The next day everyone was talking of Bill's bluffing the church people, and there was much quiet chuckling over the discomfiture of Robbie Muir and his party.
The Pilot was equally distressed and bewildered, for Bill's conduct, so very unusual, had only one explanation—the usual one for any folly in that country.
“I wish he had waited till after the meeting to go to Latour's. He spoiled the last chance I had. There's no use now,” he said, sadly.
“But he may do something,” I suggested.
“Oh, fiddle!” said The Pilot, contemptuously. “He was only giving Muir 'a song and dance,' as he would say. The whole thing is off.”
But when I told Gwen the story of the night's proceedings, she went into raptures over Bill's grave speech and his success in drawing the canny Scotchman.
“Oh, lovely! dear old Bill and his 'cherished opinion.' Isn't he just lovely? Now he'll do something.”
“Who, Bill?”
“No, that stupid Scottie.” This was her name for the immovable Robbie.
“Not he, I'm afraid. Of course Bill was just bluffing him. But it was good sport.”
“Oh, lovely! I knew he'd do something.”
“Who? Scottie?” I asked, for her pronouns were perplexing.
“No!” she cried, “Bill! He promised he would, you know,” she added.
“So you were at the bottom of it?” I said, amazed.
“Oh, dear! Oh, dear!” she kept crying, shrieking with laughter over Bill's cherishing opinions and desires. “I shall be ill. Dear old Bill. He said he'd 'try to get a move on to him.'”
Before I left that day, Bill himself came to the Old Timer's ranch, inquiring in a casual way “if the 'boss' was in.”
“Oh, Bill!” called out Gwen, “come in here at once; I want you.”
After some delay and some shuffling with hat and spurs, Bill lounged in and set his lank form upon the extreme end of a bench at the door, trying to look unconcerned as he remarked: “Gittin' cold. Shouldn't wonder if we'd have a little snow.”
“Oh, come here,” cried Gwen, impatiently, holding out her hand. “Come here and shake hands.”
Bill hesitated, spat out into the other room his quid of tobacco, and swayed awkwardly across the room toward the bed, and, taking Gwen's hand, he shook it up and down, and hurriedly said:
“Fine day, ma'am; hope I see you quite well.”
“No; you don't,” cried Gwen, laughing immoderately, but keeping hold of Bill's hand, to his great confusion. “I'm not well a bit, but I'm a great deal better since hearing of your meeting, Bill.”
To this Bill made no reply, being entirely engrossed in getting his hard, bony, brown hand out of the grasp of the white, clinging fingers.
“Oh, Bill,” went on Gwen, “it was delightful! How did you do it?”
But Bill, who had by this time got back to his seat at the door, pretended ignorance of any achievement calling for remark. He “hadn't done nothin' more out ov the way than usual.”
“Oh, don't talk nonsense!” cried Gwen, impatiently. “Tell me how you got Scottie to lay you two hundred and fifty dollars.”
“Oh, that!” said Bill, in great surprise; “that ain't nuthin' much. Scottie riz slick enough.”
“But how did you get him?” persisted Gwen. “Tell me, Bill,” she added, in her most coaxing voice.
“Well,” said Bill, “it was easy as rollin' off a log. I made the remark as how the boys ginerally put up for what they wanted without no fuss, and that if they was sot on havin' a Gospel shack I cherished the opinion”—here Gwen went off into a smothered shriek, which made Bill pause and look at her in alarm.
“Go on,” she gasped.
“I cherished the opinion,” drawled on Bill, while Gwen stuck her handkerchief into her mouth, “that mebbe they'd put up for it the seven hundred dollars, and, even as it was, seein' as The Pilot appeared to be sot on to it, if them fellers would find two hundred and fifty I cher—” another shriek from Gwen cut him suddenly short.
“It's the rheumaticks, mebbe,” said Bill, anxiously. “Terrible bad weather for 'em. I get 'em myself.”
“No, no,” said Gwen, wiping away her tears and subduing her laughter. “Go on, Bill.”
“There ain't no more,” said Bill. “He bit, and the master here put it down.”
“Yes, it's here right enough,” I said, “but I don't suppose you mean to follow it up, do you?”
“You don't, eh? Well, I am not responsible for your supposin', but them that is familiar with Bronco Bill generally expects him to back up his undertakin's.”
“But how in the world can you get five hundred dollars from the cowboys for a church?”
“I hain't done the arithmetic yet, but it's safe enough. You see, it ain't the church altogether, it's the reputation of the boys.”
“I'll help, Bill,” said Gwen.
Bill nodded his head slowly and said: “Proud to have you,” trying hard to look enthusiastic.
“You don't think I can,” said Gwen. Bill protested against such an imputation. “But I can. I'll get daddy and The Duke, too.”
“Good line!” said Bill, slapping his knee.
“And I'll give all my money, too, but it isn't very much,” she added, sadly.
“Much!” said Bill, “if the rest of the fellows play up to that lead there won't be any trouble about that five hundred.”
Gwen was silent for some time, then said with an air of resolve:
“I'll give my pinto!”
