They began the return trip shortly after noon. Hilton had been with Jane when Tom returned and he stood beside the buckboard talking some minutes after Beck had picked up the reins and was ready to commence the drive. Occasionally Dick's eyes wandered from Jane to the other man's face but Tom sat, knees crossed, idly toying with the whip, as indifferent to what was being said as if the others were out of sight and hearing. Hilton made an obvious effort to exclude the Westerner but Beck's disregard of him was as genuine as it was evident. He sat patiently, with an easy sense of superiority and the contrast was not lost on Jane Hunter.
The town was far behind and below them, a mere cluster of miniature buildings, before either spoke. Then it was Jane.
"That girl.... There was something splendid about her, wasn't there?"
"There was," he agreed. "She sure expressed her opinion of men in general!"
"A newcomer, evidently."
Beck nodded. "Came in soon after you did, with her father, it looked like."
"And she wins the respect of strange men by blows!" she said.
"He deserved all he got, didn't he?" Beck asked, smiling. "I like to see a badhombrelike that get set down by a woman. There's something humiliating about it that counts a lot more than the whippin' she gave him."
"But wouldn't it have spoken more for the chivalry of the country if some man had done it for her?"
"That's likely. But there ain't much chivalry here, ma'am."
"And am I so fortunate as to have enjoyed the protection of what little there is?"
He looked at her blankly.
"I had to come clear to Ute Crossing to learn how one man defended me from the insult of another."
He stirred uneasily on the seat.
"That was nothin'," he growled. "I'd been waiting for a chance to land on Webb for a long time."
He did not look at her and his manner had none of its usual bluntness; clearly he was evasive and, more, uncomfortable.
"First, I want to thank you," Jane said after she had looked at him a moment. "You don't know how a woman such as I am can feel about a thing like that. I think it was the finest thing a man has ever done for me ... and many men have been trying to do fine things for me for a long time."
She was deeply touched and her voice was not just steady but when Beck did not answer, just looked straight ahead with his tell-tale flush deepening, a delight crept into her eyes and the corners of her pretty mouth quirked.
"Besides, it was a great deal to expect of a man who has made up his mind not to like me!"
They had topped the divide and the sorrels had been fighting the bits. As she spoke Tom gave them their heads and the team swept the buckboard forward with a banging and clatter that would have drowned words anyhow, but the fact that he did not reply gave Jane a feeling of jubilation. Her thrust had pricked his reserve, showing it to be not wholly genuine!
Dick Hilton had told her of the encounter Beck had had with Webb, told it jeeringly as he attempted to impress her with the distasteful phases of her environment. He had failed in that. He had impressed her only with the fact that Tom Beck had gone out of his way, had taken a chance, to protect her standing. Others of her men had heard her insulted, men from other ranches had been there, but of them all Beck had been her champion.
And it was Beck who had bullied her, had doubted her in the face of her best efforts to convince him of fitness! He had even challenged her to make herself his friend!
She had believed before she came into those hills that she knew men of all sorts but now she had found something new. Here was a man who, in her presence, would plot to humiliate her and yet when she could not see or hear his loyalty and his belief in her were outstanding.
And what was it, she asked herself, that made her pulse leap and her throat tighten? It was not wholly gratitude. It was not merely because he resisted her efforts to win his open regard. Those things were potent influences, surely, but there was something more fundamental about him, a basic quality which she had not before encountered in men; she could not analyze it but daily she had sensed its growing strength. Now she felt it ... felt, but could not identify.
Two-Bits opened the gate for them and Tom carried her bundles into the house.
At the corral, as Beck unharnessed, the homely cow puncher said:
"Gosh, Tommy, how'd it seem, ridin' all the way to town an' back with her settin' up beside you?"
"Just about like you was there, Two-Bits, only we didn't swear quite so much."
"I got lots of respect for you, Tommy, but I think you're a damned liar."
And Beck chuckled to himself as though, perhaps, the other had been right.
"Two weeks now since he wrote," Two-Bits sighed. "He shore ought to be comin'. Gosh, Tom, but he's a bright man!"
Again that night Jane Hunter looked from a window after the lights in the bunk house had gone out and the place was quiet, to see a tall, silent figure move slowly beneath the cottonwoods, watching the house, pausing at times as if listening. Then it went back through the shadows more rapidly, as though satisfied that all was well.
Many times she had watched this but tonight it seemed of greater significance than ever before. He denied her his friendship; he had made Webb his sworn enemy by defending her (she had not told him that part of the tale she heard in Ute Crossing) and yet disclaimed any great interest in her as a motive. Still, he patrolled her dooryard at night!
A sudden impulse to do something that wouldmakehim give her that consideration in her presence which he gave before others came to life. His attitude suddenly angered her beyond reason and she felt her body shaking as tears sprang into her eyes. The great thing which she desired was just there, just out of reach and the fact exasperated her, grew, became a fever until, on her knees at the window, hammering the sill with her fists, she cried:
"Tom Beck you're going to love me!"
Two-bits was the last into the bunkhouse the following evening. He had ridden his Nigger horse in from the westward hills and had not come through the big gate so not until he stepped across the threshold were the others aware of his presence.
"Here he is!" said a rider from down the creek who was stopping for the night and the group in the center of the low room broke apart.
"Two-Bits, here's your brother," said Curtis.
