach of a solitary figure bearing a burden of freshly taken fox pelts, which quite enveloped its massive shoulders.
The man was approaching round a slight bend in the trail, and the moment the waiting cart came into view, he stood, startled at the apparition. Then he whistled softly, and glanced back over the road he had come. He looked at a narrow point where the trail suddenly ended, a sharp break where the cliff dropped away abruptly, and furtherprogress could only be made by an exhausting downward climb by a skilled mountaineer.
Then he came slowly on, his gray eyes closely scrutinizing the figure in the cart. In a moment he saw that it was a woman, and, by her drooping pose, recognized that she was by no means young. His eyes took on a curious expression—half doubt, half wonder, and his face grew a shade paler under his tan. But the change only lasted a few seconds. He quickly pulled himself together, and, shaking his white head thoughtfully, continued his way toward the vehicle with the noiseless gait which moccasins ever give to the wearer. He reached the cart quite unobserved. The woman’s whole attention was absorbed by the climbing man, and the newcomer smiled curiously as he passed a greeting.
“You’ve hit a wrong trail, haven’t you?” he inquired.
The woman in the cart gave a frantic start, and clutched at the side rail as though for support. Then her eyes came on a level with the man’s smiling face, and fear gave way to a sudden expression of relentless hatred.
“You?” she cried, and her lean figure seemed to crouch as though about to spring.
The man returned her stare without flinching. His eyes still wore their curious smile.
“Yes,” he said. “It is I.”
The woman’s lips moved. She swallowed as though her throat had suddenly become parched.
“Moreton Bucklaw,” she murmured. “And—and after all these years.”
The man nodded. Then several moments passed without a word.
Finally it was the man who spoke. His manner wascalm, so calm that no one could have guessed a single detail of what lay between these two, or the significance of their strange meeting.
“You’ve hit a bad trail,” he said. “There’s a big drop back there. These steps go on up to my home. The old fort. They’re an old short cut to this valley. Guess your man’ll need to unhitch his horses and turn the cart round. He can’t get it round else. Then, if you go back past the shoulder of the hill, you’ll see an old track, sharp to your right. That leads into the trail that’ll take you right on down to the farm where little Joan lives.” He moved toward the steps. “I’ll tell your man,” he said.
He mounted the steps with the ease of familiarity, his great muscles making the effort appear ridiculously easy. A little way up he paused, and looked down at her.
“Guess I shall see you again?” he said, with the same curious smile in his steady eyes.
And the woman’s reply came sharply up the hillside to him. It came with all the pent-up hatred of years, concentrated into one sentence. The hard eyes were alight with a cold fury, which, now, in her advancing years, when the freshness and beauty that had once been hers could no longer soften them, was not without its effect upon the man.
“Yes. You will see me again, Moreton Bucklaw.”
And the man continued the ascent with a feeling as though he had listened to the pronouncement of his death sentence.
Joan had looked forward to her aunt’s coming with very mixed feelings. There were moments when she was frankly glad at the prospect of a companionship which had been hers since her earliest childhood. Her nature had no malice in it, and the undoubted care, which, in her early years, the strange old woman had bestowed upon her counted for much in her understanding of duty and gratitude. Then, besides, whatever Aunt Mercy’s outlook, whatever the unwholesomeness of the profession she followed with fanatical adherence, she was used to her, used to her strangenesses, her dark moments. If affection had never been particularly apparent in the elder woman’s attitude toward her, there had certainly been a uniform avoidance of the display of any other feeling until those last few days immediately preceding her own flight from St. Ellis. Habit was strong with Joan, so strong, indeed, that in her happy moments she was glad at the thought of the return into her life of the woman who had taken the place of her dead parents.
Then, too, even the memory of that frenzied morning, when Aunt Mercy, laboring under her awful disease of mysticism, had assumed the rôle of prophetess, and accuser, and hurled at her troubled head a denunciation as cruel as it was impossible, had lost something of its dread significance and sting. At the time it had been of a blastingnature, but now—now, since she had conferred with Buck’s great friend, since Buck’s wonderful support had been added to her life, all the harshness of the past appeared in a new and mellowed light. She believed she saw her aunt as she really was, a poor, torn creature, whose mind was diseased, as a result of those early fires of disappointment through which she had passed.