“Nonsense!” I exclaimed, while Bill declared “there warn't no call.”
“Yes. I'll give the Pinto!” said Gwen, decidedly. “I'll not need him any more,” her lips quivered, and Bill coughed and spat into the next room, “and besides, I want to give something I like. And Bill will sell him for me!”
“Well,” said Bill, slowly, “now come to think, it'll be purty hard to sell that there pinto.” Gwen began to exclaim indignantly, and Bill hurried on to say, “Not but what he ain't a good leetle horse for his weight, good leetle horse, but for cattle—”
“Why, Bill, there isn't a better cattle horse anywhere!”
“Yes, that's so,” assented Bill. “That's so, if you've got the rider, but put one of them rangers on to him and it wouldn't be no fair show.” Bill was growing more convinced every moment that the pinto wouldn't sell to any advantage. “Ye see,” he explained carefully and cunningly, “he ain't a horse you could yank round and slam into a bunch of steers regardless.”
Gwen shuddered. “Oh, I wouldn't think of selling him to any of those cowboys.” Bill crossed his legs and hitched round uncomfortably on his bench. “I mean one of those rough fellows that don't know how to treat a horse.” Bill nodded, looking relieved. “I thought that some one like you, Bill, who knew how to handle a horse—”
Gwen paused, and then added: “I'll ask The Duke.”
“No call for that,” said Bill, hastily, “not but what The Dook ain't all right as a jedge of a horse, but The Dook ain't got the connection, it ain't his line.” Bill hesitated. “But, if you are real sot on to sellin' that pinto, come to think I guess I could find a sale for him, though, of course, I think perhaps the figger won't be high.”
And so it was arranged that the pinto should be sold and that Bill should have the selling of it.
It was characteristic of Gwen that she would not take farewell of the pony on whose back she had spent so many hours of freedom and delight. When once she gave him up she refused to allow her heart to cling to him any more.
It was characteristic, too, of Bill that he led off the pinto after night had fallen, so that “his pardner” might be saved the pain of the parting.
“This here's rather a new game for me, but when my pardner,” here he jerked his head towards Gwen's window, “calls for trumps, I'm blanked if I don't throw my highest, if it costs a leg.”
Bill's method of conducting the sale of the pinto was eminently successful as a financial operation, but there are those in the Swan Creek country who have never been able to fathom the mystery attaching to the affair. It was at the fall round-up, the beef round-up, as it is called, which this year ended at the Ashley Ranch. There were representatives from all the ranches and some cattle-men from across the line. The hospitality of the Ashley Ranch was up to its own lofty standard, and, after supper, the men were in a state of high exhilaration. The Hon. Fred and his wife, Lady Charlotte, gave themselves to the duties of their position as hosts for the day with a heartiness and grace beyond praise. After supper the men gathered round the big fire, which was piled up before the long, low shed, which stood open in front. It was a scene of such wild and picturesque interest as can only be witnessed in the western ranching country. About the fire, most of them wearing “shaps” and all of them wide, hard-brimmed cowboy hats, the men grouped themselves, some reclining upon skins thrown upon the ground, some standing, some sitting, smoking, laughing, chatting, all in highest spirits and humor. They had just got through with their season of arduous and, at times, dangerous toil. Their minds were full of their long, hard rides, their wild and varying experiences with mad cattle and bucking broncos, their anxious watchings through hot nights, when a breath of wind or a coyote's howl might set the herd off in a frantic stampede, their wolf hunts and badger fights and all the marvellous adventures that fill up a cowboy's summer. Now these were all behind them. To-night they were free men and of independent means, for their season's pay was in their pockets. The day's excitement, too, was still in their blood, and they were ready for anything.
Bill, as king of the bronco-busters, moved about with the slow, careless indifference of a man sure of his position and sure of his ability to maintain it.
He spoke seldom and slowly, was not as ready-witted as his partner, Hi Kendal, but in act he was swift and sure, and “in trouble” he could be counted on. He was, as they said, “a white man; white to the back,” which was understood to sum up the true cattle man's virtues.
“Hello, Bill,” said a friend, “where's Hi? Hain't seen him around!”
“Well, don't jest know. He was going to bring up my pinto.”
“Your pinto? What pinto's that? You hain't got no pinto!”
“Mebbe not,” said Bill, slowly, “but I had the idee before you spoke that I had.”
“That so? Whar'd ye git him? Good for cattle?” The crowd began to gather.
Bill grew mysterious, and even more than usually reserved.
“Good fer cattle! Well, I ain't much on gamblin', but I've got a leetle in my pants that says that there pinto kin outwork any blanked bronco in this outfit, givin' him a fair show after the cattle.”
The men became interested.
“Whar was he raised?”
“Dunno.”
“Whar'd ye git him? Across the line?”
“No,” said Bill stoutly, “right in this here country. The Dook there knows him.”
This at once raised the pinto several points. To be known, and, as Bill's tone indicated, favorably known by The Duke, was a testimonial to which any horse might aspire.
“Whar'd ye git him, Bill? Don't be so blanked oncommunicatin'!” said an impatient voice.