A small man stood beside him. He wore a green, battered derby hat, band and binding of which were sadly frayed. He wore spectacles, steel rimmed, over searching gray eyes. He was unshaven. A celluloid collar, buttoned behind, made an overly large cylinder for his wrinkled neck. He wore a frock coat, also green with age, the pockets of which bulged and sagged and their torn corners spoke of long overloading. His overalls, patched and newly washed, were tucked into boots with run-down heels. In his hand he held a fountain pen.
At the entrance of Two-Bits all talk had ceased; at Curtis' introduction, Two-Bits stopped. He swallowed, setting his Adam's apple in sharp vibration. He took off his hat. He flushed and his mild eyes wavered. Then he advanced across the room, extending a limp hand and said in a thin, embarrassed voice:
"Please to meet you, Mister Beal."
Tom Beck bit his lips but one or two of the others laughed outright; they ceased, however, when the Reverend Beal, in a voice that was tremendously deep and impressive for such a small man, said:
"My brother, I extend to you the right hand of fellowship! It is a deed of God that enables me to look once more into your beloved face after these years of separation. Give me your hand, brother. May the blessings of Heaven descend upon and abide with thee!"
He shook Two-Bits' paw, looking up earnestly into his face, while the blushing became more furious.
"Marvelous are the ways of Providence!" he boomed. "Let us give thanks."
He doffed his hat, and still clinging to Two-Bits' hand, lowered his head.
"Almighty Father, whose blessings are diverse and manifold, we, brothers of the flesh, give our thanks to Thee for bringing about this reunion on earth. We realize, oh Lord, that these mundane moments are but brief forerunners of greater joys that are to come, that they are but passing pleasures; but joy here below is a rare thing and from this valley of tears and sin we lift our hearts and our voices in thanks that such blessings have been visited upon us by Thy blessed magnanimity!"
He lifted his head and honest tears showed behind his spectacles.
"And now, brother,"—in a brusk, business-like manner, "you, too, will be interested in this article which I was about to demonstrate to the congregation."
He replaced his hat with a deadpunk, held the pen aloft in gesture, drew a pad of paper from one of his sagging pockets and continued:
"Made of India rubber, combined in a secret process with Belgian talc and Swedish, water-proof shellac, this pen will withstand the acid action of the strongest inks. It is self-filling, durable, compact, artistic in design. The clip prevents its falling from the pocket and consequent loss.
"The point is of the finest, specially selected California, eighteen carat gold. It was designed by that peerless inventor, Thomas Edison. Its every feature, from the safety shank to the velvet tip, is covered by patents granted by the authority of this great republic!
"It does not leak!"—shaking it vigorously. "It does not fail to flow. It does not scratch or prick. Follow me closely, men; watch every move."
With facility he guided the point across the paper in great flourishes, sketching a crudely designed bird on the wing.
"See? See what can be done with this invention? How can any mature man or woman do without this article?Suchan article!
"This, men, is a three dollar commodity, but for the purposes of advertising I am permitted by the firm to charge you—Two-fifty? No! Two dollars?No!One fifty? NO! For the sum of one dollar, American money, E Pluribus Unum and In God We Trust, I will place this invaluable article in your possession. One dollar, men!One dollar!
"But wait. Further"—diving into another pocket, "we will give away absolutely free of charge to every purchaser one of these celebrated key rings and chains, made of a new conglomerate called white metal, guaranteed not to rust, tarnish or break except under excessive strain. Keeps your keys safe and always handy. Free, with each and every individual purchase!
"Still more!"—making another dive into the inexhaustable pockets—"Another article used by every gentleman and lady. A hand mirror, a magnifying hand mirror. Carry it in your pocket, have it always handy for the thousand and one uses to which it may be put.
"Think! This magnificent fountain pen, this key-ring and chain, this pocket mirror, a collection which regularly would retail for from four to five dollars, are yours for one dollar....
"Now, who's first?"
Two-Bits who had watched and listened with a growing amazement, mouth open, Adam's apple jumping, was roused.
"I am, Mister Beal," he said eagerly, digging in a pocket for the money.
"Ah, brother, part of being a Beal is knowing a bargain! Who else, now?"
He sold six of the pens before the big bell at the ranch house summoned the men to supper; then slipped his stock back in the pockets of that clerical looking garment and, grasping Two-Bits by the arm, beaming up into his face, stumped along by his side.
At the table he ate and talked, at one and the same time, doing both with astonishing ease. No matter how great the excess of food in his mouth, he was still able to articulate, and no matter how rapidly he talked, he could always thrust more nourishment between his lips.
"Oh, it warms the heart of a seeker after strays from the herds of the Master to look upon the bright, honest faces of stalwart men!" he cried, brandishing his fork and helping himself to more syrup with the other hand.
"Blessed are the pure in heart, it is written, and I know that when in the presence of such men as you, I am among the blessed of the Father! I can see integrity, devotion to duty, uprightness and honor in all your faces. Or, that is, inmostof your faces. What contrast!"—heedless of the uproar his qualification of a broad statement caused. "What contrast to the iniquitous ways of those who dwell in the tents of the wicked.
"Why, brethren, only last night I stood in the hotel in yonder settlement and watched and listened to the cries of a lost soul, a young man sunk hopelessly in sin. He was a stranger in a strange land, but he had not yet felt the heavy hand of a slowly-roused God, had not yet become the Prodigal. He had tasted of the wine when it was red and out of his mouth flowed much evil.
"A man possessed of a devil, I am sure, and I spoke to him, asking if he did not desire to seek redemption in the straight and narrow way which leads to the only righteous life.
"'Righteousness, hell!' he shouted at me, his face black with ungodly thoughts.
