Dick Lane, on leaving the hospital at Chihuahua, went straight to the fortified ledge where he had made his heroic defense. As he conjectured, the renegade, McKee, had got there first, and found and made off with the buried treasure. So Dick manfully set to work to replace his lost fortune. It seemed too slow work to go to his mine and dig the gold he immediately required out of the ground, so he struck out for civilization to sell some of his smaller claims. In the course of a month, at the end of which his wanderings brought him to Tucson, he had sold enough of his holdings to give him three thousand dollars in ready cash. As he was near the Sweetwater, he resolved not to express the money to Payson, but to take it himself.
He entered the courtyard of Allen Hacienda while the wedding was taking place within. None of his friends would have recognized him. His frame was emaciated from sickness; his head was drawn back by the torture which he had suffered; he limped upon feet that had been distorted by the firebrands in McKee's hands; and his face was overgrown by an unkempt beard.
Sounds of laughter fell upon his ears as he mounted the steps. He heard Fresno shout to Slim to hurry up, as he was telling the story about a fellow that was so tanked up he could not say "sasaparilla."
Dick halted. "There must be some sort of a party going on here," he thought to himself. "It won't do to take Echo too much by surprise. If Jack got my letter and told her, it's all right, but if it miscarried—the shock might kill her. I'll see Jack first."
Dick had ridden first to Sweetwater Ranch, but found the place deserted. The party, he mused, accounted for this. While he was planning a way to attract the attention of some one in the house, and to get Payson to the garden without letting Echo know of his presence, Sage-brush Charley, who had espied the stranger through the window, sauntered out on the porch to investigate. Every visitor to the Territory needed looking over, especially after the trouble with Buck McKee.
Sage-brush was bound that there should be no hitch at the wedding of his boss.
"Howdy," greeted Lane pleasantly. "I'm looking for Jack Payson."
"That so?" answered Sage-brush. "Who may you be?"
"I'm a friend of his."
The foreman could see no danger to come from this weak, sickly man. "Then walk right in," he invited; "he's inside."
Sage-brush was about to reenter the house, when Dick halted him with the request: "I want to see him out here—privately."
"What's the name," asked Sage-brush, his suspicions returning.
"Tell him an old friend from Mexico."
Sage-brush did not like the actions of the stranger and his secrecy. He was there to fight his boss's battles, if he had any. This was not in the contract, but it was a part read into the paper by Sage-brush.
"Say, my name's Sage-brush Charley," he cried, with a show of importance. "I'm ranch-boss for Payson. If you want to settle any old claim agin' Jack, I'm actin' as his substitoot for him this evenin'."
"On the contrary," said Lane, with a smile at Sage-brush's outbreak, "he has a claim against me."
It was such a pleasant, kindly look he gave Sage-brush, that the foreman was disarmed completely.
"I'll tell him," he said over his shoulder.
Dick mused over the changes that had occurred since he had left the region. Two years' absence from a growing country means new faces, new ranches, and the wiping out of old landmarks with the advance of population and the invasion of the railroad. He wondered if Jack would know him with his beard. He knew—his mirror told him—that his appearance had changed greatly, and he looked twenty years older than on the day he left the old home ranch.
His trend of thought was interrupted by the entrance of Jack on the porch from the house.
"My name's Payson," Jack began hurriedly, casting a hasty glance backward into the hallway, for the ceremony was about to begin. "You want to see me?"
"Jack!" cried Dick, holding out his hand eagerly. "Jack, old man, don't you know me?" he continued falteringly, seeing no sign of recognition in his friend's eyes.
Payson gasped, shocked and startled. The man before him was a stranger in looks, but the voice—the voice was that of Dick Lane, the last man in the world he wanted to see at that moment. Frightened, almost betraying himself, he glanced at the half-open door. If Dick entered he knew Echo would be lost to him. She might love him truly, and her love for Dick might have passed away, but he knew that Echo would never forgive him for the deception that he had practised upon her.
Grasping his friend's hand weakly, he faltered, "Dick! Dick Lane!"
Jack realized he must act quickly. Some way or somehow Dick must be kept out of the house until after the marriage. Then he, Jack, must take the consequences. Dick saw his hesitation. It was not what he had expected. But something dreadful might have happened while he was away, there had been so many changes.
"Why, what's the matter?" he asked anxiously. "You got my letter? You knew I was coming?"
"Yes, yes, I know," lamely answered Jack. "But I expected notice—you know you said—"
"I couldn't wait. Jack, I'm a rich man, thanks to you—"
"Yes, yes, that's all right," said Payson, disclaiming the praise of the man he had so grievously wronged with a hurried acknowledgment of his gratitude.
"And I hurried back for fear Echo—"
"Oh, yes. I'll tell her about it, when she's ready to hear it."
"What is the matter, Jack? Are you keeping something from me? Where is she?"
"In there," said Payson feebly, pointing to the door.
Dick eagerly started toward the house, but Jack halted him, saying: "No—you mustn't go in now. There's a party-you see, she hasn't been well, doesn't expect you to-night. The shock might be too much for her."
Jack grasped at the lame excuse. It was the first to come to his mind. He must think quickly. This experience was tearing the heart out of him. He could not save himself from betrayal much longer.
"You're right," acquiesced Dick. "You tell her when you get a chance. Jack, as I was saying, I've made quite a bit of money out of my Bisbee holdings. I can pay back my stake to you now."
"Not now," said Jack nervously.
Would this torture never end? Here was his friend, whom he had betrayed come back in the very hour of his marriage to the woman who had promised first to marry him. Now he was offering him money, which Jack needed badly, for his prospective mother-in-law was complaining about his taking her daughter to a mortgaged home.
"Sure, now," continued Dick, pulling a roll of bills from his pocket. "It's three thousand dollars—here it is, all in one bundle."
"Not now, let that wait," said Jack, pushing the money aside.
"It's waited long enough," cried Dick doggedly. "You put the mortgage on your ranch to let me have the money, and it must be about due now."
"Yes, it will be due, but let it wait."
"What's the use? I'm all right now. I brought the cash with me on purpose. I wanted to square it with you on sight."
