Is the longing of the human soul but a delusion? Does it catch the fragrance of immortality, as the little honeybee catches the fragrance of the dew-dipped mountain flowers, and reach out with a longing far beyond human ken?
Jack Wade sighed as he sat out on his little porch gazing through the sunlight to the eastward. Far away, yet not so far, loomed the outline of the Cumberland, as a shadow rising out of the mist, towering above the lesser mountains nearer. All round him in his own community men were making silent and cautious preparation for some unknown deed. Beyond the hills, where the agitation was greatest, men were making preparation for terrible destruction. Orders were being sent hurriedly through the country, the courier being unknown and unseen.
Wade knew that the messenger of destruction, if not death, was "the Wolf, Night-Watch," the very person whom he had long been looking for and feeling for, but to no avail, for he had found him not. The very men whom he would have at one time killed on sight, had he known then as much as he did now, were those who had on more than one occasion saved him from death, men whom he now believed had wound themselves so thoroughly about his heart as to cause him to love rather than hate them. Through his mind ran thoughts of things that had been done so long as to be almost forgotten by others, but they clung to his memory as a reminder of what men would do again. In his heart was nothing but hatred for the man who shot Fred Conover to death, and he would far rather put a bullet through his heart than any other man he knew, even Al Thompson. Thompson, he knew, was always somewhere about looking for him, that he might put a bullet into his brain or a knife into his heart.
Wade was to the Judsons a seemingly fast friend, and therefore must be firmly against the Thompsons. Regarded in this light, it was only necessary to meet one of the avowed enemy and someone would go out of this world of trouble.
Time passes swiftly over our heads. It won't wait for any human being. The pace of humanity is entirely too slow for old Father Time, who only looks once as he glides swiftly on. Things can't all happen in a day. Sometimes one could look out through the darkened gloom and see away in the distance the brightness of a flame leaping high and sending great sparks heavenward. Some poor deluded human being, some weak human being, was no doubt losing all of his earthly possessions—his tobacco crop. Sometimes one could listen out over the star-lit earth, when all else slumbered peacefully in the very arms of nature, and catch the faint report of a rifle shot; and had he been nearer to the scene of the conflict could perhaps have heard the groan of a dying soul as it made its last farewell gasp and flitted into eternity. Such is life where strife and turmoil are uppermost in the human heart and mind.
Wade looked back for one moment over the vast expanse of the past and saw all; then he closed his eyes and looked into the future. It was all blank; his mind kept to the present. For one moment he was gazing into the dark eyes of Nora Judson, the next into the translucent waters of the little brook on the banks of which he had sat whiling away many happy hours beside the girl who was such an ardent student of nature, and in whom he had never dreamed there could have been so much hidden beauty and real wisdom. Slowly had she ascended the ladder of knowledge, through his personal instructions and the books he gave her, until she stood on the last round on the tips of her toes, reaching far out into the unknown in eagerness to grasp what she believed lurked there. She was fit to be a queen, to be the companion of the highest man in the land.
On the other hand, Wade had gained no actual knowledge nor wisdom. He had, however, gained a knowledge of nature which could not have been impressed upon him through the mere reading of books. He had gained a knowledge of the great necessity of higher education; he had gained a certain knowledge of how desperate men would struggle for what they believed was rightly their own, how they would lay down their lives for the principles which they thought were just and true. Such knowledge is well gained, and assists the educated and enlightened to a higher plane of equal thought. The person who never reads has no knowledge of what is going on in the outside world, and we dare to say that the person who reads only knows nothing of the great struggle going on in the hearts of the down-trodden farmers whose lives have been made burdensome by the great evil, the greatest of all other evils, the powerful trusts, trusts which hold at the throat of every farmer a great, sharp knife, one so sharp that it is useless to move forward or backward lest life become extinct. The farmer does not stand alone in the path of this terrible evil, though he has taken the brunt of the battle in an effort to unburden all humanity of the awful weight of this heavy yoke, bearing down on the poor of the entire country with such crushing force that the time has come when one can hardly maintain an existence so strong is the yoke and so securely has it been fastened around the necks of humanity everywhere.
Jack Wade thought of all this, thought of all that had happened. Above Tom Judson was lying in bed with a bullet hole through the fleshy part of his left leg just below the thigh. Across the brook old Jim Thompson was lying in bed writhing in agony because of a bullet hole through his right shoulder. This was the result of conditions brought about by the everlasting drudgery of mankind.
In both cases the patients were rapidly mending, the danger point long since having been passed, and each was cursing the other and swearing revenge. Wade sat with heart and head bowed, therefore did not know of the approach of Rover, his good friend, until he felt his furry head rub against his hand.
"Good friend," he said, looking into the eyes of the great brown dog, "when you come to see me in this manner I always look for disastrous results. What can it be now, old friend? Is your mistress well, or has a calamity befallen her? Is her brother worse, or what has happened?"
The dog wagged his tail in a friendly fashion. Suddenly he looked toward the road and barked. Wade glanced hastily in the direction indicated by the dog's head and there, grazing leisurely beside the fence, was the old brindle cow, the cow that had in times past brought him in close touch with the once wild flower of the valley. A spark of joy leaped into his sorrowful heart, for he knew that the mistress of the valley would soon come in search of the cow, and he would be happy then. With eyes cast in the direction of Peter Judson's home, he still sat thinking, just thinking, unconsciously smoothing the hairy head of the good old dog Rover, who seemed perfectly satisfied to sit on his haunches and listen to the tinkling of the cowbells as the cows munched grass lower down in the valley. Roundabout the little wild birds were singing sweetly in their freedom, their joyous notes swelling through the gathering gloom. No thought of trouble was in their hearts, no sorrowful gleam came from their eyes. All was bright sunshine in their lives. What if some poor wanderer was going to be murdered that night? What if some luckless farmer should have his home burned from around him or his horded tobacco and corn destroyed? What if some child or its mother should wail out their sorrowful notes of discomfort and grief before another day's sun shall have risen? Those things are nothing to the lonesome little bird, which would continue its silent slumber through the awful din of fire-fraught flame, or through the loud reports of many rifles, or the yelling of the infuriated Riders as they rode hastily through the midnight darkness on to do the terrible deed and bring suffering to many unsuspecting victims. Those things were nothing to them; they sang on gleefully. But the harmony of their song soon died away, for there came through the stillness of the moment the soft sweet tones of Nora Judson's voice as she wended slowly down the road in search of old Brindle. Rover flopped his ears and wagged his tail, while a gladsome whine emanated from his throat.