"'That's what I wantlessof: righteousness! That's what's raised hell in me!'
"Oh, it was terrible, brothers! He drank continually and finally they carried him off to bed, cursing and swearing, cherishing bitterness in his heart, which is against the word of the Almighty. A definite wrong was in his mind, I was led to presume, for he cried again and again: 'I'll break her if it's the last thing I do! I'll ruin her and bring her back!'
"I tell you, my fellow men, I prayed fervently for that lost soul through the night. Something heavy is upon him, something tremendous."
"Likely some of that high-pressure booze," remarked one, at which everybody except the Reverend and Two-Bits laughed.
"Goin' to stay long?" Oliver asked.
"Alas, I am not my own master. My feet are guided from up Yonder. To tarry with my dear brother is my most devout prayer and wish, but we have no promise of the morrow. I may remain in your midst a day, a month. I cannot tell when the call will come."
Tom Beck had watched with a glimmer in his eye until the newcomer told of the scene in the hotel. It was not difficult for him to identify the sin beset young man as Hilton and at that he became less attentive to the garrulous talk of the itinerant preacher-peddler. In fact, he gave no heed at all until, returned to the bunk house, the Reverend made a point of seeking out Dad Hepburn and talking to him in confidence.
Dad's bed was directly across from Tom's and he could not help hearing.
"I waited to get you alone," Beal said, dropping his elocutionary manner, "because what others don't know won't hurt 'em, and so forth. But just before I was leaving town, saddling my mare in the corral, I heard two men talking and it may interest you.
"This outfit uses the HC on horses as well as cattle, don't it?"
"That's right."
"Exactly! One of the men said (they didn't know I was near, understand). 'So there's eight more HC horses gone west.' And the other one said, 'Yes, they was camped at the mouth of Twenty Mile this mornin'. It's easy. They had the horses in a box gulch, with a tree down across the mouth, most natural.'
"Have you sold any horses lately?"
Hepburn glanced about cautiously and just before he turned to reply his eyes met Beck's gaze, cold and hard this time, flinging an unmistakable challenge at him.
"Not a horse," he mumbled. "They're sneaking out of the country with 'em. Tom, come here,"—with a jerk of his head. Beck walked over and sat down. "Did you hear what the Reverend says?" Dad asked. "About the horses?"
"Yes, I ain't surprised. Are you?"
His eyes, again amused, bored into Hepburn's face with the query:
"No, but—"
The sharp batter of running hoofs cut him short. The whole assemblage was listening. The rider stopped short at the gate, they heard it creak and a moment later he came across toward the bunk house at a high lope. They heard him speak gruffly to the horse, heard the creak of leather as he swung down and then jingling spurs marked his further progress toward the door.
It was Henry Riley, owner of the Bar Z ranch, thirty miles down Coyote creek. A cattleman of the old order, a man not given to haste or excitement. His appearance caught the interest of all, for he was breathing fast and his eyes blazed.
"Where's Dad?" he asked and Hepburn, rising, said: "Here. What's the matter, Henry?"
"Who's this nester in Devil's Hole?" Riley asked.
"Why ... I didn't know there was a nester there."
Dad answered hesitatingly and Beck scraped one foot on the floor.
"Well, there is. Guess we've all been asleep. He's there, with a girl, and they filed on that water yesterday. That shuts your outfit and mine out of the best range in the country if he fences, which he will! If they're goin' to dry farm our steers off the range we'd better look alive."
"I'll be damned," muttered Hepburn. "That was one of the next things I was goin' to have her do, file on that water."
He scratched his head and turned. Beck was waiting for him to face about.
"Now," he said slowly, "what are you going to do?"
His eyes flashed angrily and any who watched could see the challenge.
Silently Hepburn reached for his belt and gun, strapped it on, dug in his blankets for another revolver and shoved it into his shirt.
"First," he said, "I'm goin' after those horses.Thatain't too late to be remedied. No, I'll go alone!" as Tom stepped toward his bunk where his gun hung.
Hepburn gave Beck stare for stare as though defying him now to impute his motives and strode out into a fine rain, drawing on his slicker.
While the men were eating that night another rider had come to H.C. He entered slowly, tied his horse to the fence and walked down along the cottonwoods toward the house. He stood outside a time, looking through the window at Jane whose golden head was bowed in the mellow glow of the student lamp as she worked at her desk.
He stepped lightly across the veranda and rapped; at her bidding he entered.
"Dick!" she exclaimed.
"Undoubtedly," he said, with forced attempt at lightness.
"How did you get here? Why come at this time of day?"—rising and walking toward him.
"I rode a horse, and I came because I couldn't stay away from you any longer."
She looked at him, head tilted a bit to one side, and genuine regret was in her slow smile.
"Oh, Dick, don't look or feel like that! I'm glad to see you, but Iwishyou'd stop thinking and talking and looking like that. I don't like to have you so dreadfully determined ... when it's no use.
"All this way to see me! And did you eat? Of course you didn't!"
"I don't want anything," he protested glumly.
"But you must."
She seized on his need as welcome distraction from the love making, which undoubtedly was his purpose. She took his coat and hat, placed cigarettes for him and went to the kitchen to help Carlotta prepare a quick meal. She served it herself, going to pains to make it attractive, and finally seated herself across the table from Hilton, who made a pretense of eating.