Dick pressed the money into Jack's hand, closing his fingers over the roll of bills. With a sigh of relief, as if a disagreeable task was completed, he questioned: "How's Bud?"
Jack replied shortly: "All right; he's inside."
"I didn't write to him," cheerfully resumed Dick. "I didn't want the kid to know. He is so excitable, he would have blabbed it right out. I'll sure be glad to see the boy again. He's impulsive, but his heart's all right. I know you've kept a lookout over him."
This trust in him was getting too much for Jack to bear, so the voice of Polly crying to him to hurry up was music to his ears. "I'm coming," he shouted. "I'll see you in a few minutes," he told Dick. "I've something to tell you. I can't tell you now."
"Go in, then," answered Dick. "I'll wait yonder in the garden. Don't keep me waiting any longer than you can help."
Dick turned and walked slowly toward the gate which lead to the kitchen-garden, a part of every ranch home in Arizona. It was cut off from the house by a straggling hedge, on which Echo had spent many hours trying to keep it in shape.
Jack hesitated about going into the house. Even if Echo married him, he knew that she would never forgive him when she learned of his dastardly conduct from Dick Lane's own mouth. It was better to sacrifice the life of one to save three lives from being ruined.
Jack followed Lane up, partly drawing his gun. It would be so easy to shoot him. No one would recognize Dick Lane in that crippled figure. Jack's friends would believe him if he told them the stranger had drawn on him, and he had to shoot him in self-defense.
Then the thought of how dastardly was the act of shooting a man in the back, and he his trusting friend, smote him suddenly, and he replaced the pistol in its holster. "It is worse than the murder of 'Ole Man' Terrill," he muttered.
Dick walked on entirely unconscious of how close he had been to death, with his friend as his murderer.
So interested had the two men been in their conversation, that neither had noticed Buck McKee hiding behind the hedge, listening to their talk, and covering Jack Payson, when he was following Dick with his hand on his revolver. McKee heard Payson's ejaculation, and smiled grimly.
Jack's absence had aroused Jim Allen, who hurried out on the porch, storming. "Say, Jack, what do you mean by putting the brakes on this yere weddin'?"
"Jim—say, Jim! I—want you to do something for me," cried Jack, as he rushed toward his future father-in-law, greatly excited.
"Sure," answered Allen heartily.
"Stand here at this door during the ceremony, and no matter what happens don't let any one in."
"But—" interrupted Allen.
"Don't ask me to explain," blurted Jack. "Echo's happiness is at stake."
"That settles it—I've not let any one spile her happiness yet, an' I won't in the few minutes that are left while I'm still her main protector. Nobody gets in."
"Remember—no one—no matter who it is," emphasized Jack, as he darted into the house.
Jim Allen lighted his pipe. "Now, what's eatin' him?" he muttered to himself. Then, "They're off!" he cried, looking through the window.
The Reverend Samuel Price began to drone the marriage-service.
It is the little things in life that count, after all. Men will work themselves into hysteria over the buzzing of a fly, and yet plan a battle-ship in a boiler-shop. A city full of people will at one time become panic-stricken over the burning of a rubbish-heap, and at another camp out in the ruins of fire-swept homes, treating their miseries as a huge joke.
Philosophers write learnedly of cause and effect. In chemistry certain combinations give certain results. But no man can say: "I will do thus and so, this and that will follow." All things are possible, but few things are probable.
Dick Lane had planned to shield Echo by writing to Jack Payson, letting him break the news of his return. Fate would have it that she would not know until too late of his escape. A letter sent directly to her might have prevented much unhappiness and many heartaches. Not till months later, when happiness had returned, did Jack realize that his one great mistake was made by not telling Echo of Dick's rescue.
Both Dick and Echo might have had a change of heart when they met again. Echo was young. Dick had wandered far. Both had lost touch with common interests. Jack Payson had entered her life as a factor. He was eager and impetuous; Dick was settled and world-worn by hardship and much physical suffering. Now Jack was at the altar racked with mental torture, while Dick waited in the garden for his traitorous friend. The innocent cause of the tragedy was sweetly and calmly replying to the questions of the marriage-ritual, while Jack was looking, as Allen said to himself, "darned squeamish."
"According to these words, it is the will of God that nothing shall sever the marriage-bond," were the words that fell upon Allen's ears as he stooped to look in the window at the wedding-party.
"The Sky Pilot's taking a long time to make the hitch. Darned if I couldn't hitch up a twenty-mule team in the time that he's takin' to get them two to the pole," said Allen, speaking to himself.
Dick had grown impatient at Jack's absence, and wandered back from the garden to the front of the house. Spying Allen, he greeted him with "Hello, Uncle Jim."
"That's my name," answered Allen suspiciously. "But I ain't uncle to every stranger that comes along."
"I'm no stranger," laughed Dick. "You know me."
"Do I?" replied Allen, unconvinced. "Who are you?"
"The poor orphan you took from an asylum and made a man of—Dick Lane."
"Dick Lane!" repeated the astonished ranchman. "Come back from the dead!"
"No, I ain't dead yet," answered Dick, holding out his hand, which Allen gingerly grasped, as if he expected to find it thin air. "I wasn't killed. I have been in the hospital for a long time. I wrote Jack—he knows."
"My God!" Allen cried. "Jack knows—you wrote to him—he knows." Over and over he repeated the astonishing news which had been broken to him so suddenly. Here was a man, as if back from the dead, standing in his own dooryard, telling him that Jack knew he was alive. No word had been told him. What could Echo say? This, then, explained Jack's strange request, and his distress.
"And Echo?" Dick questioned, glancing toward the house.
"Echo." The name aroused Allen. He saw at once that he must act definitely and quickly. Echo must not see Dick now. It was too late. The secret of his return on the wedding-day must be known only to the three men.
"Look here, Dick," he commanded. "You mustn't let her see you—she mustn't know you are alive."
Dick was growing confused over the mystery which was being thrown about Echo Allen. First Jack had told him he must wait to see her, and now her father tells him he must never see her again, or let her know that he is alive. His strength was being overtaxed by all this evasion and delay.
"Dick," said Allen, with deep sympathy, laying his hand upon the man's shoulder. "She's my daughter an' I want her life to be happy. Can't you see? Do you understand? She thinks you're dead."