The Padre had denied the fate that this aunt had convinced her of. Buck had defied it, and laughed it out of countenance. These men, so strong, so capable, had communicated to her receptive nature something of the hope and strength that was theirs. Thus she was ready to believe, to stand shoulder to shoulder with them, feeling that in the future nothing could hurt her. So she was ready for her aunt’s coming.
But to live up to her determination was not always easy. She had yielded to all her old superstitious dread at the moment when Buck had first opened her eyes to the wonderful love that had so silently, so unknown, yet so swiftly grown up in her heart for him. In that delicious awakening, when lost in a joy almost inconceivable, when her defenses were at their weakest, the enemy’s attack had come swiftly and surely. Her very love had aided it. Her dread for the man had gripped her heart, and all her mind and senses had gone back to the unspeakable fears she had only just learnt to deny. Nor was it until his denial, a denial given with that wonderful laugh of confidence, had she been able to drag herself back to the new path which his white-haired friend had marked out for her.
Since then, however, she had been able to contemplate her aunt’s coming in something of the spirit in which shedesired to welcome her. She felt that now, at least, she was proof against the unwholesome thought of the woman’s diseased mind. There were certain unacknowledged trepidations as the time drew near, but these she contrived to smother under the excitement and interest of preparing her house for the reception, and the radiant confidence of Buck, which never failed to support her.
Every morning and every evening brought Buck’s strong presence to the farm for a brief visit. And each visit was a dream of delight to the simple, loving girl. All day long, as she labored through her household cares, and the affairs of the farm she lived in, she dwelt on the memory of the morning visit, or looked forward to her lover’s coming as the sun reached the western skies. Every night, when she sought the snow-white ease of her bed, it was to spend her few remaining minutes of waking dwelling on the happiness of past moments, and ultimately to anticipate in dreams the delights of the morrow.
So the days sped rapidly by and the time for Aunt Mercy’s arrival drew on. And with each passing day the shadows receded, her trepidations became less and less, until they almost reached the vanishing-point. She felt that in Buck’s love no shadow could live. With him at her side she need have no fear of evil. He was exalted by the very wholesomeness of his mind and heart, and the strength and confidence that was his, far, far above the level of hideous superstitions and happenings. His love for her, her love for him were too great, far too great, for disaster to ever touch them.
Then came Aunt Mercy.
She came in the middle of an oppressive afternoon. The days of late had assumed an extraordinary oppressivenessfor the season of the year. She came amidst the peaceful calm when all farm life seems to be wrapped in a restful somnolence, when the animal world has spent its morning energies, and seeks rest that it may recuperate for the affairs surrounding its evening meal.
With her coming Joan’s first realization was of dismay at the manner in which she had underestimated the woman’s personality, how strangely absence had distorted her view of the mind behind those hard, gray eyes. And with this realization came an uneasy feeling that the power and influence which had sent her rushing headlong from her home, to seek the peace of the wilderness, was no fancy of a weak, girlish mind, but a force, a strong, living force, which made itself felt the instant she came into the woman’s uncanny presence again.
She was just the same unyielding creature she had always known. Her peevish plaint at the journey, her railing at the stupidity and impertinence of the teamster, her expressed disgust at the country, her complaining of everything. These things were just what Joan must have expected, had she not lived away from her aunt, and so lost her proper focus. Joan did her best to appease her. She strove by every art of her simple mind to interest her and divert her thought and mood into channels less harsh. But she had little success, and it quickly became apparent that the lapse of time since her going from home had aggravated rather than improved the strange mental condition under which her aunt labored.
After the first greetings, and Joan had conducted her to her room, which she had spent infinite time and thought in arranging, the old woman remained there to rest until supper-time. Then she reappeared, and, by the signs ofher worn, ascetic face, the cruel hollows about those adamant eyes, the drawn cheeks and furrowed brow, the girl realized that rest with her was not easy to achieve. She saw every sign in her now that in the old days she had learned to dread so acutely.
However, there was no help for it. She knew it was not in the nature of that busy brain to rest, and one day the breaking-point would be reached, and the end would come suddenly.