She talked, a bit feverishly, perhaps, but compelled him to stick to matters far from personal and after he had finished his scant meal and lighted a cigarette he leaned back in his chair and smiled easily at her. It was a good smile, open and frank and gentle, but when it died that nasty light came back; as though the smile showed the man Jane Hunter had tolerated for long, masking the man she now tried to put from her.
"If your enthusiasm were for anything else, I'd like it," he said.
"But it isn't. Why can't you like it as it is?"
He ignored the question.
"Busy, Jane?"
"As the devil on Forty-Second street."
"And still think it's worth while?"
"The only worth-while thing I've ever done; more worth while every day. So much worth while that I'm made over from the heart out and I've been here less than a month!"
"After taking a bottle of your bitters I am now able to support my husband and children," he quoted ironically.
"Laugh if you must,"—with a lift of her shoulders. "I mean it."
"You get along with the men, Jane?"
"Very well so far. They're fine, real, honest men. I like them all. There are some things I don't quite understand yet," examining a finger nail closely. "I haven't made up my mind that my foreman can be trusted or that he's as honest as he seems to be."
"The fellow who was with you yesterday?"
"No; Dad Hepburn. An older man. He.... He seems to evade me some times."
Hilton watched her closely. She was one of the few women he knew who had been able to judge men; he made a mental note of the name she had mentioned.
The talk became desultory and Dick's eyes clung more closely to Jane's face, their hard, bright light accentuated. It began to rain and Jane, hearing, looked out.
"Raining! You can't go back tonight. You'll have to stay here. Mr. Hepburn can fix you up with the rest of the men."
He smiled peculiarly at that, for it cut. He made no comment beyond expressing the belief that a wetting, since it was not cold, would do no harm. She knew that he did not mean that and contrasted his evasion with Beck's quiet candor.
"What's the idea of the locket?" he asked and Jane looked down at the trinket with which she had been toying. "You never were much addicted to ornaments."
She laughed with an expression which he did not understand.
"Something is in there which is very dear to me," she said. "I don't wear it as an ornament; as a talisman, rather. I'm getting to be quite dependent on it." Her manner was outwardly light but at bottom was a seriousness which she did not wholly cover.
"Excuse me ... for intruding on privacies," he said bitterly. Then, after a moment: "The picture of some cow-puncher lover, perhaps?"
"No, though that wouldn't be unreasonable," she replied. "Such things have happened in—"
"Let's cut this!" he said savagely, breaking in on her and sitting forward. "Let's quit these absurd banalities.
"You know why I came here. You know what's in my mind. There's a job before me that gets bigger every day; the least you can do is to help me."
"In what?"
"Tell me what I must do to make you understand that I love you."
He leaned across the table intently. The girl laughed.
"Prove to me first that two and two make six!"
"Meaning?"
"That it can't be done."
"It's the first time you've ever been that certain."
"The first time I've ever expressed the certainty, perhaps. Things happen, Dick. I progress."
"Do you mean such an impossible thing as that there is someone else?"
"Another question which you have no right to ask."
"Jane, look at me! Are you wholly insane?"
"No, but as I look back I think I have been a little off, perhaps."
"But you're putting behind you everything that is of you,"—his color rising with his voice as her secure conviction maddened him. "The life that is yours by nature and training. You're going blindly ahead into something you don't know, among people who are not yours!"
He became suddenly tense, as though the passion which he had repressed until that moment swept through him with a mighty urge. His breath slipped out in a long sigh.
"You are repeatedly mistaken, Dick. I have just found my people."
"Yourpeople!" he scoffed.
She nodded.
"'East is East and West is West,' you know, and the two shall never meet. It must be true, and, if so, I have never been of the east. I never felt comfortable there, with the lies and the shams and the hypocrisies that were all about us. Out here, I do.
"Perhaps that is why you and I...." She shrugged her shoulders again. "You see, Dick, I have cast my lot here. The East is gone, for me; it never can pass for you. I have found my people; they are my people, their Gods are my Gods. I have a strength, a peace of mind, self respect, ambitions and natural, real impulses that I never knew before. I feel that I have come home!"
He laughed dryly, but she went on as though she had not heard:
"You have never understood me; you never can hope to now. There's a gulf between us, Dick, that will never be bridged. I am sorry, in a way. I never can love you and I hate to see you wasting your desires on me.
"I have thought about you a great deal lately. You are missing all that is fine in life and because of that I am sorry for you. We used to have one thing in common: the lack of worthy ideals. I have wiped out that lack and I wish you might; I truly wish that, Dick! And it seems possible to me that you may, just because you are here where realities count. There's an incentive in the atmosphere and I do hope it gets into your blood.
"It is all so nonsensical, the thing you are doing, so foolish. I suppose I am the only thing you have ever wanted that you couldn't get and that's what stimulates your want. It's not love, Dick."
"How do you know?"
"I have learned things in these weeks," with a wistful smile. "I have learned about ... men, for one thing. I have found an honesty, an honor, a simple directness, which I have never known before."
He rose and leaned his fists on the table.
"You mean you've found a lover?"
She met his eyes frankly.
"Again I say, you have no right to ask that question. In the second place, I am not yet sure."
His mouth drew down in a leer.
"So that's it, eh? So you would turn me away for some rough-neck who murders the English language and smells of horse. You'd let a thing like that overwhelm you in a few days when a civilized human has failed after years of trying!
"I've tried to treat you with respect. I've tried to be gentle and honorable. Now if you don't want that, if you want this he-man sort of wooing, by God you'll get it!"
He kicked his chair back angrily and advanced about the table. A big blue vein which ran down over his forehead stood out in knots. Jane rose.