"What are you saying?" cried Dick, trying to fathom the riddle.
"You've come back too late, Dick," sadly explained Allen.
"Too late," echoed Dick. "There's something back of all this. I'll see her now."
He started to enter the door, but Allen restrained him. "You can't go in," he shouted to the excited man, and pushed him down the steps. It was an easy task for him for Dick was too weak to offer much resistance. "No, you won't," he gently told him. His heart bled for the poor fellow, whom he loved almost as a son, but Echo's happiness was at stake, and explanations could come later. More to emphasize his earnestness than to indicate intention to shoot, he laid his hand on the butt of his revolver, saying: "Not if I have to kill you."
Dick began to realize that whatever was wrong was of the greatest consequence. It was a shock to him to have his oldest, his best friend in the West treat him in this fashion.
"Jim!" he cried in his anguish.
"You've got to go back where you came from, Dick," sternly answered the ranchman. "If ever you loved my daughter, now's your chance to prove it—she must never know you're livin—"
"But—"
"It's a whole lot I'm askin' of you, Dick," continued Allen. "But if you love her, as I think you do, it may be a drop of comfort in your heart to know that by doin' this great thing for her, you'll be makin' her life better and happier."
"I do love her," cried Dick passionately; "but there must be some reason—tell me."
Allen held up his hand to warn Dick to be silent. He beckoned him to follow him. Slowly he led him to the door, and, partly opening it, motioned him to listen.
"Forasmuch as John Payson and Echo Allen have consented together in holy wedlock" were the words that fell upon his ears.
As the doomed man stands, motionless, before his judges, and hears his death-sentence read without a tremor, ofttimes thinking of some trifle, so Dick stood for a moment. At first he did not fully realize what it all meant. Then the full depth of his betrayal flooded him. "What?" he cried. "Payson!" Allen held him back.
Again the minister's voice fell upon their ears repeating the solemn words. "And have declared the same before God and in the presence of these witnesses, I pronounce them husband and wife. What God hath joined together, let no man put asunder."
Dick, shaken and hurt, slowly sank to his knees, covering his face with his hands. A dry sob shook his frame. Here was the end of all his hopes. Here was the sad reward for years of toil and waiting.
"Now you know why you can't stay here," said Allen, his tones full of pity.
"Now I know."
Dick staggered to his feet, and started blindly from the house.
"Dick!" cried Allen, in a broken voice, "forgive me. She's my child, she loves him now."
The betrayed friend took his hand without looking at him. In vain he tried to hide his deep emotion. "I know," he faltered, "I'll never trouble her. I'll go away never to return."
"Where'll you go?" asked Allen.
"Back where I came from, back into the desert—into the land of dead things. Good-by!"
As he wrung the ranchman's hand and turned to walk out of the life of his old comrades and the woman he loved, he heard the minister repeat: "The blessing of the Almighty Father rest upon and abide with you, now and forevermore. Amen."
"Evermore. Amen!" faltered Dick, bidding a last mute farewell to Allen.
The old ranchman watched him quietly as he mounted his horse and rode down the trail.
His reverie was interrupted by the bursts of laughter of the wedding-guests, and the cries of Fresno: "Kiss the bride, Slim! Kiss the bride!"
Five weeks had passed since the marriage of Echo and Jack. On her return from the honeymoon in the little hunting cabin in the Tortilla Range, the young wife set to work, and already great changes had been made in the ranch-house on the Sweetwater. Rooms were repapered and painted. The big center room was altered into a cozy living-room. On the long, low window, giving an outlook on fields of alfalfa, corn and the silver ribbons of the irrigation ditches, dainty muslin curtains now hung. Potted geraniums filled the sill, and in the unused fireplace Echo had placed a jar of ferns. A clock ticking on the mantelpiece added to the cheerfulness and hominess of the house. On the walls, horns of mountain-sheep and antlers of antelope and deer alternated with the mounted heads of puma and buffalo. Through the open window one caught a glimpse of the arms of a windmill, and the outbuildings of the home ranch. Navajo blankets were scattered over the floors and seats.
Echo had taken the souvenirs of the hunt and trail which Jack had collected, and, with a woman's touch of refinement, had used them for decorative effects. She had in truth made the room her very own. The grace and charm of her personality were stamped upon the environment.
The men of the ranch fairly worshiped Echo. Sending to Kansas City, they purchased a piano for her as a birthday-gift. On the morning when the wagon brought it over from Florence station, little work was done about the place. The instrument had been unpacked and placed in the living-room in Echo's absence. Mrs. Allen, Polly, and Jim rode over to be present at the presentation. The donors gathered in the living-room to admire the gift, which shone bravely under the energetic polishing of Mrs. Allen.
"That's an elegant instrument," was her observation, as she flicked an imaginary speck of dust from the case.
Polly opened the lid, saying: "Just what Echo wanted."
Jim cocked his head, as if he were examining a new pinto pony.
"Sent all the way up to Kansas City for it, eh?"
"That's right, Uncle Jim," chorused the punchers.
"Now the room's complete," announced Polly. "Echo's made a big change around here." The group gravely followed Polly's approving glances.
"That she has," assented Mrs. Allen. "Looked a barn when Jack was a bachelor. This certainly is the finest kind of a birthday-present you all could have thought of."
"Josephine'll cry in a minute, boys," chuckled Allen.
"You hesh up," snapped his wife, glaring at the grinning ranchman.
Sage-brush poured oil on the roughening waters by changing the conversation. Speaking as if making a dare, he challenged: "What I want to know is, is there anybody here present as can rassle a tune out of that there box?"
No one came forward.
"Ain't there none of you boys that can play on a pianny?" he demanded.
"I've played on the big square one down at the Lone Star," gravely piped up Show Low.
"What did you play," asked the inquisitive Polly.
"Poker," answered Show Low seriously, his face showing no trace of humor.
"Poker!" Polly repeated, in disgust.
"That's all they ever plays on it," explained Show Low indignantly.
Polly grew impatient. This presentation was a serious affair and not to be turned into an audience for the exploitation of Show Low's adventures. Moreover, she did not like to be used even indirectly as a target for fun-making, although she delighted in making some one else a feeder for her ideas of fun.