Wade, followed closely by Rover, went out to the road to meet Nora. Jack smiled as he extended his hand; she smiled also, then laughed heartily, the echo resounding down through the woodland and back to the hills.
"Are you going to assist me to drive the cow home?" she asked sweetly.
"Provided you don't get in a hurry," replied Jack.
She didn't blush as she used to on occasions of this same nature, though she was a little shy. Her face was as beautiful as a newborn rose, and her hair was done up like a schoolgirl's is done when she expects to have company; her skirt was not of the tattered and worn variety that she wore when old Brindle made her first escape, and her slippers were tan—those Jack had brought as a present. They fitted her trim foot nicely. Her ankles were covered with lisle thread hose, not homespun cotton, like she wore when Wade first saw her. He now stepped to her side, and together they rounded up old Brindle, and soon had her headed homeward.
When Wade looked into Nora's smiling face he knew that he was an ardent lover, and he fully concluded he would never do one thing to offend her.
She looked into his face, her own beaming with joy.
"I'm never in a hurry to leave you, Jack."
"Thank you. Will it always be just so, Nora?"
"Always—that is, so long as both of us are alive, but——"
"But what? Don't hesitate, speak out."
"But times are fearful now. Tom will be out in another day or two, and then——"
"And then?" repeated Wade, although he felt it was not necessary for her to finish the sentence.
"And then," she continued, "something terrible may happen. Tom fumes all the time, cursing the luck that threw him so long idle, when he could have been doing so much. And then," she said again, looking tenderly at him, "your life is in imminent danger. You should keep a close watch at all times on Al Thompson. He hates you, and is only waiting for an opportunity to kill you. Will you keep a close watch, Jack?"
"I shall keep a close watch. Not that I have any fears of death, or that Thompson will kill me, but for your sake."
"For my sake, Jack? For my sake only?"
"For your sake only. Let me tell you, little girl, I have but one hope this side of heaven, but one longing. The hope is for you, the longing is for your happiness. Don't you know that you have transformed my life? Once I was a raging lion, to-day I am meek and lowly. The only ray of hope within me was transplanted by your own life. I have studied you from the beginning of your growth until you began to bud, and on until you were a full-grown flower; how, then, can I help but be interested in you? You have torn from my heart most evil designs."
"Were there ever such designs there, Jack?"
"Once, yes. None now. I have much to tell you at some more opportune time; not now."
"If I may venture to say it, I am very glad to have been an assistance to you, because you have been as a shining light to my dark pathway from the first time we met. Dear old Brindle," she said.
"Dear old Brindle," repeated Wade softly. "And now we have old Brindle home again, and we must part, though not forever, I hope. Tomorrow, if all goes well through the night, I should like to take you over to the brook fishing. Will you go?"
"We might be endangering our lives to go over there just at this time. That is Thompson's territory, don't you know?"
"Yes, I know; but what's the use to go through life full of fears for what we might meet? The obstacles which we naturally encounter are so nearly insurmountable as to discourage us, so therefore let us not look forward to those whichmightconfront us."
"I shall admit that the natural ones are many, but caution is what has been taught me. We should be grateful to God that they are not more numerous."
"Will you accompany me, then?"
"I shall, if all goes well to-night."
There is a certain charm about the hills that will in time take away from one that feeling of loneliness which always exists in the heart of one who has not been long about them. This charm turns the rugged hills into things of rare beauty, the misty valley into a dream, and peace and contentment finally take hold upon a life that before had been nothing but sorrow and grief.
Jack Wade was no longer lonesome in his lonely little cabin in the foothills, he no longer felt the pangs of that sadness which had hitherto shot over him to cause him to feel like giving up his plans and returning to civilization. There were many reasons for this peace and contentment. The greatest of them was that old Peter Judson and his entire family had done so much to aid and assist him and to drive away all loneliness, and for this cause they had endeared themselves to him. It was now a pleasure to Wade to rise very early in the morning and glance out through the breaking day toward the Cumberland, and watch the mountain grow through the dewy mist until she was plain to view. It was even a pleasure to him to watch her disappear with the departing day.
So when he bade Nora good-night he went down to his own cabin with a light heart, still followed by the good brown dog, Rover, which had taken up with him so firmly that he went home only when Nora blew the horn. He always obeyed this call, and trotted off gayly, but when the morning light appeared he was back again lying on Wade's little porch as comfortably as he desired to be. Wade was very glad of the dog's friendship, for he helped to dissolve the terrible gloom that sometimes gathered over him. He took great delight in talking to the dog while he was preparing his meals, and never forgot to put in an extra allowance for Rover.
"Now, Rover," he said, "you like your eggs better raw, perhaps, and no doubt, if you have been getting them at all, you have had to take them that way; but this is quite a different hotel, and you shall have to cultivate a taste for fried eggs, as that is the way I like them best, and that is certainly the easiest and quickest way to get them prepared."
Rover whined and wagged his shaggy tail.
"In this country, Rover, old boy," continued Wade, "where every fellow is looking about for someone he can kill, a fellow, if he would eat at all, must get his lunch the quickest way he can; so you must not be angry if you must eat fried eggs."
Rover gave a low bark, seeming to understand fully. He watched the preparation of the meal with pleasure. When Jack moved to another part of the room Rover trotted quickly over there, as though he feared some portion of the work would be lost to him. When Wade stood over the little stove Rover was there looking longingly up at him.
"Now," said Wade, "you don't like coffee, Rover, and there is where you are lucky. You are wise not to drink it. I ought not to drink coffee, but how could I stand the strain of all that I look for should I not take some stimulant? I don't drink whisky, Rover—that is wrong for a fellow to do; I don't chew tobacco nor smoke a pipe, so what? I must drink coffee. Some men say that man is so constituted that his system calls for a stimulant; but I don't believe that, Rover, do you? Now here you are, old friend, a nice slice of good bread made by your dear mistress, a piece of bacon, and a whole egg fried. My, what a lunch for an old dog which has not been used to anything but kicks and curses all his life!"
Rover barked gleefully while Jack put a tin platter on the floor and placed the food into it, and they ate in silence.
After the meal was over Jack went out to sit awhile on his little porch, while Rover dropped down at his feet. They had not been comfortably seated very long when Rover rose to a sitting position and looked in the direction of his home. Wade knew from his anxious look that he had heard something. In another second the long, loud blast from Nora's horn came trembling through the night air and reached their ears.
"What's that for, old dog?" Jack spoke to Rover. Then the sound came again, and Rover bolted off without further ceremony.