"Dick!" she cried and in the one word was disappointment, anger, appeal, reproach, query.
"Oh, I'm through," he muttered. "I used to think you were a different sort; used to think you were fine and finished. But if you're a woman in the raw ... then I'll treat you as such. You've got me, either way; I can't get you out of my mind an hour.
"I'm through holding myself back, now. You've driven me mad and you prove by your own insinuations that the lover you want is not the one who will dally with you. You want the primitive, go-and-get-it kind, the kind that takes and keeps. Well, mine can be that kind!"
She backed from him slowly and he kept on advancing with a menacing assurance, his face contorted with jealousy and desire.
"The other day,"—stopping a moment, "when I took your hands and felt your body here in this room I was almost beside myself. You haven't been out of my thoughts an hour since then! I tried to kill it with reason and then with drink. I've tried to be patient and wait among the ... the cattle in that little town." He walked on towardher.
"Dick, are you mad?" she challenged, trying to summon her assurance through the fright which he had given her. "It's not what you think.... It's none of your affair—
"Dick!"
He grasped her wrists roughly.
"Am I mad?" he repeated, looking down at her, his jaw clenched. "Yes, I'm mad. Mad from want of you ... your eyes, your lips, your hair, your very breath drives me mad and when I hear you tell me that you've found the flesh that calls to your flesh among these men it drives me wild! I can offer you more than any of them can a thousand times over....
"Great God, I love you!"
But his snarl was not the snarl of devotion, of affection. It was the lust cry of the destroyer, he who would possess hungrily, unthinkingly, without sympathy or understanding ... even without respect.
He drew her to him roughly and she struggled, too frightened to cry out, face white and lips closed. He imprisoned both her hands in his one and with the other arm about her body crushed it against his, her breast to his breast, her limbs to his limbs. He lowered his lips toward her face and she bent backward, crying out lowly, but the touch of her lithe torso, tense in the struggle to be free, made his strength greater, swept away the last barrier of caution and his body was aflame with desire.
"Dick ... stop...." she panted and managed to free one hand.
She struck him on the mouth and struck again, blindly. He gave her efforts no notice but, releasing her hands, crushed her to him with both arms and she could feel the quick come and go of his breath through her hair as he buried his face in it.
And at that she became possessed of fresh strength. She turned and half slipped, half fought her way through his clutch, running down the room to the fireplace where she stood with the davenport between them breathing irregularly, a hand clenched at her breast.
"You ... you beast!" she said, slowly, unsteadily as he came toward her again.
"Yes, beast!" he echoed. "We're all beasts, every one of us who sees and feels and I've seen you and I've felt you and the beast is hungry!"
"And you call that love!" She spoke rapidly, breathlessly. "An hour ago if anyone would have said that Dick Hilton, sober, would have displayed this, thisthingwhich is his true self, I'd have come to your defense! But now ... you ... you!"
Her face was flaming, her voice shook with outraged pride.
"Stop!" she cried, drawing herself up, no longer afraid. She emerged from fear commanding, impressive, and Hilton hesitated, putting one hand to a chair back and eyeing her calculatingly as though scheming. The vein on his forehead still stood out like an uneven seam.
"For shame!" she cried again. "Shame on you, Dick Hilton, and shame on me for having tolerated, for having believed in you ... little as I did! Oh, I loathe it all, you and myself—that was—because if it had not been for that other self which tolerated you, which gave you the opening, this ... this insult would never have been. You, who failing to buy a woman's love, would take it by strength! You would do this, and talk of your desire as love. You, who scoff at men whose respect for women is as real as the lives they lead. You ... you beast!"
She hissed the word.
"Yes, beast!" he repeated again. "Like all these other beasts, these others who are blinding you as you say I have blinded you, who have—"
"Stop it!" she demanded again. "There is nothing more to be said ... ever. We understand one another now and there is but one thing left for you to do."
"And that?"
"Go."
He laughed bitterly and ran a hand over his sleek hair.
"If I go, you go with me," he said evenly.
"Leave this house," the girl commanded, but instead of obeying he moved toward her again menacingly, a disgusting smile on his lips.
He passed the end of the davenport and she, in turn, retreated to the far side.
"When I go, two of—"
"I take it that you heard what was said to you, sir."
At the sound of the intruding voice Hilton wheeled sharply. He faced Tom Beck, who stood in the doorway, framed against the black night, arms limp and rather awkwardly hanging at his sides, eyes dangerously luminous; still, playing across them was that half amused look, as though this were not in reality so serious a matter.
For an interval there was no sound except Hilton's breathing: a sort of hoarse gasp. The two men eyed each other and Jane, supporting her suddenly weakened limbs by a hand on the table, looked from one to the other.
"What the devil are you doing here?" Dick asked heavily.
"Just standin' quiet, waiting to open the gate for you when you ride out."
The Easterner braced his shoulders backward and sniffed.
"And if I don't choose to ride out? What will you do then?"
Beck looked at Jane slowly and his eyes danced.
"It ain't necessary to talk about things that won't happen. You're going to go."
"Who the hell are you to be so certain?"
"My name's Beck, sir. I'm just workin' here."
"And playing the role of a protector?"
"Well, nothing much ever comes up that I don'ttryto do."
Hilton made as if to speak again but checked himself, walked down the room in long strides, seized his coat, thrust his arms into the sleeves viciously and stood buttoning the garment. Beck looked away into the night as though nothing within interested him and Jane stood clutching the locket at her throat, caressing it with her slim, nervous fingers.