Fresno modestly announced he was something of a musical artist.
"I 'low I can shake a tune out of that," he declared.
"Let's hear you," cried Polly, rather doubtful of Fresno's ability.
"Step up, perfesser," cried Allen heartily, slapping him on the back.
Fresno grinned and solemnly rolled up his sleeves. His comrades eyed his every move closely. He spat on his hands, approached the piano, and glared fiercely at the keyboard.
"My ma had one of them there things when I was a yearlin'," he observed.
Fresno spun the seat of the piano-stool until it almost twirled off the screw. His actions created greatest interest, especially to Parenthesis, who peered under the seat, to see the wheels go round. Fresno threw his leg over the seat as if mounting a horse.
"Well, boys, what'll you have?" he asked, glancing from one to the other in imitation of the manner of his friend, the pianist in the Tucson honkytonk, on a lively evening.
"The usual poison," absently answered Show Low.
Sage-brush struck him in the breast with the with the back of his hand. "Shut up," he growled.
Turning to Fresno, he said: "Give us the—er—'The Maiden's Prayer.'"
Fresno whisked about so quickly that he almost lost his balance. Gazing at the petitioner in blank amazement, he shouted: "The what?"
Sage-brush blushed under his tan. In a most apologetic voice he said: "Well, that's the first tune my sister learned to play, an' she played it continuous—which is why I left home."
"I'd sure like to oblige you, but Maiden's Prayers ain't in my repetory," explained the mollified musician.
Fresno raised his finger uncertainly over the keyboard searching for a key from which to make a start. The group watched him expectantly. As he struck a note each member of his audience jumped back in surprise at the sound. Fresno scratched his head and gingerly fingered another key. After several false starts, backing and filling, over the keyboard, he began to pick out with one finger the air "The Suwanee River."
"That's it. Now we're started," he cried exultantly.
His overconfidence led him to strike a false note.
"Excuse me," he apologized. "Got the copper on the wrong chip."
Once more he essayed playing the old melody, but became hopelessly confused.
"Darn the tune!" he mumbled.
Sage-brush, ever ready to cheer up the failing courage of a performer, chirruped: "Shuffle 'em up ag'in and begin a new deal."
Fresno spat on his hands and ruffled his hair like a musical genius. Again he sought the rhythm among the keys. He tried to whistle the air. That device failed him.
"Will you all whistle that tune? I'm forgettin' it," was his plaintive request.
"Sure, let her go, boys," cried Sage-brush.
Falteringly, with many stops and sudden they tried to accompany Fresno's halting pursuit over the keyboard after the tune that was dodging about in his mind. All at once the player struck his gait and introduced a variation on the bass notes.
"That ain't in it," shouted Show Low indignantly.
"Shut up!" bellowed Sage-brush.
With both hands hammering the keys indiscriminately, Fresno made a noisy if not artistic finish, and whirled about on the stool, to be greeted by hearty applause.
"Well, I reckon that's goin' some!" he boasted, when the hand-clapping subsided, bowing low to Polly and Mrs. Allen.
"Goin'?" laughed Polly. "Limpin' is what I call it. If you don't learn to switch off, you'll get a callous on that one finger of yourn." Fresno looked at that member dubiously.
"Ain't music civilizin'?" suggested Show Low to Jim Allen.
"You bet!" the ranchman agreed. "Take a pianny an' enough Winchesters an' you can civilize the hull of China."
"Fresno could kill more with his pianny-play than his gun-play," suggested Show Low.
Mrs. Allen bethought herself that there was a lot of work to be done in preparation for the party. Even if everything was ready, the dear old soul would find something to do or worry about.
"Come, now, clear out of here, the hull kit an' b'ilin' of you," she ordered.
The men hastily crowded out on the piazza.
"Take that packin'-case out of sight, if you mean this pianny to be a surprise to Echo. She'll be trottin' back here in no time," she added.
Fresno had lingered to assure Jim: "This yere birthday's goin' to be a success. Would you like another selection?" he eagerly asked.
"Not unless you wash your finger," snapped Mrs. Allen, busy polishing the keys Fresno had struck. "You left a grease-spot on every key you've touched," she explained.
Fresno held up his finger for Allen's inspection. "I've been greasin' the wagon," was his explanation.
"Git out with the rest of them," she commanded. "I've got enough to do to look after that cake." Mrs. Allen darted into the kitchen. Jim slowly filled his pipe and hunted up the most comfortable chair. After two or three trials he found one to suit him, and sank back with a sigh of content.
"Jack ain't back yet?" Polly put the question.
Polly rearranged the chairs in the room, picking up and replacing the articles on the table to suit her own artistic conceptions. She straightened out a war-bonnet on the wall. She was flicking off a spot of dust in the gilt chair that Jack had got as a wedding present for Echo on the day of the station-agent's murder, and, being reminded of the tragedy, she asked: "That posse didn't catch the parties that killed Terrill, did they?"
"Not that I hear on. Slim Hoover he took the boys that night an tried to pick up the trail after it entered the river, but they couldn't find where it come out."
"One of them fellers, the man that left the station alone, and probably done the job, rode a pacin' horse," answered Jim, between puffs of his pipe.
"Then he's a stranger to these parts. Jack's pinto paces—it's his regular gait. It's the only pacing hoss around here."
"That's so," he assented, but made no further comment. The full force of the observation did not strike him at the time.
Polly began to pump Colonel Jim. There were several recent happenings which she did not fully comprehend. At the inquisitive age and a girl, she wanted to know all that was going on.
"Jack's been acting mighty queer of late," she ventured. "Like he's got something on his mind."
Jim smiled at her simplicity and jokingly replied: "Well, he's married."
The retort exasperated Polly. She was not meeting with the success she desired. "Do hush!" she cried, in her annoyance.
"That's enough on any man's mind," Jim laughed as he sauntered out of the door.
"Something queer about Jack," observed Polly, seating herself at the table. "He ain't been the same man since the weddin'. He's all right when Echo's around, but when he thinks no one is watchin' him he sits around and sighs."