Wade arose and stood for a moment listening. It was peculiar that the dog should be called at night unless he was badly needed. As he listened, Wade heard two distinct rifle shots coming from the direction of Peter Judson's home. "Something up," he said, gathering his own rifle and starting out, meaning to go up and learn what the trouble could be. Instead of taking the road, Wade went out through his own pasture and through Judson's field. The old man had taught him caution, and he knew how to use it. He went on as hurriedly as possible until he reached Judson's horse-lot, then he began to peer about. He could see Peter moving about in front of the light at the house, but nothing strange appeared to be taking place. Then he saw old Peter come to the door and look eagerly toward the road.
"What's the trouble?" asked Wade, from behind.
"I thought that'd bring ye, Jack," said Peter, turning quickly, "and ye fooled me, too. Ye air gittin' 'long all right, now, boy. Well, they's a-goin' ter be so much fun ter-night that hit jest looked like I couldn't help axin' ye fer ther fust time ter jine us. Ye see, Tom a-bein' a little sore, hit'll make ther road seem a little lonely to me, an' ef ye want ter see ther fun ye kin take Tom's big black an' come 'long with me. Have yer got yer little shootin' irons 'long?"
"Nothing save my rifle," said Jack wonderingly.
"Well, ye kin use Tom's, an' they air as good as ye kin find in this kintry. Ye hain't a-feered, air ye?"
"I fear nothing," said Wade; "but I'd like to know what's up. I don't want to run into anything that won't be good for me."
"Go with him, Jack," said Nora. "You'll see the fun, sure."
"Yes," said Peter. "Ther hosses air ready, an' I'll tell ye all 'bout it while we go 'long. We have ter travel nearly to the Tennessee line afore midnight, so les' hurry."
Wade buckled the pistols on, mounted the prancing horse, and started out somewhat dubious as to the fate of himself. He had learned to trust old Peter fully, however, and there could possibly be nothing to fear from him. Beside, Nora had told him to go along, and there could absolutely be nothing harmful to him in going.
"Ye see, Jack," explained Peter as they rode rapidly toward the big mountain, "I told ye t'other day 'bout them durn scamps what'd jine ther association an' then do all they could ter throw it down. Them's ther biggest scoundrels what we have ter deal against. They're the snakes in the grass, an' we don't ever know jest whar they air at. We cain't put our fingers on 'em when we want 'em, but ever now an' agin' somebody runs agin' 'em, an' that's what's up ter-night. We air a-goin' ter flog one o' them fellers now. Ye see that dark-lookin' spot up ther road? Well, them is 'bout fifteen horsemen. Now git that cap out'n Tom's saddle-bags an' draw hit down over yer head,—hit'll fit yer,—an' don't say 'nuther word from now till I ax yer to. When we git yonder that black bunch'll move out an' nobody'll say anything. Jest keep a-goin', an' ef ye git lost from me, say nothin', but keep a-goin', and I'll find ye. I won't have ter show ye any more after ter-night, I 'low. Now keep quiet."
Old Peter almost whispered the last sentence. Jack Wade understood and kept quiet, as he had been instructed. When they rode into the black mass one wild yell from those strong-lunged farmers rent the air, and everybody for miles around knew that some farmer somewhere was nearing the danger line. The swift ride through the cool night air was exhilarating, and the excitement, being entirely new to Wade, was just to his liking. He had been unconsciously drawn into a midnight raid with those hated Nightriders. When it dawned upon his mind that he was actually taking part in a great midnight raid, and would soon witness cruel treatment from the hands of those he was aiding and abetting, a cold chill ran over his frame. Still, the punishment was going to be meted out to one who, in an extreme moment, was about to do a thing which would affect every man, woman, and child in the whole country. He would sell his tobacco for a price which would not permit a living, and he must stop or suffer the consequence.
They rode until it seemed to Wade that the foaming horses must drop from sheer exhaustion. That was impossible. They were used to such trips, and could no doubt keep up the pace for many hours. Supreme quiet reigned. There was no sound save that made by the clatter of many horses' feet striking the soft dirt. When they passed some quiet farmhouse, where all was silent within, a dog would bay loudly or set up a terrifying howl, which could be heard until they were far beyond.
The moments soon turned into hours. Finally they drew rein in front of a large farmhouse. Jack thought, as he looked at it through those peep-holes in his cap, that he had not seen such a large and handsome place since he arrived in the country. Barns and out-houses were plentiful, trees and shrubbery were plentiful. This was the home of a more wealthy farmer. They were now awaiting a signal from the leader, when every pistol should be fired into the air to intimidate the sleeping victim within.
Someone spoke. "When I fire," he said, "then you can all fire; but no man must fire mor'n once."
The dog in the back yard had now made the discovery that someone was about to intrude upon his master's domain and, faithful dog that he was, he dashed out to face the enemy alone. When he reached the front, yelping and baying, the signal gun was fired. The bullet struck the dog squarely in the forehead, and with a short yelp he fell dead. Almost simultaneously other pistols were fired, yet not so simultaneously as not to be discerned separately. The Riders, who knew their business so well, quickly separated and surrounded the house. From within came the victim, who, when he heard the shooting, suspected immediately that danger lurked near, and darted out of the house intending to make his escape by the back way.
He was caught by the strong hands of two farmers, who lead him out to where their horses stood, followed by others. No one spoke a word. The spectacle was new to Wade, who followed on in silence. The victim was lead out to a strip of woodland, where he was stripped of every stitch of clothing, bent over a fallen tree trunk and—it is too horrible a tale to tell. The vividness of it will stand forever in the minds of the few. No, he was not murdered, but worse. The great leather straps with holes in them were far worse than bullets from a forty-four gun. Mr. Openraiser begged for mercy like a child. He promised that his tobacco would not be sold, and he would be a good obedient member in the future. It was afterward learned that he kept his promise.
Some one laid his hand gently on Wade's shoulder. "Come on quick, now," he whispered softly, "don't make any noise."
It was Judson. Wade followed on silently. No sound broke the stillness of the early morning, save the clatter of the horses' feet. Far to the left of them the clatter was dying out; to the right of them the noise was growing fainter; no sound came from old Peter Judson. The only immediate sound was that made by their rifles as they clanked against the brass parts of their saddles. The twinkling stars shone on, undisturbed by anything that had happened. Those two Nightriders, Judson and Wade, rode on for several miles without the exchange of words. Finally Peter, concluding that there was no danger, jerked the cap from his head and stuffed it into his saddle pocket.
"Take off yer head-gear," he said to Wade, who complied gladly.
"It's pretty warm under this thing," said Jack.