"Under the circumstances, making my farewells must be to the point," Hilton said. He spoke sharply, belligerently. "I have just this to say: I am not through."
"Oh, go!" moaned Jane, dropping into a chair and covering her face with her hands.
She heard the men leave the veranda, heard a gruff, low word from Hilton and knew that he went on alone. After the outer gate had closed she heard Tom walk slowly up the path toward the bunk house. He had left her without comment, without any attempt at an expression of concern or sympathy. She knew it was no oversight, but only a delicacy which would not have been shown by many men.
Her loathing was gone, her anger dead; the near past was a numb memory and she looked up and about the room as though it were a strange place. There, within those walls, she had experienced the rebirth, she had felt ambition to stand alone come into full being, she had shaken off the fetters with which the past had sought to hamper her....
And now she was free, wholly free. The tentacle that had been reached out to draw her back had been cast away. Tonight's renunciation had burned the last bridge to that which had been; Dick Hilton, she believed, would never again be an active influence in her life.
She could not—perhaps fortunately—foretell how mistaken this belief actually would prove to be. She did not know the intensity of a man's jealousy, particularly when Fate has tricked him of his most valued prize. Nor could she foresee those events which would impell her to send for Hilton, to call him back, and the wells of misery which that action would tap!
To-night he was gone, and she was even strong enough to rise above loathing and pity him for the failure he was. Just one fact of him remained. Again she heard his ominous prediction, pronounced on his first visit there: You cannot stand alone! You will fail! You will come back to me!
She knew, now, that she would never return to him, but there were other possibilities as disastrous. Could she meet this new life and beat it and make in it a place for herself? Was her faith in herself strong enough to outride the defeat which very possibly confronted her?
She did not know....
Outside the rain drummed and the cottonwoods, now in full leaf, sighed as the wind bowed their water weighted branches. She went to the window and looked out, searching the darkness for movement. There was none but he was not far away she knew....
Her fingers again sought the locket and she lifted it quickly, holding it pressed tightly against her mouth.
"It's all there, locked up in a little gold disc!"
If Dick Hilton had not been bewildered by passion, jealousy and rage at thwarted desires, he might have known that his horse was not taking the homeward way, and had the horse not been bred and raised by one of Colonel Hunter's mares he might have carried his rider straight back to Ute Crossing.
But he was a canny little beast, he was cold and drenched, the trip to town was long and the range on which he had spent his happy colthood was not far off. Horses know riders before riders know horses so, as he went through the gate, he slyly tried out this rider and instead of swinging to the right he bore to the left. He went tentatively through the pitch darkness, one ear cocked backward at first but when Hilton, collar up, hat down, bowed before the storm, gave no evidence of detecting this plan, the beast picked up his rapid walk and took the trail for the nearer, more satisfactory place where many times in the past he had stood out such downpours with no great discomfort under the shelter of a spreading cedar.
And direction was the last thing in Dick Hilton's mind. For a long interval his thoughts were incoherent and the conflicting emotions they provoked were distressing. Being alone, made physically uncomfortable by the water seeping through his shoulders and breeches, sensing the steady movement of the animal under him, brought some order to his mental chaos and finally realization began to dawn.
Yes, he had followed his strongest impulses; there could be no question about what he had done, but as for its wisdom: Ah, that was another matter, and he cursed himself for a fool, at first mentally, then under his breath and when the horse began mounting a steep incline, clattering over rocks with his unshod hoofs, Hilton halted him and looked about in foolish attempt to make out his whereabouts and said aloud:
"Off the road. That's twice you've made an ass of yourself tonight!"
There was nothing for him to do but go on and trust to the horse. He knew that this was not the highway but consoled himself that it might be a short cut to the Crossing. Small consolation and it was dissipated when they commenced a lurching descent with a wall of rock uncomfortably close to his right, so close that at times his knee scrubbed it smartly. He became alarmed for the horse went cautiously, head low, feeling his way over insecure footing. Once his fore feet slipped and he stopped short while loosened stones rolled before them on the trail and Hilton heard one strike far below to his left, and strike again and again, sounds growing fainter. He peered down into the gloom but could see nothing, hear nothing but the hiss of rain. An empty ache came into his viscera as he imagined the depths that might wait to that side.
After a moment the horse went on, picking his way gingerly.
Somewhere beyond or below he made out a light. It was a feeble glow and its location became a weird thing for lack of perceptive, but it cheered him. He was decidedly uncomfortable and his state of mind added to the physical need of warmth and shelter so he urged the horse on.
Finally they reached a flat and he felt wet brush slapping at his legs as the horse, intent on the light himself, trotted forward.
Their destination was a cabin. The glow finally resolved itself into cracks of light showing between logs and through a tarpaulin which hung across the doorway.
Dick shouted. Movement inside; the curtain was drawn back and he rode blinking into the light, which he could see came from a fireplace. A woman stood outlined against the flare.
"Who's there?" she asked sharply, and Dick stopped his horse.
"My name is Hilton," he said, "but that won't do you much good. I'm a stranger and I'm off my way, I guess."
The other did not reply as he dismounted and walked toward her.
"Without a slicker," she said. "Come in."
The first thing he saw inside was movement: A cartridge belt, swinging from a nail. A rifle leaned handily against the door casing.
