“Yes—it would be dead easy,” Kate demurred.
“Easy? Of course it’s easy. I’m pretty hot when it comes to a scrap,” Bill ran on with added confidence. “And a bunch of whisky-runners don’t amount to a heap anyway.”
Suddenly Kate rose from her seat. She moved a step toward him and laid one brown hand gently on his arm. She was smiling as she had smiled at the thought of her regard for this man’s brother. There was something almost motherly now in her whole attitude.
“You’re a big, brave soul, and like all brave souls you’re ready at all times to act—act first and think afterwards,” she said very gently. “You said I was to think. Let me think now. You see, I know this place. I know this class of man. It’s the life of the police to deal with these whisky-runners, and they—they can do nothing against them. Then what are we, you, with your brave inexperience, I, with my woman’s helplessness, going to do against them? Believe me, the men who carry on this traffic are absolutely desperate creatures who would give their lives at any moment rather than go to the penitentiary. Life to them, their own and their enemy’s, means nothing. They set no value on it whatsoever. The trade is profitable, and”—she sighed—“against the law. Those engaged in it live for the excitement of fighting the law. That’s one of the reasons which makes it impossible that Charlie could be one of them. No, Mr. Bryant, I guess it’s not for us to do this thing. We just couldn’t do a thing. But we must think of Charlie, and,when we’ve thought, and the time comes, why, then—we’ll act. Fyles is a brave man, and a just man,” she went on, with a slight warmth. “He’s a man of unusual capacity, and worth admiration. But he is a police officer,” she added regretfully. “In saving Charlie from him we shall prevent one good man wronging another, and I guess that should be good service. Let’s content ourselves with that. Will you help?”
Big Brother Bill had no hesitation at any time. He was carried away by the enthusiasm Kate’s words inspired. He thrust out one great hand and crushed the woman’s in its palm.
“Sure I’ll help. I’ve just got two hands and a straight eye, and when fight’s around I don’t care if it snows. My head’s the weak spot. But, anyway, what you say goes. We’ll save Charlie, or—or—Say, a real bright woman’s just about the grandest thing God ever made.”
Kate winced under the crushing force of his handshake, but she smiled bravely and thankfully up into his face as she bade him “good night.”
The surprises of the night were not yet over for Big Brother Bill. It almost seemed as if a lifetime of surprises were to be crowded into his first night in the valley of Leaping Creek.
Still thoroughly moist, he finally reached home to find his brother there, waiting for him.
Of course, the big man promptly blundered.
Charlie was in the living room, sitting in a dilapidated rocking chair. An unopen book was in his lap, and his dark, clever face was turned toward the single window the room possessed, as the heavy tread of Bill sounded on the veranda.
It was obvious he was still laboring under the influence of the drink; it was also obvious, though less apparent, that he was laboring under an emotion, which unusually disturbed him. His eyes were shining with a gleaming light whichmight have expressed anger, excitement, or even simply the effect of his libations. Whatever it was, Bill recognized, without appreciating its meaning, a definite change from the man he had so cordially greeted earlier in the day; a recognition which made his blundering now, more hopelessly than ever, an expression of his utter lack of discretion.
“Say, Charlie, boy,” he cried, as he entered the little room, filling it almost to overflowing with his robust personality, “I’ve chased half over the valley looking for you. Then I saw you at the old pine and shouted, and you sort of faded away. I thought I’d ‘got’ ’em. What with that, and then falling into the river, and one or two minor, but more or less unpleasant accidents, I’ve had one awful time. Say, this valley’s got me beat to death.”
The simplicity of the man was monumental. No one else could have looked upon that slight figure, huddled down in the big old rocker, without having experienced a feeling of restraint; no one could have observed the drawn, frowning brows, and the hard lines about the still somewhat sensual mouth, without using an added caution in approaching him. There were fires stirring behind Charlie’s dark eyes which were certainly ominous.
Now, as he listened to his brother’s greeting, swift anger leaped into them. His words came sharply, and almost without restraint. Big Brother Bill was confronted by another side of his nature, a side of which he had no knowledge whatever.
“You always were a damned fool,” Charlie cried, starting heatedly forward in his chair. “I told you I was going out. If you had any sort of horse sense you’d have understood I wasn’t in need of a wet-nurse. What the devil do you want smelling out my trail as if you were one of the police?” Then he suddenly broke into an unpleasant laugh. “You came here in Fyles’s company. Maybe you caught the police infection from him.”
Bill stared in wide-eyed astonishment at the harsh injustice of the attack. For one second his blood ran hot, and a wild desire to retaliate leaped. But the moment passed. Though he was not fully aware of Charlie’s condition, something of it now forced itself upon him, and his big-hearted regret saved him from his more rampant feelings.
He sat himself on the edge of the table.
“Easy, Charlie,” he said quietly, “you’re kind of talking recklessly. I’m no wet-nurse to anybody. Certainly it’s not my wish to interfere with you. I’m—sorry if I’ve hurt you. I just looked around to tell you my adventures, I’m no—spy.”
Charlie rose from his seat. He stood swaying slightly. The sight of this outward sign of his drunken condition smote the good-natured Bill to the heart. It was nothing new to him in his erring brother. He had seen it all before, years ago, so many, many times. But through all these years apart he had hoped for that belated reforming which meant so much. He had hoped and believed it had set in. Now he knew, and his last hopes were dashed. Kate Seton had warned him, but her warning had not touched him as the exhibition he now beheld did. Why, why had Charlie done this thing, and done it to-night—their first night together in the new world? He could have cried out in his bitterness of disappointment.
As he looked upon the man’s unsteady poise he felt as though he could have picked him up in his two strong hands and shaken sober senses into him.
But Charlie’s mood had changed at the sound of the big man’s regrets. They had penetrated the mists of alcohol, and stirred a belated contrition.
“I don’t want any apologies from you, Bill,” he said thickly. “Guess I’m not worth it. You couldn’t spy on a soul. It’s not that——.” He broke off, and it became evident to the other that he was making a supreme effort at concentration. “You saw me at the pine?” he suddenly inquired.
Bill nodded. He had no desire to say anything more now. He felt sick with himself, with everything. He almost regretted his own coming to the valley at all. For a moment his optimism was utterly obscured. Added to what he now beheld, all that Kate Seton had said was revolving in his brain, an oppressive cloud depriving him of every joy the reunion with his brother had inspired. The two thoughts paramount, and all pervading, were suggested by the words “drunkard” and “crook.” Nor, in that moment of terrible disappointment, would they be denied.
Charlie sat down in his chair again, and, to the onlooker, his movement was almost involuntary.
“I was there,” he said, a moment later, passing one hand across his frowning brows as though to clear away the cobwebs impeding the machinery of his thought. “Why—why didn’t you come and speak to me? I was just—around.”
Again Bill’s eyes opened to their fullest extent.