"Not so warm as hit was under them straps, is it?"
Wade made no reply.
"Ye don't like that much," said Peter, smiling, "Well, ye air not ter blame, but ye'll see ther point afore ye air many days older. Now, I want to tell ye somethin'. They was four o' them Thompsons' thar, an' we've gotter look out, 'cause they're shore to head us off. We air not travelin' ther same road as we come down when we went to ther spankin'. Think yer kin take on a little shootin' fun ter-night, Wade?"
While Peter spoke he was glancing sharply about them. He was accustomed to the ways of those old mountaineers, and felt quite certain that trouble was lurking near. His experience in feuds had taught him about what to expect, and he would not likely be caught unawares.
"Ef ye kin," he continued, "unhook yer gun, fer they's a-goin' ter be somethin' doin' soon."
The words had hardly passed from his lips when there sang over their heads the "zing" of a rifle bullet.
"Thar ye air," shouted Peter. "We mout a-looked for that shore. Git ready, now, an' when ye see a black spot down ther road let 'em have it good an' straight."
"Bling!" Another bullet passed harmlessly near. "Bling!" one was sent back.
"Move up a little, Jack," said Peter, tapping his horse. "I'm not a-feered,—don't want ye ter think that,—but they be too many fer us to stop an' argify with."—"Bling!" "Blang!"—"Give 'em thunder, boy. Thar they air!"—"Bling!"—"Git to t'other side o' ther road, Jack"—"Blang!"—"we air too close together, so's they cain't hit us so easy."—"Blang!" "Blang!"—"Keep it a-goin', boy, ye'll git used ter ther ways o' the mountain yet"—"Blang!"—"Ther durn fool!" ejaculated Peter, grunting loudly.
"What's the matter?" asked Wade.
"The tip end o' one o' my fingers is gone clear as a whistle, that's what ther matter is, boy. Give it to 'em, now,—thar they air, but they hain't a-coming so fast. Think we must hit somebody that time. What air they now? I don't see 'em anymore."
"Neither do I. They have given up, Peter, as sure as you live; they've quit the fight. Somebody got a bullet."
"Don't be too shore, boy; they must be foolin' us and' goin' 'round to head us off. I've been through mor'n a dozen sich fights as this,—got two bullet holes in one leg at ther same scrap,—but they hain't got old Peter yet. I guess it's all over for this time, Wade. Follow me now, quick. I'm goin' ter give 'em the slip. We'll go clean 'round that hill yonder, an' they won't know whatever become of us, ef they do try to out-trick us."
After skirting the hill in silence, old Peter began again: "That was one good short fight, boy, an' I declare ye air a putty good stayer. Ye kin pull ther trigger 'bout as fast as any Kentuckian as ever fit with me, lessen hit was Rube Willers. I remember one time years ago when I was on t'other side o' ther mountain, when Bill Tulliver's outfit was agin me an' Rube Willers. 'Course we had friends, an' so did they, but Rube could outshoot any feller what ever come into the mountains, an' I seed him put 'bout five holes through Bill Tulliver afore he hit ther ground. But Bill come near a-gittin' him, shore; he put a hole in Rube's shoulder, an' ef hit'd 'a' been one inch t'other way Rube'd never 'a' had time ter git anybody after that, he'd never 'a' had time to a-told what struck him. These old mountaineers know how to use ther shootin'-irons, that's shore. But I forgot to ax ye ef ye got hit, did ye?"
"No, I'm safe this time."
"Ye talk like ye mout git a ball some other time, an' ye had better look sharp all the time now. Al Thompson is a lion, but we made him git ter-night, I believe. Don't ye think we've slipped them?"
Jack did.
The gray streaks of dawn were appearing in the eastern horizon and there would likely be no more fighting. Judson and Wade were not far from home now. Being tired and sore, they rode on in silence. Jack Wade was no coward, a coward would never have undertaken the heavy task which he had, but he also was not fond of fighting. Had he lived in the mountains all his life he would have enjoyed the sport, but he had not, there was not so much sport in it for him as there was for old Peter Judson, who knew nothing else.
The trouble between the Judson and Thompson factions could be dated back to the early days, when one Alex Judson, a very young man, shot to death one Bill Allen, a kinsman of the Thompsons, on the streets of the little village. Alex Judson flew to the mountains, and there arose two factions out of the killing. From time to time a Thompson or a Judson was picked off his saddle as he rode over the mountain in the dead of night, but after the death of Alex Judson the trouble had been patched up, and for years had lain still, but only sleeping, not dead. The history began before the present generation came into being, and old Peter's act in clipping Al Thompson's trigger finger off had opened the wound anew, the old sore bled, and the end of the trouble was not yet.
All this and more Peter told Wade as they rode on toward home, finally pulling up at Wade's cabin.
"An' now, Wade," said Peter, "ye air a Judson, an' ye can't expect anything but death. Somebody's a-goin' ter git killed afore this thing is over. Hit may be me, hit may be you, hit may be Jim Thompson or his son Al, an' hit may be Tom. Nobody knows who it will be till he's done fer."
"I shall be satisfied," replied Wade.
Jack watched the old man out of sorrowful eyes as he rode up the hill leading Tom's horse behind him.
"The old fellow has had much trouble," he thought, "but he seems to enjoy the sport of a feudal fight." Wade attended to his own stock and then lay down for a few hours of rest. The strenuous night had been too much for his nerves, but there was much other trouble before him of which he little dreamed as he lay across his bed to rest. He was not long in falling fast asleep, and it was near noon by the sun when he was awakened by the low whine of Rover standing at the door. Wade rose and shook himself much after the fashion of a dog coming out of the water. His head felt heavy, his brain dull. The events of the night before were trying to fix themselves in his memory, but he could not shape them. He had faint recollection of all he had gone through from the time of hearing the dog-horn, the two successive rifle shots, his hasty rush through the fields to Judson's, and then, ah, then, of his acceptance of the invitation to go out into the darkness of the night to watch the fun of flogging a farmer. It all passed hazily through his sleep-clogged brain. He could now see it all just as it happened, the firing of rifles, his own hasty retreat, the running conversation of old Peter Judson, as he encouraged him to keep up a continuous fire on the dark spots in the road behind them; then Peter's exclamation that the end of his finger had been shot away by the murderous marksmen, the escape, and finally the return to his own cabin.