The girl who had held the curtain back for him to enter let it drop and turned to face him. Hilton drew his breath sharply. Blue-black hair, in a heavy, orderly mass atop a shapely, high-held head and falling down her straight trim back in one thick plait; brown eyes, ripe red lips, a delicate chin and a throat of exquisite proportions. His gaze traveled down her figure, the natural grace of which could not be concealed by the shirt and riding skirt she wore. She was wholly beautiful.
"Oh, I've seen you before," he said slowly. "You're the girl that demanded respect and got it in the Crossing the other day!"
She eyed him in silence a moment, evidently unaware of the admiration in his tone.
"I never saw you. I ain't been here long," she said, her expression still defiant, as though he had challenged her. She searched his face, his clothing, and back at his face again. "Where was you travelin' tonight?"
"I was going to the Crossing," he said with a short laugh. "My horse brought me here."
Without comment she walked to the fire and threw on another knot. He watched her movements, the free rhythmic swing of her walk, the easy grace with which her hands and arms moved, the perfect assurance in even her smallest gesture. His eyes kindled.
"Set," she said, indicating a box by the hearth. "You're soaked. Lucky you struck here or you'd made a night of it."
Hilton seated himself, holding his hands toward the fire. He looked about the one room of the cabin. In two corners were beds on the earthen floor, a table made from a packing box contained dishes, Dutch ovens and a frying pan were on the hearth. The roof leaked.
The girl sat eyeing the fire, rather sullenly. He held his gaze on her, watching the play of light over her throat as it threw a velvety sheen on the wind kissed skin. Her shirt was open at the neck and he could see the easy rise and fall of her breast as she breathed. He noticed that her fingers were slender and that her wrists, bronzed by exposure, indicated with all their delicacy, wiry strength. Another thing: She was clean.
Suddenly the girl looked up.
"Think you'd know me again?" she said bruskly, and rather swaggered as she moved.
"I don't think I shall ever forget you," he replied. "I knew I should not the first time I saw you. I shall never forget the way you gave that fellow what he deserved. It was great!"
His manner was kindly, showing no resentment at her belligerence and though her only reply was a sniff he knew that what he had said pleased her.
"I wouldn't want you to think I'm staring at you," he went on. "A man shouldn't be blamed for looking at you closely."
"How's that?"
"You are very beautiful."
She poked at the fire with a stick.
"I reckon that'll be enough of that," she said as she walked back toward the door.
The man smiled and followed her with his eyes, which squinted speculatively.
"You'd better unsaddle that horse," she said. "He'll roll with your kak if you don't."
Hilton looked about the room again.
"Are you alone?" he asked.
She whirled and looked at him with temper. Her hand, perhaps unconsciously, was pressed against the wall near that rifle.
"What if I am?"—sharply.
"Because if you are I shall not unsaddle my horse. I'll have to go on."
When she put her question she had been rigidly expectant but at his answer she relaxed and the fierceness that had been about her yielded to a curiosity.
"Go on in the rain? How's that?"—in a voice that was quite different, as though she had encountered something she did not understand.
He looked at her a lengthy interval before replying.
"Because I respect you very much. Do you understand that?"
She moved back to the fireplace, eyeing him questioningly, and he met that look with an easy smile.
"No, I don't understand that," she said.
"You should. I saw you beat a man the other day because he didn't respect you. No one but that type of man would refuse to respect you. It's wise, perhaps, for you to take down that rifle when strangers come at night ... but it isn't always necessary. Some men might stay here with you alone, but I couldn't."
"You mean, that you'd ride on in the rain?"
"Surely."
"Well.... You ain't afraid of the gun, are you?"
He laughed outright.
"No, it's not that! It's because I'd ride any distance rather than do something that might bring you unhappiness. Don't you see?" He leaned forward, elbows on knees, looking up into her serious face. "Don't you see that if I stayed here with you, alone, and people heard about it, they might not respect you?"
"It's none of their business!"
"Neither was it any business of that man to insult you in town the other day. But he did."
"But it's rainin' and you're cold. I ain't afraid of you."
It was raining, but he was not cold. The fire was close and, besides, another warmth was seeping through his body as he looked earnestly into the face of that daughter of the mountains. The ready defiance was gone from it and the features, in repose, gave it an expression that was little less than wistful.
"And you are a young girl who deserves the admiration of every man that walks. If I stayed here with you, you would know it's all right, and so would I.... Others might not understand."
She sat down abruptly, leaned back, clasped one knee with her hands and smiled for the first time. It was a beautiful smile, in great contrast to her earlier sullen defiance.
"I like you," she said simply, and Hilton's face grew hot.
"If you like me, my night's ride hasn't gone to waste," he replied, and laughed.
She looked him over again, calculatingly, as closely as she had at first, but with a different interest. Her smile faded but the lips remained slightly parted, showing teeth of calcium whiteness.
"You're the first man that's ever talked that-a way to me. I've been travelin' ever since I can remember, first one place, then another. I've always had to look out for men.... I've been able to, too, since I got big enough to be bothered.
"This is the first time any man's talked like you're talkin' to me."
"Bless you," he said very gently, "that's been tough luck. A girl like you are doesn't deserve that."
"Don't she? Well, it ain't what you deserve that counts, it's what you get."
"What's your name?"
"Bobby.... Bobby Cole."
"How old are you?"
She shook her head.
"I don't know ... just. About twenty. Alf knows; I ain't thought to ask him for quite a while."
"Who's Alf?"
"My father."
"... And your mother?"
"I never had none that I recall. She died early; that was back in Oklahoma, Alf says."
"No brothers or sisters?"