“I hollered to you,” he said. “When you heard me you just—vanished.”
Again Charlie smoothed his brow.
“Yes—I’d forgotten. It was you hollered, eh! You see, I didn’t know it was you.”
Bill sat swinging one leg thoughtfully. A sort of bewilderment was getting hold of him.
“You didn’t recognize my voice?” he asked. Then he added thoughtfully, “No—and it might have been Fyles, or the other policemen. They were there.”
Charlie suddenly sat up. His hands were grasping the arms of the rocker.
“The police were there—with you?” he demanded. “What—what were they doing there—with you?”
The sharp questions, flung at him so quickly, so soberly, suddenly lifted Bill out of his vain and moody regrets.
In spite of all Kate had told him, in spite of her assurance that Fyles, and all the valley, believed Charlie to be the head of the smuggling gang, the full significance of Fyles’s presence in the neighborhood of the pine had not penetrated to his slow understanding before. Now an added light was thrown upon the matter in a flash of greater understanding. Fyles was not watching any chance crook. He was watching Charlie, and he knew it was Charlie, and the assurance of Charlie’s identity extracted from him, Bill, had been a simple blind. What a fool he had made of himself. Kate was right. The harm he had done now became appalling.
He promptly became absorbed in a strongly restrained excitement. He leaned forward and talked rapidly. He had forgotten Charlie’s condition, he had forgotten everything but the danger threatening.
“Here, Charlie,” he cried, “I’ll tell you just all that happened after I left here, when you went out. Guess it’s along yarn, but I think you need to know it for your own safety.”
Charlie leaned back in his chair and nodded.
“Go ahead,” he said. Then he closed his eyes as Bill rushed into his narrative.
The big man told it all as far as it concerned his first meeting with the Setons, his subsequent visit to the saloon, and, afterwards, his meeting with Fyles. The only thing he kept to himself was his final meeting with Kate Seton.
At the end of this story Charlie reopened his eyes, and, to any one more observant than Big Brother Bill, it was plain that his condition had improved. A keen light was shining in them, a light of interest and perfectly clear understanding.
“Thanks, Bill,” he said, “I’m glad you’ve told me all that.” Then he rose from his chair, and his movements had become more certain, more definite. “Guess I’ll get off to bed. It’s no use discussing all this. It can lead nowhere. Still, there is one thing I’d like to say before we quit. I’m glad, I’m so mighty glad you’ve come along out here to join me I can’t just say it all to you. I’m ready to tumble headlong into any schemes you’ve got in your head. But there’s things in my life I’ve got to work out in my own way. Things I can’t and don’t want to talk about. Maybe I’ll often be doing things that seem queer to you. But I want to do ’em, and intend to do ’em. Drink is not one of ’em. You’ll find I’m a night bird, too. But, again, my night wanderings are my own. You’ll hear folks say all sorts of things about me. You’ll see Fyles very busy. Well, it’s up to you to listen or not. All I say is don’t fight my battles. I can fight them in my own way. Two of us are liable to mess them all up. Get me? I live my life, and you can share as much in it as you like, except in that—well, that part of it I need to keep to myself. There’s just one thing I promise you, Fyles’ll never get me inside any penitentiary. I promise you that, sure, because I know from your manner that’s the trouble in the back of your silly old head. Good night.”
He passed out of the room without giving the astonished Bill any opportunity to do more than respond to his “good night.” Anyway, the latter had nothing else to say. He was too taken aback, too painfully startled at the tacit admissionto all the charges he had been warned the people and police of Leaping Creek were making against his brother. What could he say? What could he do? Nothing—simply nothing.
He remained where he was against the table. He had forgotten his wet clothes. He had forgotten everything in the overwhelming nature of his painful feelings. His own beliefs, Kate’s loyally expressed convictions, had been utterly negatived. It was all true. All painfully, dreadfully true. Charlie was not only a drunkard still, but the “crook” he was supposed to be. He was a whisky-runner. He was against the law. His ultimate goal was the penitentiary. Good God, the thought was appalling! This was where drink had led him. This was the end of his spoiled and wayward brother’s career. What a cruel waste of a promising life. His good-natured, gentle-hearted brother. The boy he had always admired and loved in those early days. It was cruel, terrible. By his own admission he was against the law, a “crook,” and—the penitentiary was looming.
The morning was gloriously fine. It was aglow with the fulness of summer. Far as the eye could see the valley was bathed in a golden light which the myriad shades of green made intoxicating to senses drinking in this glory of nature’s splendor. Leaping Creek gamboled its tortuous way through the heart of a perfect garden.
A veritable Eden thought Stanley Fyles—complete to the last detail.
But his thought was without cynicism. He had no time for cynicism. Besides, the goal of his career lay yet before him.
His thought drifted further. His whole fate had suddenly become bound up in that valley. Nor was the fact without a certain irony. For him it was the valley of destiny. Withinits spacious confines lay the two great factors of life—his life—love and duty. They were confronting him. They were standing there waiting for him to possess himself of his victorious hold.
Stanley Fyles felt rather like a ticket-of-leave criminal, instead of a law officer, as he gazed out from the doorway of the frame hut, which formed the temporary quarters of the police, far out on the western reaches of the valley, five miles above the village of Rocky Springs. He knew he was there to prove himself. His mistakes, or his bad luck, of the past must be remedied before he could return to his superiors with a clean sheet. His hands were free, he knew. But in that freedom he was more surely a prisoner on parole than any man on his given word. He was pitting himself like the gambler against the final throw. It was all, or—ruin. To leave the valley with the work undone, with another mistake to his credit, and his present career must terminate.
Then there was that other side. That wonderful—other side. The human nature in him made the valley more surely his destiny than any charges of his superior officer. The woman was there. The Eve in his Eden. More than all else the thought of her inspired him to the big effort of his life.
He was thinking of Kate Seton now as his gaze roamed at will over the ravishing summer tints. He was thinking wholly of her when his mind might well have been contemplating the terms of the despatches he had just written, the orders he had sent to his troopers, even the events and clues he had obtained on the previous night, pointing the work he had in hand.
A door opened and closed behind him. He was aware of it, but did not turn. A voice addressed him. It was the cold voice of Sergeant McBain.
“The men are saddled up, sir.”
Fyles glanced around without changing his position.
“The despatches are on the table,” he replied, with a sharp inclination of the head in the direction.
“Any other instructions, sir?”
Fyles thought a moment.
“Yes,” he said at last. “When they return here it must be after dark. The patrol and horses they bring with ’em are to be camped over at Winter’s Crossing, five miles higherup the valley. This before they come in to report. That’s all.”
“Very good, sir.”
Sergeant McBain departed, and presently the clatter of hoofs told the officer that the two troopers had ridden away. As they went he drew out a pipe and began to fill it.