Jack entered the room at this moment. Absent-mindedly he hung his hat and spurs on a rack and leaned his rifle against the wall, sighing deeply as he did so. So engrossed was he in his thoughts that he did not notice Polly until he reached the table. He started in surprise when he saw her. "Hello, Polly!" was his greeting. "Where is Echo?"
Polly rose hastily at the sound of his voice.
"Didn't you meet her?" she asked. "We got her to ride over toward Tucson this morning to get her out of the way so's to snake the pianny in without her seein' it." Polly glided over to the instrument and touched the keys softly.
With admiration Jack gazed at the instrument.
"I came around by Florence," answered Jack, with a smile.
Eagerly Polly turned toward him. "See anything of Bud Lane?" she queried.
"No." Again Jack smiled—this time at the girl's impetuosity.
"He'll lose his job with me if he don't call more regular," she said.
"Say, Jack, you ain't fergettin' what you promised—to help Bud with the money that you said was comin' in soon, as Dick's share of a speculation you and him was pardners in? I'm powerful anxious to get him away from McKee."
Jack had not forgotten the promise, but, alas, under the goading of Mrs. Allen that he should clear off the mortgage on his home, he had used Dick Lane's money for this purpose. In what a mesh of lies and broken promises he was entangling himself! Now he was forced further to deceive trusting little Polly in the matter that was dearest to her heart.
"No, Polly, but the fact is—that speculation isn't turning out so well, after all."
The disappointed girl turned sadly away, and went out to Mrs. Allen in the kitchen.
Jack removed his belt and gun and hung them on the rack by the door. Spying his father at the corral, he called to him to come into the house.
"Hello, Jack!" was Allen's greeting as he entered, shaking the younger man's hand.
"When did you come over?"
"This morning," Allen told him. "Echo's birthday, you know, and the old lady allowed we'd have to be here. Ain't seen you since the weddin'—got things lookin' fine here." Allen slowly surveyed the room.
Jack agreed with him with a gesture of assent. A more important topic to him than the furnishing of a room was what had become of Dick Lane. After the wedding ceremony no chance had come to him to speak privately to Allen.
The festivities of the wedding had been shortened. Slim had gathered a posse and taken up the trail of the slayers. Jim Allen had joined them. The hazing of Jack, and the hasty departure of the bridal pair on horseback in a shower of corn, shelled and on cob, prevented the two men from meeting.
The older man had volunteered no explanation. Jack knew that in his heart Allen did not approve of his actions, but was keeping silent because of his daughter.
Jack could restrain himself no longer. "Jim—what happened that night?" he asked brokenly.
Allen showed his embarrassment. "Meanin'—" Then he hesitated.
"Dick," was all Jack could say.
"I seed him. If I hadn't, he'd busted up the weddin' some," was his laconic answer.
"Where is he?"
Allen relighted his pipe. When he got the smoke drawing freely, he gazed at Jack thoughtfully and answered: "He's gone. Back where he came from—into the desert." Jim puffed slowly and then added: "Looks like you didn't give Dick a square deal."
Allen liked his son-in-law, and was going to stand by him, but in Arizona the saying "All's fair in love and war" is not accepted at its face value.
"I didn't," acknowledged Jack. "I was desperate at the thought of losing her. She loved me, and had forgotten him—she's happy with me now."
"I reckon that's right," was Jim's consoling reply.
To clinch his argument and soothe his troublesome conscience, Jack continued: "She never would have been happy with him."
"That's what I told him," declared Allen. "He knew it, an' that's why he went away—an' Echo—no matter what comes, she must never know. She'd never forgive you—an', fer that matter, me, neither."
Jack looked long out of the window toward the distant mountains—the barrier behind which Dick was wandering in the great desert, cut off from the woman he loved by a false friend.
"How I have suffered for that lie!" uttered Jack, in tones full of anguish. "That's what hurts me most—the thought that I lied to her. I might have killed him that night," pondered Jack. He shuddered at the thought that he had been on the point of adding murder to the lie. He had faced the same temptation which Dick had yet to overcome.
"Mebbe you did. There's more'n one way of killin' a man," suggested Allen.
Jack swung round and faced him. The observation had struck home. He realized how poignantly Dick must have endured the loss of Echo and thought of his betrayal by Jack. As he had suffered mentally so Dick must be suffering in the desert. In self-justification he returned to his old argument.
"I waited until I was sure he was dead. Six months I waited after we heard the news. After I had told Echo I loved her and found that I was loved in return—then came this letter. God! What a fight I had with myself when I found that he lived—was thinking of returning home to claim her for his own. I rode out into the hills and fought it out all alone, like an Indian—then I resolved to hurry the wedding—to lie to her—and I have been living that lie every minute, every hour."
Jack leaned heavily on the table. His head sank. His voice dropped almost to a whisper.
Allen slapped him on the back to cheer him up. Philosophically he announced: "Well, it's got to be as it is. You'll mebbe never hear from him again. You mustn't never tell her. I ain't a-goin' to say nothin' about it—her happiness means everything to me."
Jack grasped his hand in silent thankfulness.
The two men walked slowly out of the room to the corral.
As Echo galloped across the prairie in the glorious morning air, the sunshine, the lowing of the cattle on the hills, and the songs of the birds in the trees along the Sweetwater had banished all depressing thoughts, and her mind dwelt on her love for Jack and the pleasantness of the lines in which her life had fallen.
Only one small cloud had appeared on the horizon. Jack had not shared with her his confidences in the business of the ranch. He told her he did not want to worry her with such cares. True, there were times when he was deeply abstracted; but in her presence his moroseness vanished quickly. Carefully as he had tried to hide his secret, she had, with a woman's intuition, seen beneath the surface of things and realized that something was lacking to complete her happiness.
As Echo turned toward home a song sprang to her lips. Polly spied her far down the trail.
"Boys, she's coming," she shouted to the men, who were at the bunk-house awaiting Mrs. Payson's return. As they passed the corral they called to Jack and Allen to join them in the living-room to prepare for the surprise for Echo.
The party quickly reassembled.
"Good land!" shouted Allen, "get something to cover the pianny with!"
The punchers rushed in confusion about the room in a vain search.
"Ain't there a plagued thing we can cover the pianny with?" cried the demoralized Allen, renewing his appeal.