A shake of the head.
"And since then you've been alone with your father?"
She nodded. "For weeks an' months, without talkin' to another soul."
"Have you always lived so far away as that? Always in such remote places that you didn't even see people?"
"Huh! Usually I've seen 'em, 'most every day.... But there's a difference between seein' folks and talkin' to 'em."
He was puzzled and said so.
"Funny!" she repeated after him. "Maybe it's funny ... but I can't see it that-a way."
"But surely you've made friends! A girl like you couldn't help make friends."
"I've never had a friend in my life ... but Alf," she answered bitterly.
"Then it must have been because you didn't want to make friends with people."
"Didn't want to!" she echoed almost angrily. "What else does anybody want but friends ... an' things like that? Oh, I wanted to all right, but folks don't make friends with ... with trash like we are. We ain't got enough to have friends; ain't got enough even to have peace."
Hilton studied her face carefully. It was a queer blending of appealing want and virulence.
"They won't even let you have peace?" he asked deliberately to urge her in further revelation.
"Folks that have things don't want other folks to have 'em. In this country when poor folks try to get ahead all they get is trouble."
"Is that always so?"
She shrugged and said, "It's always been so with us. Big cattle outfits have drove us out time after time. They're always sayin' Alf steals; they're always makin' us trouble. I hate 'em!
"I could get along all right. I can fight but Alf can't. He's had so much bad luck that it's took th' heart out of him.... If it wasn't for me he couldn't get along at all. He's discouraged."
"You must think a lot of your father."
She shook her head as if to infer that measuring such devotion was an impossibility.
"Think a lot of him? God, yes! He's all I got. He's all I ever had. He's the only one that hasn't chased me out ... or chased after me. We've been on the move ever since I can recollect, stayin' a few months or a year or two, then hittin' the trail again. Move, move, move! Always chased out by big outfits, always made fun of, an' he's been good to me through it all. I'd crawl through fire for Alf."
"A devotion like that is a very fine and noble thing."
"Is it? It comes sort of natural to me. I never thought about it,"—with a weary sigh.
"How did you happen to come here?" he asked.
She looked at him and a flicker as of suspicion crossed her face.
"Just come," she replied, rather evasively, he thought.
For a time they did not speak. The fire crackled dully. Steam rose in wisps from Hilton's soaked clothing and a cunning crept into his expression. The rain pattered on the roof and dripped through in several places, forming dark spots on the hard floor; the horse stamped in the mud outside.
The man saw the regular leap of the pulse in her throat and caressed his thumb with finger tips as delicately as though they stroked that smooth skin.
Her lips were parted ... andsuchlips! He told himself that she was more beautiful than he had first thought and as filled with contrasts as the heavens themselves. Shortly before she had been defiant, ready for trouble, prepared to defend herself with a rifle if necessary; now she was a child; that, and no more ... and she was distinctive ... quite so.
"You better stay," she said rather shyly after a time. "Alf'll be back some time before mornin'. Nobody'll know."
He shook his head.
"You and I would know, and after I've told you what I think about it, maybe you wouldn't like me if I did stay ... you've said you did like me."
He rose, smiling.
"Sure enough goin'?"
"Sure enough going."
"But you're soaked and cold."
"No man could do less for a girl like you."
He bowed playfully low and when he lifted his eyes to her again they read her simple pleasure. He had touched her greatest love, the desire to be treated by men with respect.
"I'll just ask you to show me the way."
"You come by the way, I guess. Just start back that trail and your cayuse'll take you to the road—
"But Alf'll be back. We've never turned anybody out in the rain before."
"Then this is something new. Don't ask me again, please. When you ask a man it makes it very hard to refuse and I must ... for your sake.
"After I strike the road, then what?"
"Follow right past the HC ranch to town. You know where that is?"
A wave of rage swept through him.
"I ought to!" he said bitterly. "I was sent away from there tonight."
"Sent away? In therain?"
"In the rain."
"Why did they do that?"
He shrugged his shoulders.
"Because there are things which some people do not value as highly as you do. Generosity, thoughtfulness for the desires of others, hospitality."
He licked his lips almost greedily as he watched her.
"Didsheknow?"
"Who do you mean?"
"That greenhorn gal."
"Yes, she knew," he answered grimly, and buttoned his coat.
He put out his hand and she took it, rather awed.
"Some time I may come back and thank you for what you've wanted to do."
"Oh, you'll come back?"
"Do you want me to?"
"Yes,"—eagerly.
"Then it is impossible for me to stay away for long!"
She stood watching, as, touching his hat, he rode into the night. She let the curtain drop and returned to the fire, standing there a moment. Then she sat down, rather weakly, and stretched her slim legs across the hearth.
"I'll be damned!" she said, rather reverently.
Hilton did not ride far. His horse was reluctant to go at first and then stopped and stood with head in the air, nickering softly and would not go on when his rider spurred him. After a moment Hilton sat still and listened. He heard the steadyplunk-plunk-plunkof a trotting horse and, soon, the swish of brush; then a call, rather low and cautious.
The canvas before the doorway was drawn back.
"You decided to stay?" Then, in surprise, "Who's there?"—sharply.
One word in answer and Hilton remembered it:
"Hepburn."
The rider dismounted and entered.
Dick rode on up the trail. When he reached Ute Crossing his clothing was dried by the early sun. He ate breakfast and crawled into his bed, angered one moment, puzzled the next and, finally, thrilled as he dropped asleep with a vision of firelight playing over a deliciously slender throat.