When McBain re-entered the room Fyles bestirred himself. He turned back and flung himself into an uncomfortable, rawhide-seated, home-made chair, and lit his pipe. McBain took up a position at the small table which served the purpose of a desk.
McBain and his men had taken up their quarters here several weeks ago. It was a mere shed, possibly an implement shed on an abandoned farm. It was a frame, weather-boarded shanty with a dilapidated shingle roof. Quite a reasonable shelter till it chanced to rain. The handiness of the troopers had made it comparatively habitable with oddments of furnishing, and a partition, which left an inner room for sleeping quarters. There was a partial wooden lining covering the timbers supporting the roof, which was an open pitch, without any ceiling. There were several wooden brackets projecting from the walls, which had probably, at one time, been used to support harness. Now they served the purpose of carrying police saddles and uniform overcoats.
There was obviously no attempt at establishing a permanent station there. These men were, as was their custom, merely utilizing the chance finding as an added comfort in their strenuous lives.
Fyles lit his pipe, and, for some moments, smoked thoughtfully, while McBain’s pen scratched a series of entries in his diary.
Fyles watched him through a cloud of smoke, and when his subordinate returned his pen to the home-made rack on the table, he began to talk.
“There’s two things puzzling me about that tree, McBain,” he said, following out his train of thought. “Your reckoning has justification all right. We saw enough last night for that. Besides, you have seen the same sort of thing several times before. It surely has a big play in the affairs of these ‘runners.’ But I can’t get a focus of that play. Suppose that the tree is in some mysterious way a sort of meansof communication, why is it necessary? And, why in thunder, when everybody knows who the boss of the gang is, don’t they deal direct with him?”
Fyles smiled into the grim face of McBain, and sat back waiting to hear the Scot’s reply. His keen face was alight with expectancy. He wanted this shrewd man’s ideas as well as his facts obtained by observation.
The sergeant’s face was obstinately set. He had already asserted certain convictions about the old pine, and now he detected skepticism in his superior.
“Three times in the last two weeks I have seen the same figure in the shadow of that tree late at night. It hasn’t needed any guessing to locate his identity. Very well, starting with the supposition that the village folk are right, and Charlie Bryant is our man, then his movements about that tree at that hour of the night become more than suspicious. Especially since we know he’s run a big cargo in lately. But while I figger on that tree there’s something else, as I’ve told you. I’ve tracked him into the neighborhood of the old Meeting House and back again to the tree. Now, I’ve seen this play three times, and would have seen the whole of it again last night if that damned coyote of a tenderfoot hadn’t butted in. That’s that, sir.”
Fyles nodded. The older man’s earnestness was not without its weight. But to a man like Fyles, definite proof, or reasonable probabilities, were necessary. Clearing his throat, McBain went on.
“Let’s come to another argument, sir,” he said, setting himself with his arms on the table. “Every man or woman in the place reckons this tough, Charlie Bryant, runs the gang. They can lay their tongues to the names of the men who form the gang. Guess this is the list, and a certain one sure, knowing the men. There’s Pete Clancy, Nick Devereux, both hired men to Miss Seton. There’s Kid Blaney, hired to Bryant himself. There’s Stormy Longton, the gambler and—murderer. Then there’s another I believe to be Macaddo, the train hold-up, and the fellow they call “Holy” Dick. That’s the gang with Bryant at their head, but there may be more of them. I’ve got the names indirectly from the village folk. But this is my point. Never a soul in the village has seen them at work. Never a soulhas seen them buy, or sell, or handle, one drop of drink, except what they buy in the saloon to consume. The gang don’t do one single thing to give itself away, and there’s not a man or woman could give them away in the village, except from their talk when they’re drunk.”
The man was making his point, and Fyles remained interested.
“Now, this is the argument, an’ you’ll admit, sir, experience carries a lot of it out. Crooks are scared to death of each other, you know that, sir, better than I do. It’s the basis of their methods. They’ve got to make safe. To do this they have to resort to schemes which hide their identity. They’ll trust each other engaged in the crime because all are involved. But they daren’t trust those who’re under no penalty. What do they do? They’ve got to blind the outside world, the police, and they do it by making a mystery. Now, in this case, the pine is the heart of their mystery. It must give the key to the cache. It must lead us to getting the lot red-handed—running a cargo. That’s what I know and feel, and it’s up to you, sir, to show us the way. I’ve worked on the lines you gave me, sir, and I’ve done all a man can do. I’ve had the whole village watched, and worked inquiry by a farmer outlying the valley. But now we’re plumb at a deadlock till they run another cargo, which I’m calculating, at the rate liquor’s consumed, they’ll soon have to do. Maybe that’ll give us a week or so for fixing our plans. I’ve watched each member of the gang, and we’ve got their movements written down here, from the time we missed that cargo on the trail. Maybe you’ll read my notes on them.”
Fyles took the diary the man held out.
“It’s a tough proposition, McBain,” he said with a sigh, which had no weakening in it. “But I think we’ll make good this time, if only we can get the news of the shipment when it comes along well ahead. Superintendent Jason is in communication with every local police force east, and should get it all right. If we get that, the rest should be easy. Rocky Springs only has three roads, and it’s a small place. I’ve got a pretty wide scheme ready for them when we get word. In the meantime our present work must be to endeavor to locate their cache. That discovered, and left alone, our work will be simple pie. I’ll read these notes now. ThenI’m going into the village. Later on I’ve a notion to see just how busy Master Bryant is on his—ranch.”
Kate gave a final glance round at the walls of green logs, and noted with appreciation the picturesque dovetailing of every angle.
“Well,” she declared, after a moment’s thought, “all I can say is that the design’s working out in truly elegant fashion. Charlie’s done his work well—and so have the boys.” She beamed pleasantly upon her audience, two men balancing themselves upon the open floor joists of the new church. “It’s a real work of art. It’s going to be swell, and the folks should be just proud of it.”
Billy Unguin smiled confidently.
“Oh, the folks’ll be proud of it all right, all right,” he said. “They’ll yap about this place, and how they built it, till you’ll wish it was swallowed up by that kingdom they guess they’re going to get boosted into by means of it. They’ll have one hell of a burst at the saloon when the work’s done, and every feller’ll be guessin’ he could have done the other feller’s job better than he could have done it himself, and the women folk’ll just say what elegant critturs their men are, till they get home sossled. Then they’ll beat hell out of ’em. They’ll sure be proud of it, but I don’t guess the church’ll be proud of them. It’ll have hard work helpin’ most of ’em into the kingdom. Ain’t that so, Allan?”
Billy asked for confirmation of his opinions merely as a matter of form. But Allan Dy displayed little interest in them. He had some of his own.
“Guess so,” he murmured indifferently.
“Course it’s so,” said Billy sharply.