He could not keep these events out of his memory, they were there as dark spots and would remain so forever. Reaching for his coat, he made the discovery that he had narrowly escaped death, for there, a half-inch from the second button from the top, was the tell-tale hole made by a Winchester bullet. He could remember now just when the bullet which had nearly taken his life flew by him. He had heard the "zing!" and the "swish!" but had not suspected that it came so close to boring a hole through his heart. A cold shudder ran over him as he thought of the close proximity to death. Ah, well, that was life in the mountains, that was the fulfillment of the "call of the wilds," and he must not now complain. Wade seemed stupefied. All the while he dreamed the good old brown dog looked longingly up into his careworn face, as if to say, "What's the matter, master?" But there was no reply.
Rover whisked about him from one side to the other, in a vain effort to attract him, but the result was the same, the mystic stupefaction was on him, and he cared not for the dog just then. Of a sudden Rover ran out of the door, baying furiously. Wade looked out and discovered the reason for Rover's action. From toward the city came three men on horseback, riding leisurely. Wade watched them closely as they came on. They were strangers so far as he could tell from the distance that separated them. When they were just opposite the cabin they halted, Wade still watching them. Their actions now seemed a little strange, for one rode around the other two and stood near the gate. Rover was tearing up the earth in his anxiety to get at them. The man near the gate cried out loudly, and Wade, unconscious of lurking danger, went out in answer to the call, unarmed. He had not seen the necessity of arming himself to meet three strangers in bright noonday. The other two lined up near the fence, and when Wade approached, commanding Rover to be quiet, the three men covered him with revolvers. "Hands straight up," said one.
Wade obeyed the command. "What outrage is this?" he asked warmly.
"No outrage at all, friend," said the captain. "It means that we have come to arrest you, and if you make any fuss about it you might be seriously hurt."
"I don't understand," said Wade.
"You will soon enough. You are under arrest in connection with the death of one Lem Franklin, who passed in his checks last night with his boots on."
"What proof have you that I know anything of the death of this Franklin?" asked Wade.
"Sufficient to convict you of murder, sir," was the reply.
"I don't know this Franklin at all."
"Likely enough you don't, but the proof of your guilt is sufficient to warrant the arrest."
It was beginning to dawn upon Wade's bewildered mind that he and Judson had dropped one of the enemy during the running fight of the night before. He could see it plainly now, but he knew it would not do to submit willingly and meekly to an arrest which would deprive him of his liberty for a long time.
"I am not armed at all, as you can see," he said, "and I believe it will look better if you gentlemen will lower your revolvers. I will feel more free then to talk with you. You have a serious advantage."
"And we intend to hold it, too," said the captain. "A fellow must get an advantage and keep it in this country. Make ready now, and come on."
Wade looked fire. "I shall not submit," he said hotly.
"Then if you will not, we must force you, and I warn you that one move contrary on your part will cause your immediate death."
"You are a bluffer," said Wade, "and a coward." Jack had now recognized this man.
The latter raised his revolver until it pointed directly at Wade's head. "You think it a bluff, do you, and that I won't shoot?"
"You won't do any thing fair, that's certain," exclaimed Wade.
The assistant officers kept very quiet, not offering any way out of the difficulty. The captain got off his horse and stepped toward Wade. "I'll blow your brains out," he said, angrily, "if you don't come out at once."
"You did blow one man's life out recently," said Wade sneeringly, "and I do not doubt but that you would blow my life out, if you were in the dark where two other gentlemen could not look upon the deed."
The peculiar manner in which Wade remarked this caused the two to look one at the other, and the captain turned pale, staggered toward his horse, and replied more cautiously: "I don't understand you, but there is no use to argue the case. You must submit to an arrest, and that as quickly as possible."
Wade knew that his remarks had made a telling blow, and that he now had an equal advantage.
"I will not submit," he replied coolly, "and if you do not leave without further request I shall have this entire country on to you in less time than an hour—even before you could get three miles down the road." Turning to Rover, Wade said, "Go home, quick, and give the alarm." The good old, well-trained dog, seeming to understand, galloped off in the direction indicated by Wade's pointing finger, while the officers looked after him anxiously. The mark had been struck, however, and the officers, thinking it a good time to depart, said, "We'll get you a little later, old boy." With this they galloped off toward Guthrie.
The man whom Wade had defied was no other than the assistant officer who accompanied the warehouse man out that fateful night when Fred Conover was so wantonly murdered. Wade had recognized him, and used the knowledge to his own good, and to save himself from the jail at that time.
Thoughtfully Wade made his way slowly up the road toward Judson's home, where he told of what had just happened.
"That," said Peter, "is the work of Al Thompson, shore. He's to the back of it. Seein' as how he couldn't fetch us fair and square with a bullet, he's made up his mind ter git us any way he kin. Apt's not, ef ther truth was known, he shot Franklin in ther back hisself, so's ter say we done it. Hit looks kinder like he was after you specially, Wade, cause he hain't got no right ter know that ye were out last night unless he seed ye or heerd ye a-talkin', or seed Tom's hoss, one t'other. Ef he didn't, he's a-playin' a sneakin' game, that's what. Well, I see I cain't git 'bout, fer awhile, on account o' this hyar finger bein' a little sore, an' Tom, he's walkin' 'bout a little now, an' you an' him'll hafter kinder keep things a-goin'—keep 'em warm till I git so I kin shoot agin. Ye needn't be afeerd o' them officers a-comin' back agin. They won't do that. Only 'cause ye air putty nigh a stranger hyar that they ever tackled ye 'tall. Thay won't tackle a feller what knows, that's shore. They're skeered o' their shadders, that's what they air."
Old Peter quit talking long enough to put out a plug of tobacco as large as his fist to be replaced with another equally as large, and continued:
"Now, Wade, ye've got ther best of one man anyway, an' I reckon ye better keep ther knife thar a little while. Hit'll do us all good some time, an I reckon ye better not go a-fishin' ter-day, 'cause Al Thompson'll turn ther mountain over ter do us up. I seed Frank Buckalew ter-day, an' told him how things was a-goin', an' he said he'd fix things warm over t'other side, an' he'll do it, too. He's my cousin, an' as good a fighter as ever carried a gun over ther mountain, I seed him kill a feller onct after the other feller had him kivered. Hit was done so quick he never know'd what struck him."
Late August and seasoning. Many of the farmers who had raised tobacco at all had it stored in their barns, some intending to sell openly, and others to throw into the pool. The great association knew what was going on from the top of the mountain to the cities below. "The Wolf, Night-Watch," had been very busy from the beginning of the burning season through the turning, resetting, and gathering. He knew just how much tobacco each farmer had raised, where it was stored, when and to whom he expected to sell it, and what he expected to realize on the sale. He knew how much tobacco Jack Wade had stored in his barns down on the Redmond farm, and he also knew that Wade was in thorough sympathy with the association, which was making strenuous efforts to raise the price of tobacco to a point where living expenses could be met.