Polly came to the rescue of the helpless men by plucking a Navajo blanket from the couch. Tossing one end of it to Show Low, she motioned to him to help hold it up before the instrument like a curtain.
"Stand in front of it, everybody," ordered Mrs. Allen, who had left her cake-baking and hurried in from the kitchen. "Polly, spread your skirts—you, too, Jim."
Allen ran in front of the piano, holding out an imaginary dress in imitation of Polly. "Which I ain't got none," he cried.
Parenthesis jumped in front of the piano-stool, trying vainly to hide it with his legs.
"Parenthesis, put your legs together," Mrs. Allen cried.
"I can't, ma'am," wailed the unfortunate puncher. He fell on his knees before the stool, spreading out his waistcoat for a screen.
Mrs. Allen helped him out with her skirts.
"Steady, everybody!" shouted Jack.
"Here she is!" yelled Sage-brush, as the door opened and the astonished Echo faced those she loved and liked.
Echo made a pretty picture framed in the doorway. She wore her riding-habit of olive-green—from the hem of which peeped her soft boots. Her hat, broad, picturesque, typical of the Southwest, had slipped backward, forming a background for her pretty face. An amused smile played about the corners of her mouth.
"Well, what is it?" she smiled inquiringly.
The group looked at her sheepishly. No one wanted to answer her question.
"What's the matter?" she resumed. "You're herded up like a bunch of cows in a norther."
Sage-brush began gravely to explain. He got only as far as: "This yere bein' a birthday," when Echo interrupted him: "Oh! then it's a birthday-party?"
Once stopped, Sage-brush could not get started again. He cleared his throat with more emphasis than politeness; striking the attitude of an orator, with one hand upraised and the other on his hip, he hemmed and hawed until beads of perspiration trickled down his temples.
Again he nerved himself for the ordeal.
"Mebbe," he gasped.
Then he opened and closed his mouth, froglike, several times, taking long, gulping breaths. At last, looking helplessly about him, he shouted: "Oh, shucks! you tell her, Jack." He pushed him toward Echo. Jack rested his hand on the table and began: "We've a surprise for you—that is, the boys have—"
"What is it?" asked Echo eagerly.
"You've got to call it blind," broke in Sage-brush.
"Guess it," cried Fresno.
"A pony-cart," hazarded Echo.
"Shucks! no," said Show Low at the idea of presenting Echo with anything on wheels.
Echo then guessed: "Sewing-machine."
Sage-brush encouraged her, "That's something like it—go on—go on."
"Well, then, it's a—"
Sage-brush grew more excited. He raised and lowered himself on his toes, backing toward the piano. "Go it, you're gettin' there," he shouted.
"It's a—"
Again she hesitated, to be helped on by Sage-brush with the assurance: "She'll do it—fire away—it's a—"
"A—"
"Go on."
Sage-brush in his enthusiasm backed too far into the blanket screen. His spurs became entangled. To save himself from a fall, he threw out his hand behind him. They struck the polished cover of the instrument, slid off, and Sage-brush sat down on the keys with an unmistakable crash.
"A piano!" cried Echo exultantly.
"Who done that?" demanded Show Low angrily.
Parenthesis, from his place on the floor, looked at the mischief-maker in disgust. "Sage-brush!" he shouted.
"Givin' the hull thing away," snarled Fresno.
Show Low could contain himself no longer. Going up to Sage-brush, he shook his fist in his face, saying: "You're the limit. You ought to be herdin' sheep."
The victim of the accident humbly replied: "I couldn't help it."
Mrs. Allen smoothed out the differences by declaring: "What's the difference, she wouldn't have guessed, not in a million years—stand away and let her see it."
Fresno swept them all aside with the blanket.
"Oh, isn't it beautiful, beautiful!" cried Echo.
"Who—what—where—" she stammered, glancing from one to the other, her eyes finally resting on Jack.
"Not guilty," he cried. "You'll have to thank the boys for this."
With happy tears welling up in her eyes, Echo said: "I do thank them, I do—I do—I can't tell how delighted I am. I can't say how much this means to me—I thank you—I say it once, but I feel it a thousand times." She seized each of the boys by the hand and shook it heartily.
"Would you like to have another selection?" asked Fresno, relieving the tension of the situation.
"No!" shouted the punchers unanimously. Fresno looked very much crestfallen, since he considered that he had made a deep impression by his first effort.
"Mrs. Payson's goin' to hit us out a tune," announced Sage-brush.
Echo seated herself at the piano. Jack leaned against the instrument, gazing fondly into her eyes, as she raised her face radiant with happiness. Allen had taken possession of the best rocking-chair. Mrs. Allen sat at the table, and the boys ranged themselves about the room. Their faces reflected gratification. They watched Echo expectantly.
Echo played the opening bars of "The Old Folks at Home." Before she sang Fresno, holding up his right index-finger, remarked to no one in particular: "I washed that finger."
The singing deeply affected her little audience. Echo had a sweet, natural voice. She threw her whole soul into the old ballad. She was so happy she felt like singing, not lively airs, but songs about home. Her new home had become so dear to her at that moment.
Mrs. Allen as usual began to cry. Polly soon followed her example. There were tears even in the of some of the punchers, although they blinked vigorously to keep them back.
When she repeated the chorus, Sage-brush said to Fresno: "Ain't that great?"
That worthy, however, with the jealousy of an artist, and to hide his own deeply moved sensibilities, replied: "That ain't so much."
Jack had become completely absorbed in the music. He and Echo were oblivious to surroundings. His arm had slipped about his wife's waist, and she gazed fondly into his face. Sage-brush was the first to notice their attitude. On his calling the attention of the boys to their happiness, these quietly tiptoed from the room. Polly signaled to Mrs. Allen, and followed the boys. Josephine awoke Jim as if from a dream and led him slowly out, leaving the young couple in an earthly paradise of married love.
When Echo finished, she turned in surprise to find themselves alone.
"Was it as bad as that?" she naively asked Jack.
"What?"
"Why, they've all left us."
Jack laughed softly. "So they have—I forgot they were here," he said, looking fondly down at his wife.
Echo began to play quietly another ballad. "I've always wanted a piano," she said.