“Dessay you’re right,” replied Dy, with still less interest. “But I ain’t got time thinking conundrums. I get too many, running the mail. Still, I’d like to say right here this doggone church ain’t architecture. Maybe it’s art, as Miss Kate says. But it ain’t architecture. That’s what it ain’t,” he finished up, with decided emphasis.
Kate smiled upon him. She was interested in what lay behind the remark.
“How—how do you make that out, Allan?” she inquired.
The postmaster felt sorry for her and showed it.
“It’s easy,” he declared. Then he gathered his opinions in a bunch, and metaphorically hurled them at her. “Where’s the steel girders an’ stone masonry?” he demanded. “It’s just wood—pine. Wher’s the figures an’ measurements? Who knows the breakin’ strain o’ them green logs? Maybe it’s art, but it ain’t architecture. I ain’t so sure about the art, neither. It’s to be lined with red pine. Ther’ ain’t no art to red pine. Now maple—bird’s-eye maple, an’ we got forests of it. Ther’s art in bird’s-eye maple. It’s mighty pleasing to the eye. It ’ud make the folks feel good. Red pine? Red?” He shook his head ominously. “Not in this city. You see, red’s a shoutin’ color. Sets folk gropin’ fer trouble. But white’s different. It—it sort o’ sets folks thinking o’ them days when their little souls was white enough, even if their bodies wasn’t rid of a month’s dirt. I tell you, Rocky Springs ’ud get pious right away under the influence of bird’s-eye maple. Maybe they’d be fighting drunk later, but that don’t cut no ice. You see, it’s sort o’ natural to ’em. Still, the church would have done ’em some good if only it kept ’em a few seconds from doing somebody or something a personal injury.”
Billy was chafing at his friend’s monopoly of the talk and promptly seized the opportunity of belittling his opinions.
“What’s the use,” he cried. “I’m with Miss Kate. Charlie’s done right in fixing on red pine lining. Art’s art, an’ if you’re goin’ to be artistic, why, you just got to match things same as you’d match a team of horses, same as a woman does her fixings. ’Tain’t good to mix anything. Not even drinks. Red pine goes with raw logs. Say, there’s art in everything. Beans goes with pork; cabbage with corned beef. But you don’t never eat ice cream with sowbelly. Everybody hates winter. Why for do folks fix ’emselves like funeral mutes in winter? It’s just the artistic mind in ’em. They’d hate flying in the face of Providence by cheerin’ themselves up with a bit of color. Art is art, Dy, my boy; maybe art ain’t in your line, seein’ you’re a Government servant. Ther’ ain’t nothin’ but red pine for the inside of that church, or all art’s bust to hell. Start the folks in this city off on notions inspired by anemic woodwork, an’ the sight o’ so much purity would set ’em off sniveling on their women-folk’s bosoms, and give ’emselves internal chills shoutin’ fer icewater at O’Brien’s bar. You’d set the boys so all-fired good-natured they’d give ’emselves up fer the crimes they never committed, or they’d be startin’ up a weekly funeral club so as to be sure of a Christian burial anyway. You’d upset the harmony o’ Rocky Springs something terrible. Bird’s-eye maple—nothin’. Ain’t that so, Miss Kate?”
Kate laughed outright.
“I can’t quite follow all the arguments,” she said, cautiously. “But—but—it sounds all right.”
“Sure,” agreed Billy, complacently.
But Dy was not yet defeated.
“I’m arguin’ architecture,” he said doggedly. “Here,” he indicated the length of the main building, “I don’t care a cuss about your art. What about this? Where’s the tree grown hereabouts tall enough to give us a ridge pole for this roof? It means a join in the ridge pole. That’s what it means. And that ain’t architecture, Master Billy—smarty—Unguin.”
Kate ran her eye over the offending length. The man’s point seemed obvious.
“It certainly looks like a join,” she admitted unwillingly.
For a moment Billy was disconcerted. But his inventive faculties quickly supplied him with a way out. Anyway, he could break up the other’s argument.
“Isn’t nothin’!” he cried, with fine scorn. “That don’t need to worry you. Ain’t we got the tallest pine in creation right here on the spot?”
The postmaster’s eyes widened. Even Kate was startled at the suggestion.
“You’d cut down the old tree?” she inquired.
“Wher’s your sense?” demanded Dy roughly. “Cut down the old pine? Who’s goin to do it? Who’s got the grit?”
“It don’t need grit to saw that tree—only a saw,” smiled Billy, provokingly.
But Dy had no sense of humor at the moment.
“Pshaw! What about the Indian cuss on it?” he demanded. “Ther’ ain’t a boy in this valley ’ud drive a saw into that tree. You’re talking foolish.”
Billy grew very red.
“Am I?” he cried, angrily. “Well, I ain’t no sawyer, but I’ll say right here if the church needs that pine I’ll fetch itdown if it’s only to show you that Charlie Bryant’s notions are better than yours. I’ll do it if the work kills me.”
“Which it surely will,” said Dy significantly.
But Kate had no liking for the turn the conversation had taken, and attempted to divert it.
“No, no,” she cried, with a laugh that was a trifle forced. “That’s the worst of you men when you begin to argue. You generally get spiteful. Just like women. Art or architecture, it doesn’t matter a bit. We’re all proud of this lovely little church. But I must be off. I’ve a committee meeting to attend. Then there’s a church sewing bee. See you again.”
She turned away and began to pick her way from joist to joist toward the doorway in the wall. Her progress occupied all her attention and careful balance. Thus she was left wholly unaware of the man who was standing framed in the opening watching her. Her first realization came with the sound of his voice. And so startling was its effect that she lost her balance, and must have taken an undignified fall between the joists, had not a pair of strong hands been thrust out to save her.
“I’m sorry, Miss Kate,” cried Fyles earnestly, as, aided by his supporting arms, she regained her balance. “I thought you knew I was here—had seen me.”
Kate freed herself as quickly as she could. Her action was almost a rebuff, and suggested small enough thanks. Probably none of the villagers would have met with similar treatment.
She felt angry. She did not know why, and her words of thanks had no thanks in their tone.
“Thank you,” she said coldly. Then she looked up into the keen face before her and beheld its easy confident smile. “It was real stupid of me. But—you see, I didn’t guess anybody was there.”
“No.”
Kate stepped down through the doorway, and stood beside the officer, whose horse was grazing a few yards away upon a trifling patch of weedy grass. Her annoyance was passing.
“I’d heard you’d come into Rocky Springs,” she said. “Everybody is—is excited about it.”
Inspector Fyles was still smiling as he returned her glance.He was thinking, at that moment, that the passing of time only added to Kate Seton’s attractiveness. His quick eyes took in the simplicity of her costume, while he realized its comparative costliness for a village like Rocky Springs.
“I don’t guess there’s much to be excited about—yet,” he said. “Maybe that’ll come later, for—some of them. I’m going to be around for quite a while.”