Every farmer knew Wade now, and looked upon him as a strong friend and a powerful help in the community. His popularity had grown to such an extent that he was recognized as a leader, and his counsel was eagerly and continuously sought. He had made such a thorough study of the situation that he was familiar with all points. His great genius was highly esteemed, his knowledge of tobacco and the manner of raising it brought many of the older raisers to converse with him, and he freely talked with everyone, giving his idea in full. The result of his study was that more tobacco and a much higher grade was being raised on less ground than the old heads thought it possible to raise at all.
When the purchasers from Hopkinsville came, Wade searched them thoroughly with his keen eye. He knew they had intended to put the price down low, and he was going to meet them in a manner that they little dreamed of.
"Yours is the finest tobacco I have seen," said one.
"Thank you," replied Wade carelessly. "Have you purchased much yet?"
"Only one barn. I'll offer you three and one-half cents at once for yours."
Wade just stared at the speaker.
"I'll make it four cents," said the other.
Wade turned upon him sharply.
"Do you expect to buy much tobacco at that price?" he asked.
"We expect to purchase every pound of tobacco in this country at less than five cents," said one.
In Wade's mind there was a set determination, born on the moment, that they should not purchase one pound of tobacco for less than ten cents, and perhaps more.
"You are buying for the trusts?" he asked.
"No," said the other, half angrily, "we arenotbuying for the trusts. I am buying for a private company, and have no connection with this gentleman, although we are together. If his judgment leads him to believe that the tobacco is worth more than my judgment leads me to believe it to be worth, naturally he offers a better price, that's all. Now, as I said, you have about the highest quality tobacco I have seen this season, therefore I shall raise this gentleman's offer and make it four cents and the half. Shall you let it go at that?"
"I shall not."
"Then you may keep it stored until it rots."
"Hold!" said the second man. "My last offer is six cents. Shall you let it go?"
"I shallnot!"
"Then keep it in your barns until it rots; you'll not get more than we have offered you."
"I'll allow it to rot then," said Wade defiantly.
The two men rode off toward Judson's. Wade meant to fulfill his determination, if it should cost him many thousands of dollars. Hastily saddling his horse he also rode up to Judson's, where he found the two tobacco purchasers parleying with old Peter.
"No," Peter was saying, "I hain't got much terbacker this season, but ye cain't git what little I've got fer no three and a half cents."
Jack touched the old man on the shoulder. "Remember, Judson," he whispered, "I'll make it one cent heavier than they offer." Then he rode in search of Tom, whom he instructed to go over the country as fast as he could and advise the faithful ones to hold their tobacco for twelve cents. "Tell them," he said, "that they have a standing offer of eleven and one-half from me, and they should hold out for twelve from anyone else. Make it plain to them that the offer is made in good faith, and the man who fails to sell in good season for twelve cents shall receive eleven and one-half. You had not better go into Thompson's territory."
"I'll go thar too," said Tom, "an' I'll even go to old Jim Thompson's house. He can't hurt anybody yet, an' Al's off on a trip right now, so they's nuthin' to be skeered of."
"I won't make the offer to Thompson at this time, Tom; it would be no use. He'd rather sell for one cent than accept assistance from us."
"All right, I hain't a-keerin' much 'bout foolin' 'round thar, anyhow."
"Be off, then!"
The two men were still parleying with Peter, in an effort to purchase his tobacco, but he was holding very high above them.
"No," he said, "I'll not take seven nor eight."
"My last offer is nine," said one.
"But I'm offered ten."
"I'll take what you have for ten," said the second.
"I'm offered eleven," said Peter, smiling.
The two purchasers turned in disgust and went their way, considerably discouraged at the outcome of their trip. It was the same everywhere. "I'm offered one cent more," was all they could hear. They were unable to make out as to who had got in ahead of them to offer more, and they could not reconcile this condition with Wade's whispered conversation with Peter Judson. Every place they visited they received the same reply, so they turned back to Hopkinsville with dejected countenances. When they had departed from Judson's, the old man turned to Wade and said, "Boy, what do you mean, anyway? Do ye expect ter fight ther great trusts?" Peter smiled.
"For this season I do. There is only one way to win a battle, and that way is to fight. Can't you see the result already? We shall get twelve cents for our tobacco, where you have been getting only six. If it works out all right, I'll offer more next season, and Nightriding will be forever done away with and peace will reign among the farmers of this rich country. Do you see it all?"
Peter did see it, and was very enthusiastic.
"Ye air a brick, Jack," he said. "I always knowed that ye had a great head an' was sent into this kintry to save ther poor devils who couldn't save themselves, 'cause hit'll work, an' they'll be back fer the terbacker at twelve cents afore long, shore. They got ter git this terbacker or go busted an' quit. Tom'll not quit ridin' till he's told every farmer plum to t'other side o' ther hill an' back. Whoop, let 'er go, we'll down 'em yet!"
Old Peter threw his hat high into the air and jumped like a boy, so enthusiastic did he become.
"Ye'll make yerself more popular than ye air already, Jack, ef ye don't watch out a little."
Wade knew his own power better than any other person. He merely smiled at the old man's great enthusiasm, then turned to Nora, who had stood listening to everything, feeling a higher admiration for Jack Wade.
"We'll take that trip to the brook to-day, if you like," he said. "The day is so calm and the air so invigorating, it will do us good."
"I shall be pleased," she said. "Shall we go at once?"
"If it won't interfere with your duties at home."
"Nuthin' ter hinder," said Mrs. Judson; "she kin go when she wants."
The little wild flowers that earlier in the year were so bright and happy were now a little drooped, having gone through the warm summer with but little water; however, they still nodded approvingly as the two passed astride the gentle steeds.
"When we were here last," said Wade, "the spring was just appearing and everything was so beautifully green."
"The summer sun has been too much for the foliage and flowers," replied Nora.
"That is only to remind us of what humanity must pass through," said Jack. "The bloom of youth is upon us, we are now in the springtime of our lives, fresh and gay; but the great hot summer of time must pass over our heads to wither us as the summer sun has withered and drooped the sweet little flowers. The cold winters of time must pass over us to silver the golden curls and gray the hair as the summer sun has given a golden tint to those once green leaves yonder."
"Oh, Jack, must it be so?"