"You'd found one here waiting, if I'd only known it," he chided.
"You've given me so much already," she murmured. "I've been a big expense to you."
Jack again slipped his arm about her waist and kissed her. "There ain't any limit on my love," he declared. "I want you to be happy—"
"Don't you think I am," laughed Echo. "I'm the happiest woman on earth, Jack, and it's all you. I want to be more than a wife to you, I want to be a helpmate—but you won't let me."
A wistful expression crept over Echo's countenance.
"Who says so?" he demanded playfully, as if he would punish any man who dared make such an accusation.
Echo turned on the stool and took his hand. "I know it," she said, with emphasis. "You've been worried about something for days and days—don't tell me you haven't."
Jack opened his lips as if to contradict her. "We women learn to look beneath the surface; what is it, Jack?" she continued.
Jack loosened his wife's handclasp and walked over to the table.
"Nothing—what should I have to worry about?" He spoke carelessly.
"The mortgage?" suggested Echo.
"I paid that off last week," explained Jack.
Echo felt deeply hurt that this news should have been kept from her by her husband.
"You did, and never told me?" she chided. "Where did you get the money?" she inquired.
"Why, I—" Jack halted. He could not frame an excuse at once, nor invent a new lie to cover his old sin. Deeper and deeper he was getting into the mire of deception.
Echo had arisen from the seat. "It was over three thousand dollars, wasn't it?" she insisted.
"Something like that," answered Jack noncommittally.
"Well, where did you get it?" demanded his wife.
"An old debt—a friend of mine—I loaned him the money a long time ago and he paid it back—that's all."
Jack took a drink of water from the olla to hide his confusion.
"Who was it?" persisted Echo.
"You wouldn't know if I told you. Now just stop talking business."
"It isn't fair," declared Echo. "You share all the good things of life with me, and I want to share some of your business worries. I want to stand my share of the bad."
Jack saw he must humor her. "When the bad comes I'll tell you," he assured her, patting her hand.
"You stand between me and the world. You're like a great big mountain, standing guard over a little tree in the valley, keeping the cold north wind from treating it too roughly." She sighed contentedly. "But the mountain does it all."
Jack looked down tenderly at his little wife. Her love for him moved him deeply.
"Not at all," he said to her. "The little tree grows green and beautiful. It casts a welcome shade about it, and the heart of the mountain is made glad to its rocky core to know that the safety of that little tree is in its keeping."
Taking her in his arms, he kissed her again and again.
"Kissing again," shouted Polly from the doorway. "Say, will you two never settle down to business? There's Bud Lane and a bunch of others just into the corral—maybe they want you, Jack."
Jack excused himself. As he stepped out on the piazza he asked Polly: "Shall I send Bud in?"
"Let him come in if he wants to. I'm not sending for him." Polly spitefully turned up her nose at him. Jack laughed as he closed the door.
Echo reseated herself at the piano, fingering the keys.
"How are you getting on with Bud?" she asked the younger girl.
"We don't get on a little bit," she snapped. "Bud never seems to collect much revenue an' we just keep trottin' slow like—wish I was married and had a home of my own."
"Aren't you happy with father and mother?"
Polly glanced at Echo with a smile. "Lord, yes," she replied, "in a way, but I'm only a poor relation—your ma was my ma's cousin or something like that."
Echo laughed. "Nonsense," she retorted. "Nonsense—you're my dear sister, and the only daughter that's at the old home now."
"But I want a home of my own, like this," said Polly.
"Then you'd better shake Bud and give Slim a chance."
Polly was too disgusted to answer at once. "Slim Hoover, shucks! Slim doesn't care for girls—he's afraid of 'em," she said at length. "I like Bud, with all his orneriness," she declared.
"Why doesn't he come to see you more often?"
"I don't know, maybe it's because he's never forgiven you for marryin' Jack."
"Why should he mind that?" she asked, startled.
"Well, you know," she answered between stitches, drawing the needle through the cloth with angry little jerks, "Bud, he never quite believed Dick was dead."
Echo rose hastily. The vague, haunting half-thoughts of weeks were crystallized on the instant. She felt as if Dick was trying to speak to her from out of the great beyond. With a shudder she into a chair at the table opposite Polly.
"Don't," she said, her voice scarcely above a whisper, "I can't bear to hear him spoken of. I dreamed of him the other night—a dreadful dream."
Polly was delighted with this new mystery. It was all so romantic.
"Did you? let's hear it."
With unseeing eyes Echo gazed straight ahead rebuilding from her dream fabric a tragedy of the desert, in which the two men who had played so great a part in her life were the actors.
"It seems," she told, "that I was in the desert, such a vast, terrible desert, where the little dust devils eddied and swirled, and the merciless sun beat down until it shriveled up every growing thing."
Polly nodded her head sagely.
"That's the way the desert looks—and no water."
Echo paid no heed to the interruption. Her face became wan and haggard, as in her mind's eye she saw the weary waste of waterless land quiver and swim under the merciless sun. Not a tree, not a blade of grass, not a sign of life broke the monotony of crumbling cliffs and pinnacled rocks. Onward and ever onward stretched yellow ridges and alkali-whitened ravines, blinding the eye and parching the throat.
"Then I saw a man staggering toward me," she continued; "his face was white and drawn, his lips cracked and parched—now and then he would stumble and fall, and lie there on his face in the hot sand, digging into it with his bony fingers seeking for water."
Echo shut her eyes as if to blot out the picture. Its reality almost overpowered her.
"Suddenly he raised his eyes to mine," she resumed, after a pause. "It was Dick."
In her excitement she had arisen, stretching out her arms as if to ward off an apparition.
"He tried to call me. I saw his lips move, framing my name. Dragging himself to his feet, he came toward me with his arms outstretched. Then another form appeared between us fighting to keep him back. They fought there under the burning sun in the hot dust of the desert until at last one was crushed to earth. The victor raised his face to mine, and—it was Jack."
Echo buried her face in her hands. Dry sobs shook her bosom. Awe-stricken, Polly gazed at the over-wrought wife.
"PFEW!" she laughed, to shake off her fright. "That was a sure enough nightmare. If I'd a dream like that I'd wake up the whole house yapping like a coyote."