Kate was looking ahead down the trail. She was half-heartedly seeking an excuse for leaving him. Perhaps the man read something of her thought, for he abruptly nodded in the direction of the village.
“You’re going on down?” he inquired casually.
“Yes. I’ve a church committee to attend. I am rather late.”
“Then maybe I may walk with you?”
The man’s manner was perfectly deferential, and something about it pleased his companion more than she would have admitted. Somehow she resented him and liked him at the same time. She was half afraid of him, too. But her fear was wholly sub-conscious, and would certainly have been promptly denied had she been made aware of it.
“Your horse?” she protested. “You—you are riding.”
But Fyles only shook his head.
“We needn’t bother about him,” he declared easily. “You see, he’ll just walk right on.”
They moved on toward the mouth of the trail at the edge of the clearing, and Kate, watching the horse, saw it suddenly throw up its head and begin to follow in that indifferent manner so truly equine, picking at the blades of grass as it came.
“What a dear creature,” she exclaimed impulsively. “Did—did you train him that way?”
Fyles smilingly shook his head.
“Taught himself,” he said. “Poor Peter’s a first-class baby. He hates to be left alone. Guess if I went on walking miles he’d never be more than ten yards behind me.”
They walked on. Kate for the most part seemed interested only in the horse following so close behind, while Fyles made small secret of his interest in her. But for awhile talk seemed difficult.
Finally it was Kate who was forced to take the initiativewith this big, loose-limbed man of the plains. She searched her brains for an appropriate subject, and, finally, blundered into the very matter she had intended to avoid.
“I suppose there’s going to be a very busy time about here, now you’ve come around?” she said. “I suppose the lawlessness of this place will receive a check that’s liable to make some folks pretty uncomfortable?”
She smiled up at her companion with just a suspicion of irony in her dark eyes, and the man who had to rely on his wits so much in his life’s work found it necessary to think hard before replying.
The result of his thought was less than he could have hoped, for he had already learned, with some misgiving, of her friendliness with Charlie Bryant. However, the opportunity seemed a suitable one, so he added a gravity of tone to his reply.
“There are people in this valley to whom my presence will make no difference. There are others—well, others whose company is worth avoiding. Say, Miss Kate, maybe you haven’t a notion of a policeman’s work—and penalties. Maybe you know nothing of the meaning of crime, as we understand it. Maybe you think us just paid machines, without feelings, without sentiment, cold, ruthless creatures who are here to run down criminals, as the old-time Indians ran down the buffalo, in a wanton love of destroying life. Believe me, it isn’t so. We’re particularly humane, and would far rather see folks well within the law and prospering, the same as we want to prosper ourselves. We don’t fancy the work of shutting up our fellow creatures from all enjoyment of the life about us, or curtailing that life for them by so much as a second. Still, if folks obstinately refuse to come within the law of their own free will, then, for the sake of all other law-abiding folk, they must be forced to do so, or be made to suffer. Yes, I am here to do certain work, and what’s more, I don’t quit till it’s done. It may cost me nothing but a deal of work, and some regret, it may cost me my life, it may cost other lives. But the work will go on till it is finished, and though I may not see that finish, there will be others to take my place. That is the work of the police in this country. It has always been so, and, finally, we always achieve our purpose. In the end a criminal hasn’t a dog’s chance of escape.”
The man’s calmly spoken words were not without their effect. The irony in Kate’s glance had merged into a gravity of expression that was not without admiration for the speaker. Furtively she took in the clean-cut profile, the square jaw, the strongly marked brows of the man under his prairie hat, then his powerful active frame. He was strikingly powerful in his suggestion of manhood.
“It seems all different when you put it that way,” she said thoughtfully. “Yes, I guess you’re right, we folks sort of get other ideas of the police. Maybe it’s living among a people who are notoriously—well, human. You don’t hear nice things about the police in this valley, and I s’pose one gets in the same way of thinking. But——”
Kate broke off, and her dark eyes gazed half wistfully out over the valley.
“But?”
Fyles urged her. Nor did his manner suggest any of his official capacity. He was interested. He simply wanted her to go on talking. It was pleasant to listen to her rich thrilling voice, it was more pleasant than he could have believed possible.
Kate laughed quietly.
“Maybe what I was going to say will—will hurt you,” she said. “And I don’t want to hurt you.”
Fyles shook his head.
“We police don’t consider our official feelings. They, and any damage done to them, are simply part of our work.”
They had reached the main village trail. The girl deliberately halted and stood facing him.
“I was thinking it a pity you came here in—time of peace,” she said quickly. “I was thinking how much better it would have been to wait until a cargo of liquor was being run, and then get the culprits red-handed. You see,” she went on naively, “you’ve got time to look around you now, and—and listen to the gossip of the village, and form opinions which—which may put you on a false scent. Believe me,” she cried, with sudden warmth, “I’d be glad to see you measure your wits against the real culprits. Maybe you’d be successful. Who can say? Anyway, you’d get a sound idea of whom you were after, and would not be chasing a phantom, as you are likely to be now, if you listen to the talk of this place.Believe me, I hold no brief for wrongdoers. They must take their chances. If they are discovered and captured they must pay the penalty. But I know how deceptive appearances may be in this valley, and—and it would break my heart if—a great wrong were done, however inadvertently.”
The wide reaches of the valley were spread out before them. Kate was gazing away out westward, where, high up on the hillside, Charlie Bryant’s house was perched like an eagle’s eyrie. Even at that distance two figures could be seen standing on the veranda, and neither she nor Fyles, who was following the direction of her gaze, needed a second thought as to their identity.
“You’re thinking of Charlie Bryant,” the man said after a pause. “You’re warning me—off him.”
“Maybe I am.”
Kate’s eyes challenged the officer fearlessly.
“Why?”
The man’s searching eyes were not seeking those secrets which might help his official capacity. Other feelings were stirring.
“Why? Because Charlie is a weak, sick creature, deserving all the pity and help the strong can give him. Because he is a gentle, ailing man who has only contrived to earn the contempt of most, for his weakness, and the blame of those who are strong enough to help. Because he is, for all his weaknesses, an—honest man.”
Fyles gazed up at the house on the hillside again, and Kate’s anxious eyes watched him.
“Is that all?” he inquired presently. Nor could there be any mistake as to the thought behind the question.
A dash of recklessness, that recklessness which her sister had deplored the absence of, now drove Kate headlong.
“No. It is not all,” she cried. “For five years I have been striving to help him to escape from the demon which possesses him. Oh, and I know how hopeless it has all been. I love Charlie, Mr. Fyles. I love him as though he were my brother, or even my own son. I would do anything in the world to save him, and I tell you frankly, openly, if the police seek to fix any crime this valley is accused of upon him, I will strive, by every possible means, whether right or wrong, to defeat their ends.”