"Do not look so sorrowful over it, child. Life is life, and must be lived out in accordance with the will of the Almighty, maker of heaven and earth. See how beautiful the golden-tinted leaves appear in the last hours of their lives. They have done their duty, and the reward is theirs; they toil no more, but man, who is born of woman, is of few days and full of sorrow."
"While it seems that all is night to the poor woman whom God has seen fit to place here as a helpmeet to man."
"You are looking through the darkness to-day, Nora."
"There seems no light, Jack."
"Yet it will break in on you, my child, when you are least expecting it."
"Then there will be other things to worry over."
"My little fairy," said Wade, "you were not born to worry. Cease. It makes you thin; you must not worry any more."
"How can I help it, Jack? I must worry while conditions are as they now are in the valley. I fear lest Dad shall be killed, I fear lest Tom shall be picked from his saddle, and I—I even fear lest you might not be with us long. You must know that you have been a great salvation to this country, in one sense, and in another——"
"What! you hesitate?"
"If you should die," said Nora slowly, "why, life would not be worth much to some."
"And to you, Nora?"
"Without you all would be dark."
"Nora!"
"Yes, Jack. You are the only person who ever awakened within my soul a sensation akin to joy. Your big heart has won my esteem, and—and——"
Nora hung her head shyly, as she told what had been in her heart for some time.
"Your love is not in vain," said Wade.
They had now reached the brook, and were dismounting.
"Let us seal our love right here, under this tree," said Wade, and he impressed a kiss upon her sweet forehead. A quiet flush covered her face, and she was very happy.
The spot they selected was a lovely one 'neath a small bush, where they would be completely hid from the view of an idle passer. They were in Thompson's territory, and, though Tom Judson had thought Al was away, it was not true. This had been a ruse on the part of the wily Al in order to catch a Judson napping. Wade did not know of a certainty that Al was not gone, but he was cautious, nevertheless. His rifle was ever near him. Now, they had not been long secure until they saw Al meandering down the stream on the opposite side from them. Wade watched him until he was directly opposite them, then whispered to Nora to keep well hid. Leveling his rifle at Al, he commanded him to halt. Nora's heart beat fast in her bosom. Al, recognizing Wade's voice, looked sharply around, sending his right hand to his pistol pocket. Too late.
"Take it off," said Wade, "or I may be tempted to blow out your life."
Wade spoke in the rough language of the mountaineer. Times were such that a fellow must necessarily blow a fellow's brains out or get his own scattered over the earth. Thompson caught sight of Wade in his hiding-place and, seeing that he was looking into the barrel of Wade's rifle, took his hand from his pocket and raised it, with the other, high above his head.
"Ye've got me shore, this time," said Al. "What ye goin' ter do with me?"
"I'm going to kill you," replied Wade. "Turn your back to me, and be quick about it."
"What! ye hain't a goin' ter shoot me in ther back, air ye?" asked Thompson, turning to fulfill the command.
"Wouldn't you shoot me in the back, or any other part of the body, had you the opportunity?"
"I didn't."
"You haven't had the opportunity."
"Yes, I have."
"When?"
"Ther night I borried yer hoss. Ye didn't know me then, Wade, but hit was me, shore. I lost my hoss an' just had ter have 'nuther—had so much ter do afore morning', an' I took yours for only a little while, 'cause I knowed you wouldn't have as much ter do as me."
"Why did you not kill me, Thompson, while you had the chance?"
"Because ye didn't kill me when ye had the chance, that's why."
Wade crossed the stream, going directly through the water, took Al's pistols from his pockets and laid them on the ground a safe distance away. Stepping back a pace, he commanded Thompson to turn and face him.
"So you did not kill me that night because I had not killed you at a time when I had an advantage?"
"Exactly. Do ye think one of us fellers could be unfair? Not so; we treat everybody square. That time made us even, but I said I'd kill ye ef ye was caught that away again."
"In that case, Thompson, I have a perfect right to let you have a load," said Wade, drawing a bead on the latter's head. "First, however, I want to know why you hate me so, why do you wish to kill me at all?"
"That ought'n ter make any difference ter you."
"It does, and your life just now depends upon your answer to the question. I've got you dead to rights, and you may as well know that I do not intend you shall live another moment if your motives against me are not true. Now answer how you will."
"In ther first place," said Thompson coolly, "ye air playin' false with ther gal I love. Ye don't intend ter marry her. Ye've already said in yer own mind that she's not good enough fer you, an' ye air foolin' with her heart an' a-killin' her, an' she's weaned away from me, so it's made me sick, an' I said I'd kill ye fer it. Then ye got ther best of me, an' didn't, an' I got ther best of you, an' I didn't. Now, ye have me, an' I reckon ye oughter do it, though, I——"
"You are lying," interrupted Wade. "You are lying through and through, and you know it. You are a coward, Thompson, through and through, and you feel it, so I'm going to shoot you through the top of your head right now to end your earthly fears and settle the matter once and forever."
There was a terrible gleam in Wade's eyes, Thompson saw it, and his flesh quivered. He saw Wade raise his rifle barrel until it was level with his breast, up it came until it was level with his head. There came over him an impulse to break and run for his life, but his horror of being shot in the back kept him from doing so. The sensation within him at that moment was terrible. Suddenly, being thoroughly overcome with fright, he threw both hands high into the air and cried out for mercy.
"For God's sake," he exclaimed, "don't kill me this way!"
"I knew you were a coward," said Wade. "I didn't ask you for mercy when you would have driven your knife through me, but I am going to hear your cry and let you go. One thing I want to know, however, and I must have the absolute truth. Didn't you come down this way looking for me?"
"Yes."
"And intended killing me?"
"I did."
"What object had you in telling the officers that I killed Franklin?"
"I wanted to fix ye then."
"Did you not shoot Franklin yourself?"
"No, no. I didn't! Hit was a bullet from your gun, or old man Judson's. No, Wade, I did not do that. I hain't that mean, ef they do say I am."
"How did you know I was out with the Riders?"
"I didn't know ye was there. I took a long shot ter fix ye, that's all."
"All right, now, here are your pistols. Take them and get as fast as you can. Don't try to use them now, but when you get the drop on me again you had better pull the trigger."
Wade watched Thompson as he made his departure. When he had put considerable distance between them Al fired both his pistols in the air and gave one of his old-time Comanche yells that vibrated through the woodland.
"I'll git ye yet," he cried back. "Ye hain't, got away from me, an' what's more, ye hain't a-goin' ter."
Wade drifted back across the stream to where he had left Nora, and found her shaking from fright.
"You didn't take these matters so seriously when I first came into this country," said Jack.
"No," replied Nora, "for then I did not think as I do now. I really believed you were about to commit murder. Oh, Jack, how happy you have made me, by withholding your hand."