As the commonplace ever intrudes upon the unusual, so a knock on the door relieved the tension of the situation. It was Slim. He did not wait for an invitation to enter, but, opening the door, asked: "Can I come in?"
"Sure, come in," cried Polly, glad to find any excuse to shake off the depression of Echo's dream.
"Howdy, Mrs. Payson, just come over to see Jack," was the jolly Sheriff's greeting.
"He's down at the corral," she informed him.
Mrs. Allen hurried in from the kitchen at this moment, calling: "Echo, come here, and look at this yere cake. It looks as if it had been sot upon."
Echo closed the lid of the piano and called her mother's attention to the presence of Slim Hoover.
"How d'ye do, Slim Hoover?—you might have left some of that dust outside."
The Sheriff was greatly embarrassed by her chiding. In his ride from Florence to the Sweetwater, the alkali and sand stirred up by the hoofs of the horses had settled on his hat and waistcoat so freely that his clothing had assumed a neutral, gray tone above which his sun-tanned face and red hair loomed like the moon in a fog. Josephine's scolding drove him to brush his shoulders with his hat, raising a cloud of dust about his head.
"Stop it!" Mrs. Allen shouted shrilly. "Slim Hoover, if your brains was dynamite you couldn't blow the top of your head off."
Polly was greatly amused by Slim's encounter with the cleanly Mrs. Allen. Slim stood with open mouth, watching Mrs. Allen flounce out of the room after Polly, who was trying in vain to suppress her laughter. Turning to the girl, he said: "Ain't seen you in some time."
Slim was thankful that the girl was seated at the table with her back to him. Somehow or other he found he could speak to her more freely when she was not looking at him.
"That so?" she challenged. "Come to the birthday?"
"Not regular," he answered.
Polly glanced at him over her shoulder. It was too much for Slim. He turned away to hide his embarrassment. Partly recovering from his bashfulness, he coughed, preparatory to speaking. But Polly had vanished. As one looks sheepishly for the magician's disappearing coin, so Slim gazed at floor and ceiling as if the girl might pop up anywhere. Spying an empty chair behind him, he sank into it gingerly and awkwardly.
Meantime Polly returned with a broom and began sweeping out the evidences of Slim's visit. She spoke again:
"Get them hold-ups yet that killed 'Ole Man' Terrill?" she asked.
"Not yet. But we had a new shootin' over'n our town yesterday."
Slim was doing his best to make conversation. Polly did not help him out very freely.
"That so?" was her reply.
"Spotted Taylor shot two Chinamen."
Polly's curiosity was aroused.
"What for?" she asked, stopping her sweeping for a moment.
"Just to give the new graveyard a start," Slim chuckled.
Polly joined in his merriment.
"Spotted Taylor was always a public-spirited citizen," was her comment.
"He sure was," assented Slim.
"Get up there. I want to sweep under that chair." Polly brushed Slim's feet with the broom vigorously. With an elaborate "Excuse me," Slim arose, but re-seated himself in another chair directly in the pathway of Polly's broom.
"Get out of there, too," she cried.
"Shucks, there ain't any room for me nowhere," he muttered disgustedly.
"You shouldn't take up so much of it."
Slim attempted to take a seat on the small gilt chair which was Jack's wedding-present to Echo.
Polly caught sight of him in time. "Look out," she shouted. "That chair wasn't built for a full-grown man like you."
Slim nervously replaced the chair before a writing-desk. Polly wielded her broom about the feet of the Sheriff, who danced clumsily about, trying to avoid her.
"You're just trying to sweep me out of here," he complained.
"Well, if you will bring dust in with you, you must expect to be swept out," Polly replied, with a show of spirit.
Polly was shaking the mat vigorously at the door when Slim said:
"I see they buried Poker Bill this mornin'."
"Is HE dead?" It was the first Polly had heard of the passing away of one of the characters of the Territory. She had expressed her surprise in the of an interrogation, emphasizing the "he," a colloquialism of the Southwest.
Slim, however, had chosen to ignore the manner of speech, and with a grin answered: "Ye-es, that's why they buried him."
Polly laughed in spite of herself. "What did he die of?" she asked.
As Slim was about to take a drink at the olla, he failed to hear her.
"Eh?" he grunted.
"What did he die of?" she repeated.
"Five aces," was the sober reply of the Sheriff, before he drained the gourd.
Polly put the broom back of the door, and was rearranging the articles on the table, before Slim could muster up enough courage to speak on the topic which was always uppermost in his mind when in her presence.
"Say, Miss Polly," he began.
"If you've anything to say to me, Slim Hoover, just say it—I can't be bothered to-day—all the fixin's and things," saucily advised the girl.
"Well, what I want to say is—" began the Sheriff.
At this moment Bud Lane, laboring under heavy excitement, burst open the door.
"Say, Slim, you're wanted down at the corral," he cried, paying no heed to Polly.
"Shucks!" exclaimed the disappointed Sheriff. "What's the row?"
"I don't know—Buck McKee—he's there with some of the Lazy K outfit. They want to see you."
Slim threw himself out the door with the mild expletive: "Darn the luck!"
Bud turned quickly to Polly. "Did Jack pay off the mortgage last week?" he almost shouted at the girl.
Polly stamped her foot in anger at what seemed to her to be a totally irrelevant question to the love-making she expected: "How do I know?" she angrily replied. "If that is all you came to see me for, you can go and ask him. It makes me so dog-gone mad!"
Polly, with flushed face and knitted brow, left the bewildered Bud standing in the center of the room, asking himself what it was all about.
The sound of the voices of disputing men floated in from the corral. Bud heard them, and comprehended its significance.
"It's all up with me," he cried, in mortal terror. "Buck McKee has stirred up the suspicion against Jack Payson. Jack paid off his mortgage, and they wanted to know where he raised the money. Well, Jack can tell. If he can't, I'll confess the whole business. I won't let him suffer for me. Buck sha'n't let an innocent man hang for what we've done."
The sound of footsteps on the piazza and the opening of the door drove Bud to take refuge in an adjoining room, where he could overhear all that was happening. He closed the door as the cow-punchers entered with Slim at their head.