The woman’s face was aglow with reckless courage. Her eyes were shining with an enthusiasm which the man before her delighted in. All her defiance of him, of the law, only made her appeal the more surely. But he was not thinking of her words. He was thinking of her beauty, her courage, while he repeated her words mechanically.
“Your brother—or even your own son?”
“Yes, yes,” Kate cried. Then she caught a sharp breath, and a deep flush suffused her cheeks and brow. The significance of the man’s thoughtful words and tone had come home to her. She knew he was not thinking of anything else she had said. Only of her regard for that other man.
She abruptly held out her hand and Stanley Fyles took it. Her good-bye came with a curtness that might well have inspired consternation. But the policeman replied to it without any such feeling, and passed on with his faithful Peter trailing leisurely behind him.
It was Big Brother Bill’s third morning in the valley of Leaping Creek, and in that brief time his optimism and enthusiasm for the affairs of life in general had suffered shocks from which, at the moment, recovery seemed altogether doubtful.
Like all simple natures, once mental disquiet set in it was not easily shaken off. So, about nine o’clock in the morning, he found himself sitting on the sill of the barn doorway, his broad back propped against the casing, hugging his troubles to himself, and, incidentally, smoking like a miniature smoke-stack.
The place was quite still under the blazing morning sun; a collar-chain rattled inside the barn where a few horses stood impatiently swishing off the attacks of troublesome flies with their long tails; a hen, somewhere nearby, clucked to her brood of wandering chicks; an occasional grunt, and curious snuffing, came from the regions of the dilapidated hog pen. These were the only signs of life about the place.For Charlie, after displaying an unusual taciturnity, had taken himself off for the day, upon work which he had declared to be imperative, and Kid Blaney, after feeding and watering his horses, had done the same thing, on a similar excuse.
Now, Bill felt he must do one of those very big “thinks,” which, on occasion, he had been known to achieve. He felt that the time had come when something must really be done to ease the pressure upon his mental endurance.
The previous night had furnished the climax, a painful climax, to all he had learned of his brother’s doings, of his brother’s guilt. Yes, he no longer shrank from using that hideous word. All suspected Charlie, the police, everybody, except Kate Seton, and Charlie had practically admitted his guilt to him personally, without any apparent shame or regret. But since then, since Bill had listened to the loyal defense of Kate, he had seen for himself the smugglers and their chief at work upon their nefarious trade, and thus further proof was no longer necessary.
All mystery was banished. The whole thing, in spite of Kate’s denial, was as plain as daylight. Charlie was a whisky-runner. The head of the gang. His little “one-eyed” ranch was the merest blind. His prosperity, if prosperity he possessed at all, was the prosperity of successful defiance of the law. To the simple brother this realization was a terrible one. Charlie, the brother to whom he had always been so devoted, was a crook, a mere common crook.
His discovery of the previous evening had come as a far greater shock than might have been expected, considering all Bill had heard and witnessed of his brother’s doings. But then it is the way of things to make the witnessing of a disaster far more terrible than listening to the story told in language however lurid. Last night he had watched his brother supplying contraband liquor to the saloonkeeper.
It had happened in this way. After his first experiences on the night of his arrival he had been determined to avoid so unpleasant a sequence of occurrences on the second. Charlie had ridden off directly after supper, and Bill took the opportunity of paying an evening call upon Kate and Helen Seton. The chance he had deemed too good to miss. At least there was nothing of mystery and suspicion there, and he desiredmore than anything to breathe a wholesome air of frank honesty. These girls, particularly Helen, were the one bright spot in this crime-shadowed valley. To his mind Helen was a perfect ray of sunshine, which made the shadows in the place something more than possible of endurance.
His call was welcomed in a manner that was obvious, even to his simple mind. And never in his life had he spent an evening of more whole-hearted enjoyment than he did with Helen, while her less volatile sister considerately kept herself more or less out of the way.
Had his evening ended there his peace of mind might have suffered no further shock, but, as it was, the comparatively natural desire to celebrate his successful evening with a drink at O’Brien’s sent him off in the direction of the village.
Proceeding rapidly along the trail, full of happy thoughts of Helen, with her ready wit and gaiety, he was dreaming pleasantly all those delightful dreams, which every man at some time in his life, finds running through his head. Then suddenly he was aroused to the scene about him by the yellow light of a back window of O’Brien’s saloon, just ahead of him.
He was approaching the saloon from the rear! How had this happened? Then he discovered that, by some strange chance, he had left the main trail, and was proceeding up a wagon track, which evidently led to the barn behind the saloon.
He turned off to seek a way round to the front of the building, and soon became so involved that he finally drew up at a low wire fence, enclosing the rear buildings, with the lamp-lit window still directly ahead of him. He was about to step over the wire when a movement, and the sound of hushed voices, caught and held his attention.
He stood quite still. It was still fairly early, and the moon had not yet risen. The outbuildings rose up in shadowy outline against the starlit sky, and only the lamplight in the window made anything clear at all. It was this window, and the shaft of light it threw across the intervening space that held his attention, for it was somewhere in the shadow, to the right of it, he heard the movement and the voices.
The movement continued, and then, quite suddenly, a figure stepped into the light. Bill drew back farther into theshadow. It was a man’s figure, tall and lean. He was carrying something on his shoulder, which the watcher had no difficulty in recognizing as a small barrel. Close behind him followed a second man. He, too, was tall and spare, and he, too, was burdened with a keg upon his shoulder. In a moment Bill knew he was witnessing a transaction in contraband liquor between the whisky-runners and the saloonkeeper.
His interest became absorbed. He had recognized neither of the men, and a wild hope stirred within him that perhaps he was to gain definite proof that Kate Seton’s belief was right, and that Charlie had nothing to do with these people. His excitement and hope became intense.
For the moment the men had vanished through the darkened doorway of the barn. Their voices were still hoarsely whispering, and though he could not catch a word of what was said, he felt that they were merely discussing their work. He waited for them to reappear. It was his anxious desire to finally assure himself that Charlie was not with them.
He had not long to wait. The voices drew nearer. First one man emerged from the barn. It was one of the two he had seen go in. Then the other followed. They crossed the light once more. He was absolutely certain now, and a great thankfulness swept over him.
But his relief was short-lived. A third man now appeared from the barn. He was smaller, much smaller, and very slight. His face and hair were undistinguishable beneath his prairie hat, but his dark jacket, and loose riding breeches were plain enough to the onlooker. In a moment Bill’s heart sank. Even in that dim light he knew he was gazing upon the figure he had seen the night before at the old pine. There could be no mistake. Though he could not see the man’s face, his figure was sufficient. He felt convinced that it was his brother. Kate was wrong, and everybody else was right. Charlie was indeed the whisky-runner whom the police were after.
Any purpose he had had before was promptly abandoned. He hurried away, sick at heart, and hastily returned to the ranch to find Charlie—still out.