But at supper-time there was a definite change in her aunt’s mental attitude. Whereas before her whole thought had been for the outpouring of her complaint at her personal discomforts, now all that seemed to have been forgotten in something which held her alert and watchful. Joan had no thought or suspicion of the working of the swift-moving brain. Only was she pleased, almost delighted at the questioning and evident interest in her own affairs.
The meal was nearly over. Aunt Mercy, as was her habit, had eaten sparingly, while she alternately listened to the details of the girl’s farm life, the manner of the gold camp, the history of her arrival there and the many vicissitudes which had followed, and voiced the questions of her inquisitorial mind. Now she leant back in her chair and slowly sipped a cup of strong, milkless tea, while her eyes watched the girl’s expressive face.
Joan had purposely avoided mention of the many details which had had such power to disturb her in the past. She had no desire to afford a reopening of the scene she had endured that morning at St. Ellis. But Mercy Lascelles was not to be thwarted by any such simple subterfuge.
“You’ve told me a lot of what doesn’t matter,” she said sharply, after a pause, while she sipped her tea. “Now tell me something that does.” She glanced down at the flashing diamond rings upon her fingers. “By your letter you have not escaped from those things you hoped to—when you left St. Ellis.”
Joan started. She was sitting with her elbows on the table, her chin resting on her clasped hands. Mercy Lascelles observed the start, but offered no comment. She waited. She could afford to wait. She had read and understood the girl’s letter. Besides, there was something else in her mind. Something else which required piecing into the web which linked their lives together. She knew that it held an important place, but its exact position her busy brain was still groping to resolve.
“Do you want me to talk about—those things?” the girl asked half appealingly. “Is it necessary? I am very happy, auntie, so happy that I don’t want to risk losing a moment of it. I have not always been happy since I came here.”
The hard, gray eyes suddenly lifted to the girl’s face, and there was mocking in their depths.
“You mentioned them light-heartedly enough in your letter. You spoke of the death of two men to point your assurance that their death had nothing to do with your—fate. Some one had reassured you. Some one had made plain the absurdity that such a fate could ever be. Some one had shown you that such convictions only lived in the human mind and had no actual place in the scheme of things. Surely with this wonderful truth behind you, you need not shrink from details of things which have no connection with your life.”
The icy sarcasm would not be denied. It was the old note Joan had been so familiar with. Its sting was as poignant as ever, but somehow now it stirred her to a defense of those who had come to her aid in her direst need.
But this was her aunt’s first day on the farm. She felt she must restrain herself. She tried to smile, but it was a weakly attempt.
“You are quite unchanged, auntie,” she said.
“I might say the same of you, Joan,” came the sharp retort.
But Joan shook her head.
“You would be quite wrong. I have changed so much that you can never make me believe again in—all that which you made me believe before. Let me be frank. Nothing but my conviction that I am no more cursed by an evil fate than is every other living creature would have induced me to ask you here. I have asked you to come here and share my home because you are my aunt, my only relative, who has been good to me in the past. Because I am lonely here without you, and—and—oh, don’t you understand? There are only us two left. Yes, I want to be with you.” She broke off, but in a moment went on rapidly. “But this could never have been had I still believed what you made me believe. Under that old shadow I would have gone to the ends of the world rather than have been near you. Can’t you understand? Let us forget it all—let us begin a new life together.”
Mercy shook her head. She was quite unmoved by the girl’s appeal.
“There is only one life. There is no beginning again. Those who talk like that are fools. That is why I sayyou, too, are unchanged.” The woman’s eyes lit. They suddenly became filled with that cold fire which Joan knew so well. “You think you are changed. You think by an effort of will—your own, combined with that of another, you have escaped that which has followed you from your birth. You think that every disaster that has ever occurred to those with whom you have been associated, and those who have belonged to you, can be accounted for naturally. You, with your foolish brain, and the equally foolish brain of that other. Why, girl, you deny it in every line of the letter you wrote me. It is there—there in every word, in its very atmosphere. You are lying to yourself under the influence of this other—who lies to you. Prove what you say if you want me to believe. The scientific mind must have proof, undeniable, irrefutable proof. Statements, mere statements of unbelief are meaningless things which do not convince even their authors. If you need to convince yourself, and convince me, then engage yourself to some man, marry him, and I tell you now you will bring about the direst tragedy that ever befel human creature.”