"Once you said it would be better for me to kill Thompson at sight. Did you not?"
"I did not, Jack. That is what father told you."
"Pardon me, Nora, you are quite right. Time has blurred my memory."
"I am so glad, Jack, that you are such a fearless man. A coward would have taken the advantage you had and would have slain Al."
"Thank you."
The little cabin at the foot of the mountain was enshrouded in gloom, would soon be engulfed by the dark shadows of night. In the cabin window a candle light, wafted by the soft twilight breeze, flickered and sputtered, but burned on in obedience to the will of the powers that be. In a bed in one corner of the room lay Nora, that sweet girl of the wilds, a pallor spread over her face.
The light in the window was flickering just as her own life had been flickering and smoldering, but it did not go out. She was still alive, and the crucial point had been passed. Now she lay, the Diana of the hills, as beautiful as the Diana of old. Outside 'neath the large spreading tree the chickens were strutting, craning their necks, bobbing their heads up and down, looking upward preparatory to a flight to the limbs above them. On the rickety little porch old Rover was lying, head cast down between his front forepaws, with a sorrowful expression upon his dog face. The mistress had been ill for some time, and his master—Wade—had not paid the least attention to him, always appearing as though he preferred being alone; so the old dog, feeling the many slights, went about with a cast-down countenance.
Earlier in the day Wade had passed going toward the mountain in search of game. Later on he was blazing his way, with the barrel of his rifle, through the thick underbrush down the mountain side. He had got into entire new territory, and sometimes it became necessary for him to crawl through, so thick was the brush. Other times he merely pushed aside the low-hanging limbs with his gun, finally emerging from the thicket into the open space. When space would allow he straightened himself out, then his back ached and his hands and knees were very sore. Suddenly he caught the sound of a disturbed rabbit as it flitted out from its snug nest beneath the shrub. Jack looked quickly in that direction, in time to see it crossing the ravine too far away to shoot. As he walked on there came to his listening ears the shrill whistle of a mountain quail as it sang out its note of warning to its hidden mate near. Wade started off in the direction whence the call of the quail came, but after walking some distance gave up the search and stood still. A dead silence prevailed. Before him was the clear running stream, behind him a wild waste of mountain. Down to the stream's edge he walked, and sat down to rest his tired, weary, sore limbs. The sun was now setting behind the western hills, the soft gentle twilight was drooping over the mountain and valley; still Wade sat, dangling his feet over a precipice, gazing down through the gathering mist into the gleaming waters below, watching them as they went dancing gleefully over the rocks, sending their sparkling, silvery spray high into the air, falling again like silver bubbles. When the dark shadows swooped down and the day was no more, he still sat. When the golden moon rose above the towering mountain, dispelling the hideousness of a lonesome, dark night, he was still sitting in the same spot, dangling his heels against the solid embankment. Across his limbs lay his rifle, his right hand protecting it, while his chin rested firmly in his left hand, which was supported at the elbow by his left leg. Thus he sat silent, no sound save that of the rippling waters of the little running brook breaking the stillness of the night.
"Ah me, ah me!" sighed Wade. His head was bent and his heart was stooped; it must be all over. "For so long a time have I been about this mountain, and the object of my coming, though faithfully sought, has not been found; my purpose remains yet unfulfilled. The tortures I would have inflicted upon others have been turned upon my own heart. My soul is sad. I give up, I give up, for all time. There are now no murderous intents in my heart, there are now no evil designs in my life. Would that I was at peace with everybody. All my heart's desire is peace, sweet peace, that I might spend the balance of my days amid the sweet perfumed mountain flowers and about this dear little stream with whose swiftly running waters I have raced so often, always with her, the sweetest and most beautiful of all. Dear wild flower of the mountain!"
Wade raised his head until he looked into the beautiful blue of the heavens. The gleaming stars, arrayed in silvery brightness, looked down on him.
"Speak, lights of God, speak to my waiting heart, speak to my burdened soul and tell me, if you can, what the future holds in store for me. Am I to continue in hell on earth for my evil life? If so, tell me quick that I might dash my head against yonder rock and end the torture now. If not, speak, that she might live. God save her, let not her present illness separate us forever. It would blight my life; it would kill me. Save her that she may save my soul from a torturous hell; save her that her sweet life might be a blessing to the great, big world beyond this mountain, which she so much longs to see."
Jack felt much better—as does anyone after a faithful prayer. He felt that his prayer had been answered already, and rose in great haste to make his way back over the mountain to the bedside of Nora. He had not seen her all day, had been afraid to see her lest he should find her cold in death, but rather spent a great portion of the day in prayer for her immediate relief. When he arrived at the cabin of Peter Judson the flickering candle-light was still in the window, burning low. His heart sank; it was emblematic of a low ebbing life. With bowed head and unsteady step he went in. Old Rover, still lying quietly and silently on the porch, did not rise at Wade's approach, but wagged his tail in recognition. A death-like quiet pervaded the place, a solemn stillness overspread the home, but he was encouraged to go on, with a feeling that matters were improved.
Old Peter met him at the door, and to his anxious, questioning stare he said: "She's much better; the danger is over."
"Thank God," came in broken whisper.
Wade sat down by the bedside and took the slender, pale hand in his own strong one. For a moment no sound came from the lips of either of them, they just looked into each other's eyes until the weaker ones became mist-filled, and those strong, manly eyes of Jack Wade battled hard against heavy odds just at that moment, but the tears were held firmly back while he rubbed the hand which he held.
"I'm much better now, Jack." The voice was low and weak, but sweet and serene. "Your presence is like good medicine. Why haven't you been by before?"
Wade would not tell her that the balm came from God; therein he was weak. His excuse was, however, satisfying to the tired and worn mind, and strength to the wasted frame. She looked up into his face sweetly.
"You look so tired and worn, Jack," she said, "have you been worrying a great deal?"
"I have worried much, dear girl, on your account. Now that you are better, I will not look worried any more."
"Have you encountered any trouble lately, has your life been threatened?"
"It has not. All has been peace and quiet without; the turbulence has been within only. I do not have fears for anything as regards the power or will of man. We must not talk of those things just now. When you are stronger I have much to tell you."
"Then I must get stronger fast, for I cannot bear to lie here while you are withholding something from me."
"I fear you won't like me when I have confessed and laid my life bare before you."
"That cannot be, Jack. Nothing at all shall separate us, so far as I am concerned."
Wade raised the thin pale hand to his lips and kissed it, thus bringing a flush to her sweet face.