After what he had witnessed he had no desire to meet Charlie that night, so he went straight to bed, but not tosleep. For a long time he lay awake thinking, thinking of his discovery. Then at last, thoroughly weary with thinking, he fell into a troubled sleep and dreamed that Inspector Fyles and his men were pursuing him over a plain, upon which there was no cover, and over which he made no progress whatsoever.
Now, as he sat at the door of the barn, brooding over all he had seen and discovered, he felt that there were but two courses open to him. He must either, in his own phraseology, “get out or go on.” And by that he meant he must either renounce all his affection for his erring brother, and leave him to his fate, or, like Kate, he must stand by to help him in the time of trouble, and do all in his power to save him from himself. There was not much doubt as to which direction his inclinations took, but he felt it was no time for permitting his feelings to rule him. He must think a big “think,” and adopt its verdict.
But the “think” would not come. Only would his inclinations obtrude. There was nothing mean or petty in this big creature. He loved his brother frankly and freely, and his absurd heart would not permit him to thrust those feelings aside.
Groping and struggling, and undecided, yet convinced, he finally rose from his seat and stretched and shook himself like some great dog. Then he looked about rather helplessly. At that moment his eyes came to rest on the distant house of the Setons’, and, as he beheld a woman emerge from its door, a great inspiration came to him.
In a moment his dilemma disentangled itself. He laughed in very triumph as the idea swept through his brain. It permeated his whole being with a sense of delight. He only wondered he had not thought of it before. It was the very thing. How the devil had he managed to miss it? Helen was as full of plain wisdom and sense, as her pretty gray eyes were full of laughter. She was tremendously clever. She was always reading books. Hadn’t he picked them up? Why, of course. He would go and catch her up, and—do a big powwow and “think” with her.
His enthusiasm once more at high pressure, Big Brother Bill set off hot foot to intercept the girl he had seen just leaving her home. She would have to cross the bridge, thatwas certain—then——Ah, yes, the church. The new church. She generally took that in on her way to the village. She had told him that. Well, that was quite easy. He would cut across to the old pine, he couldn’t lose himself doing that, then the trail would run right on down by the church.
For once he made no mistake in taking a short cut. He reached the old pine safely, and felt like congratulating himself. Then a disconcerting thought occurred to him as he contemplated the trail down which he must proceed. The girl had a long way to go, and he had hurried desperately. She wouldn’t be up at the church for some time yet. He felt annoyed with himself for always doing things in such a hurry. It was quite absurd. Now he would have either to remain where he was, kicking his heels about, or go on down to the church, and make it look as though he were purposely lying in wait for her.
He felt that would be a mistake. She might resent it. She might regard it as an impertinence. He couldn’t afford to offend her, he was much too anxious for her approval. He remembered her resentment at their first meeting, and—laughed. But he told himself she was quite right. She thought he had been spying on her. If he had been it would have been a low-down trick. Anyway he would take no chance now. He would wait right there, and——
A sudden commotion in the scrub beside him abruptly changed the trend of his thought. He was startled. The commotion went on. Then with a rush and whirr of wings, and a hoarse-throated squawk, a large bird flew up, clutching the ruffled body of a lesser one in its fierce claws, its great flapping wings brushing his sleeve as it swept on past him.
His wondering blue eyes followed the bird’s flight until it passed beyond the tree tops, and became hidden by the trunk of the old pine. Then he looked down into the bush, searching for the nest of fledglings he felt sure the hawk had robbed of a mother.
He was absurdly grieved that his gun was still with his missing baggage. It would have delighted him to have brought the lawless pirate to book, and restored the mother to her panic stricken chicks.
He peered into the bush searching for the nest, but the foliage was dense, and though he groped the boughs aside hecould discover no signs of it. Still, the thought of those motherless chicks had stirred him, and he persisted.
Breaking his way in among the boughs he searched more carefully. But at last, after wasting nearly a quarter of an hour upon his tender-hearted sympathy, he finally decided that he must be wrong. There was no nest of fledglings. He really felt quite disappointed. Just as he was about to abandon his search something fluttered at the very roots of the bush. It was of a grayish blue. With a lunge he made a grab, caught it, and stood up. It was a ball of paper, loosely crumpled.
With an exclamation of disgust he made his way out of the bush and found himself confronted by the laughing gray eyes of Helen Seton.
“For goodness’ sake, Mr. Bryant!” the girl exclaimed, “whatever are you playing at? Is it Injuns, or—or are you busy on one of your short cuts? I’m nearly scared to death. I surely am.”
Bill looked into that laughing face, and slowly one great hand went up to his perspiring brow. It was the action of a man at a loss.
“Guess you aren’t half as scared as I am,” he blurted out. “I’ve just had the life scared right out of me. It was a pirate hawk. A big one flapped up out of that bush, with a small bird in its claws. I—I was looking for the little feller’s fledglings, and the nest. Sort of birds’ nesting. You see, I guessed they’d need feeding—with their mother gone.”
Helen looked into the eyes of this absurd creature, and—wondered. Was there—was there ever a man quite so simple and—soft hearted? Her eyes became very gentle.
“And did you—find them?” she asked quietly.
Bill shook his head, and looked ruefully down at the paper in his hand.
“Only this,” he said, almost dejectedly.
His air was too much for the girl’s sense of humor. She laughed as she shifted the folded easel, and japanned tin box she was carrying, from one hand to the other.
“Oh, dear, oh, dear,” she cried, stifling her mirth. “And—and I do so hate hawks. They’re such villains, and—and the valley’s full of them. But there, the valley is full of everything bad—isn’t it?”
Bill was smoothing out the paper absent mindedly. Helen’s reference had reminded him of his purpose. Her presence somehow made it difficult.
But Helen went on without apparently noticing his awkwardness.
“Tell me, Mr. Bryant, what was it brought you out this way, when you ought to be worrying around getting wise to—to the ranching business?” she demanded.
Bill flung back his broad shoulders, and, with the movement, seemed to fling off every care. He laughed cordially.
“Say, you make me laugh,” he cried. “Now if I was to tell you what had brought me this way, you’d sure get mad.” Then he discovered the things she was carrying for the first time. “Say, can’t I carry those things?” he cried, reaching out and possessing himself of them without ceremony. “Why, it’s a paint box, and—and easel,” he cried in awe-struck tones. “I didn’t guess you—painted.”
Helen was frankly delighted with him, but she promptly denied the charge.
“Paint? ‘Daub,’ you mean. Guess Charlie tried to knock painting into my—my thick head. But he had to quit it after I reached the daubing stage. I don’t think he guesses I’ll ever win prizes at it,” she went on, moving up toward the pine. “Still, I might sell some of my daubs among the worst drinking cases in the village.”
But Bill felt the outrage of such possibilities.
“I’ll buy ’em all,” he cried. “Just name your price, I’d—I’d like to collect works of art,” he added enthusiastically.
Helen turned abruptly and glared.