“I—I have done what—what you dare me to do. I have engaged myself to marry. I am going to marry the man I love more than life itself.”
Joan had risen from her seat. She stood erect, her beautiful head thrown back. An ecstatic light shone in the deep velvet softness of her eyes. But even as she spoke a sudden paling lessened the delicate bloom of her cheeks.
The other, with her cold eyes leveled at her, was quick to observe.
“And who is—your victim?”
Joan’s pallor increased as she stared for a moment withdilating eyes at the woman who could be capable of such cruelty. Then, of a sudden, a protest of such bitterness sprang to her lips that even Mercy Lascelles was startled.
“Oh, God, was there ever such callous heartlessness in human creature? Was there ever such madness in sane woman? You ask me to prove my convictions, you ask me for the one method by which even you can be convinced, and when I show you how far my new faith has carried me you taunt me by asking who is my—victim. Oh, aunt, for the love of all you ever held dear, leave me in peace. Let me prove to you my own destiny, but leave me in peace until I have done so, or—failed. Can you not see that I am trying to preserve my sanity? And by every word and look you are driving me to the verge of madness. The man I love knows all, he and his great friend. He knows all you have ever told me, and his love is the strongest and bravest. He laughs this fate to scorn, he has no fears for himself, or for me. I tell you you shall have your proof. But you must leave me in peace.”
For a moment it almost seemed as if her aunt were abashed at the passion of her protest. She withdrew her cold stare, and, with her jeweled hands folded in her lap, gazed down at the white table-cloth. She waited until Joan dropped despairingly back into her chair, then she looked up, and her glance was full of malicious irony.
“You shall have your way—after to-night. You shall not hear one word of warning from me. But to-night you must let me have my way. You say you believe. I tell you Iknow. You must do your best, and—fail. Have your way.” She withdrew her gaze and her eyes became introspective. “Who is this man—you say you are going to marry?”
Joan warmed under the change in her aunt’s manner. Her relief at the other’s assurance was almost boundless, although the effect of the woman’s previous attitude was to leave her far less sure of herself.
“It is Buck,” she said impulsively. “He is the great friend of the man from whom I bought this farm. Oh, auntie, wait until you see him. You will realize, as I have, his strength, his goodness. You will have no doubts when you know him. You will understand that he has no fear of any—any supernatural agencies, has no fear of any fancied fate that may be awaiting him. Auntie, he is tall, so tall, and—oh, he’s wonderful. And his name, Buck—don’t you like it? It is so like him. Buck—independence, courage, confidence. And, oh, auntie, I love him so.”
Mercy remained quite unmoved. It almost seemed doubtful if she heard and understood all the simple girlishness in her niece’s rhapsody, so preoccupied she seemed with her own thoughts.
“It was his friend, you say, who has taught you that—you have nothing further to fear? And who is this paragon?”
“He is the man who sold me the farm. He is such a good, kind creature. He is loved and respected by every soul in the place. He is so wise, too,—he is quite wonderful. You know, he only sold his farm to me to keep the miners from starving before they found the gold. He is a sort of foster-father to Buck. He found him when he was a little boy—picked him up on the trail-side. That’s about twenty years ago, soon after the Padre—that’s what they call him—first came here.”
“Yes, yes; but his name?”
Mercy had little patience with such detail as interested the fresh young mind of the girl.
“Moreton Kenyon.”
The eyes of the old woman shot a swift glance into the girl’s face.
“Moreton—who?”
“Kenyon.”
Mercy sat up in her chair. Her whole figure was poised alertly. Her eyes were no longer uninterested. She was stirred to swift mental activity. She knew that the web was readjusting itself. The portion she had been seeking to place was finding its own position.
“He has a head of thick white hair. He has gray eyes, darkly fringed. He is a man of something over fifty. His shoulders are massive. His limbs sturdy and powerful.”
Mercy detailed her description of the man in sharp, jerky sentences, each one definite and pointed. She spoke with the certainty of conviction. She was not questioning.
Joan’s surprise found vent in a wondering interrogation.
“Then, you have seen him? You know him?”
Her aunt laughed. It was a painful, hideous laugh, suggesting every hateful feeling rather than mirth. Joan was shocked, and vaguely wondered when she had ever before heard her aunt laugh.