“How dare you laugh at me?” she cried, in mock anger. “I—I might have paid you to take one away, but I just won’t—now. So there. Works of art! How dare you? And what are you hugging that old piece of paper to death for? Give it to me. Perhaps it’s somebody’s love letter. Though folks don’t generally write love letters on blue paper. It suggests something too legal.”
Bill yielded up the paper with a good-natured smile.
“It’s all mussed and dirty,” he said, in a sort of apology.
“That’s up to me,” cried Helen. “Anyway a woman’s curiosity don’t mind dirt.”
She smoothed the paper carefully as she paused at the foot of the pine. Bill looked around.
“Is this where you paint?” he asked.
Helen nodded. She was busy with the paper. Bill occupied himself by thoroughly entangling the legs of the folded easel, in an endeavor to set it up for her. He tried it every way without success, and finally desisted with a regretful sigh.
“Was there ever——?” he began.
But Helen broke in with a sharp exclamation, which promptly drew him to her side.
“This—this isn’t a love letter at all,” she cried amazedly. “It’s—it’s—listen! ‘Please have ten gallons of Brandy and twenty Rye laid in the manger in my barn. Money enclosed. O’B!’”
Helen looked up at the man beside her. All her laughter had gone. There was something like tragedy in her serious eyes.
Bill was staring at the paper.
“Why that’s—that’s an order for—liquor from O’Brien,” he said, with the air of having made a discovery.
His brilliancy passed the girl by. She merely nodded.
“How—how did it get there?” she ejaculated.
“Why, some one must have thrown it there,” Bill declared deliberately.
Again the man’s shrewdness lacked an appreciative audience. The girl made no answer. She was thinking. She moved aside and leaned against the rough trunk of the mighty pine. She was still staring at the paper.
But her movement caught the man’s attention, and the sudden realization of the proximity of the pine recalled many things to his mind. The pine. That was where he had seen Charlie, his first night in the valley. That was where the police were watching him. That was where he vanished. It was at the pine that O’Brien had warned him Charlie had gone to collect “greenbacks”—dollars. That was O’Brien’s order, money enclosed. Charlie had found the order and money. Then, when he was interrupted by his, Bill’s, shout he had thrown the order away.
The realization was like a douche of cold water, in spite of all he had seen and knew. Then he did a thing he hardly understood the reason of. It was the result of impulse—a sort of sub-conscious impulse. He reached out and took theweather-stained paper from the girl’s yielding hands and deliberately tore it up.
“Why—why are you doing that?” Helen asked sharply.
Bill forced himself to a smile, and shrugged his shoulders.
“I don’t know,” he said. Then, after a pause: “I guess that order has been filled.” A bitterness found expression in the quality of his smile. “I saw the liquor delivered at O’Brien’s last night. I saw the ‘runners’ at work. Charlie was with them. Say, where d’you paint from? Right here?”
Helen looked up into the man’s face. The last vestige of levity had passed from her. Her cheeks had paled, and she was striving desperately to read behind the ill-fitting smile she beheld. Bill knew. Bill knew all that everybody believed in the valley. He had done what nobody else had done. He had seen Charlie at his work. A desperate feeling of tragedy was tugging at her heart. This great big soul had received the full force of the blow, and somehow she felt that it had been a staggering blow.
All her sympathy went out to him. Now she utterly ignored his question. She sat down at the foot of the tree and signed to him.
“Sit here,” she said soberly. “Sit here, and—talk to me. You came out here this morning because—because you wanted to find some one to talk to. Well?”
Bill obeyed her. There was no question in his mind. She had fathomed his purpose, and he was glad. He replied to her challenge without hesitation, and strove to speak lightly. But as he went on all lightness passed out of his manner, and the girl was left with a full view of those stirring feelings which he had not the wit nor inclination to secrete for long.
“Say,” he began, “you asked what I was doing here, and guessed right—first time. Only, maybe you didn’t guess it was you I came out to find. I saw you leave your house, and figured you’d make the new church. I was going right on down to the new church. Yes, I wanted to talk—to you. You see, I came here full of a—a sort of hope, and—and in two days I find the arm of the law reaching out to grab up my brother. I’ve given up everything to come and—join. Now I’m up against it, and I can’t just think right. I sort of need some one to help me think—right. You see, I guessed you could do it.”
The man was sitting with his arms clasped about his knees.His big blue eyes were staring out over the valley. But he saw nothing of it.
Helen, watching him, remained quite unconscious of the tribute to herself. She was touched. She was filled with a tender feeling she had never known before. She found herself longing to reach out and take hold of one of those big, strong hands, and clasp it tightly and protectingly in her own. She longed to tell him that she understood his grief, and was yearning to share it with him, that she might lighten the burden which had fallen upon him. But she did neither of these things. She just waited for him to continue.
“You see,” he went on, slowly, with almost painful deliberation, “I kind of feel we can think two ways. One with our heads, and the other with our hearts. That’s how I seem to be thinking now. And between the two I’m all mussed up.”
The girl nodded.
“I—I think I know,” she said quietly.
The man’s face lit for a moment.
“I knew you would,” he cried, in a burst of enthusiasm. Then the light died out of his eyes again, and he shook his head. “But you can’t,” he said hopelessly. “Nobody can, but—me. I love old Charlie.”
“What does your head say?” asked Helen abruptly.
“My head?” The man released his knees and pushed back his hat, as though for her to read for herself. “Guess my head says I best get aboard a train quick, and get right back East where I came from, and—stop there.”
“And leave Charlie to his—fate?” suggested the girl.
The man nodded.
“That’s what my head says.”
“And your heart?”
Helen’s gray eyes were very tender as they looked into the troubled face beside her.
Bill’s broad shoulders lifted, with the essence of nonchalance.
“Oh, that says get right up, and shut off the life of every feller at the main who tries to do Charlie any hurt.”
A sudden emotion stirred the girl at his side, and she turned her head away lest he should see that which her eyes betrayed.
“The head is the wisest,” she said without conviction.
But she was wholly unprepared for the explosion her words invoked.
“Then the head can be—damned!” Bill cried fiercely. And in a moment the shadows seemed to fall from about him. He suddenly sprang up and stood towering before her. “I knew if I talked to you about things you’d fix me right,” he cried, with passionate enthusiasm. “I tell you my head’s just a fool thing that generally butts in all wrong. You’ve just made me see right. You’re that wise and clever. And—and when I get fixed like I’ve been, I’ll always need to come to you. Say, there isn’t another girl in all the world as bright as you. I’m going to stop right here, and I’ll smash every blamed policeman to a pulp if he lays hands on Charlie. Charlie may be what he is. I don’t care. If he needs help I’m here to give it. I tell you if Charlie goes to the penitentiary I go with him. If they hang him, they’ll hang me, too. That’s how your sister feels. That’s how I feel. That’s how——”