Bill hesitated; then, with an apparent burst of confidence, he assumed his frankest manner and voice, and told his tale.
“Well,” he said, taking a fresh chew and offering his plug to his neighbor, who passed it on after helping himself, “ye see, it was like this. Ye know that little Meredith gel?”
Chorus of answers: “Yes! The red-headed one. I know! She's a daisy!—reg'lar blizzard!—lightnin' conductor!”
Bill paused, stiffened himself a little, dropped his frank air and drawled out in cool, hard tones: “I might remark that that young lady is, I might persoom to say, a friend of mine, which I'm prepared to back up in my best style, and if any blanked blanked son of a street sweeper has any remark to make, here's his time now!”
In the pause that followed murmurs were heard extolling the many excellences of the young lady in question, and Bill, appeased, yielded to the requests for the continuance of his story, and, as he described Gwen and her pinto and her work on the ranch, the men, many of whom had had glimpses of her, gave emphatic approval in their own way. But as he told of her rescue of Joe and of the sudden calamity that had befallen her a great stillness fell upon the simple, tender-hearted fellows, and they listened with their eyes shining in the firelight with growing intentness. Then Bill spoke of The Pilot and how he stood by her and helped her and cheered her till they began to swear he was “all right”; “and now,” concluded Bill, “when The Pilot is in a hole she wants to help him out.”
“O' course,” said one. “Right enough. How's she going to work it?” said another.
“Well, he's dead set on to buildin' a meetin'-house, and them fellows down at the Creek that does the prayin' and such don't seem to back him up!”
“Whar's the kick, Bill?”
“Oh, they don't want to go down into their clothes and put up for it.”
“How much?”
“Why, he only asked 'em for seven hundred the hull outfit, and would give 'em two years, but they bucked—wouldn't look at it.”
[Chorus of expletives descriptive of the characters and personal appearance and belongings of the congregation of Swan Creek.]
“Were you there, Bill? What did you do?”
“Oh,” said Bill, modestly, “I didn't do much. Gave 'em a little bluff.”
“No! How? What? Go on, Bill.”
But Bill remained silent, till under strong pressure, and, as if making a clean breast of everything, he said:
“Well, I jest told 'em that if you boys made such a fuss about anythin' like they did about their Gospel outfit, an' I ain't sayin' anythin' agin it, you'd put up seven hundred without turnin' a hair.”
“You're the stuff, Bill! Good man! You're talkin' now! What did they say to that, eh, Bill?”
“Well,” said Bill, slowly, “they CALLED me!”
“No! That so? An' what did you do, Bill?”
“Gave 'em a dead straight bluff!”
[Yells of enthusiastic approval.]
“Did they take you, Bill?”
“Well, I reckon they did. The master, here, put it down.”
Whereupon I read the terms of Bill's bluff.
There was a chorus of very hearty approvals of Bill's course in “not taking any water” from that variously characterized “outfit.” But the responsibility of the situation began to dawn upon them when some one asked:
“How are you going about it, Bill?”
“Well,” drawled Bill, with a touch of sarcasm in his voice, “there's that pinto.”
“Pinto be blanked!” said young Hill. “Say, boys, is that little girl going to lose that one pony of hers to help out her friend The Pilot? Good fellow, too, he is! We know he's the right sort.”
[Chorus of, “Not by a long sight; not much; we'll put up the stuff! Pinto!”]
“Then,” went on Bill, even more slowly, “there's The Pilot; he's going for to ante up a month's pay; 'taint much, o' course—twenty-eight a month and grub himself. He might make it two,” he added, thoughtfully. But Bill's proposal was scorned with contemptuous groans. “Twenty-eight a month and grub himself o' course ain't much for a man to save money out ov to eddicate himself.” Bill continued, as if thinking aloud, “O' course he's got his mother at home, but she can't make much more than her own livin', but she might help him some.”
This was altogether too much for the crowd. They consigned Bill and his plans to unutterable depths of woe.
“O' course,” Bill explained, “it's jest as you boys feel about it. Mebbe I was, bein' hot, a little swift in givin' 'em the bluff.”
“Not much, you wasn't! We'll see you out! That's the talk! There's between twenty and thirty of us here.”
“I should be glad to contribute thirty or forty if need be,” said The Duke, who was standing not far off, “to assist in the building of a church. It would be a good thing, and I think the parson should be encouraged. He's the right sort.”
“I'll cover your thirty,” said young Hill; and so it went from one to another in tens and fifteens and twenties, till within half an hour I had entered three hundred and fifty dollars in my book, with Ashley yet to hear from, which meant fifty more. It was Bill's hour of triumph.
“Boys,” he said, with solemn emphasis, “ye're all white. But that leetle pale-faced gel, that's what I'm thinkin' on. Won't she open them big eyes ov hers! I cherish the opinion that this'll tickle her some.”
The men were greatly pleased with Bill and even more pleased with themselves. Bill's picture of the “leetle gel” and her pathetically tragic lot had gone right to their hearts and, with men of that stamp, it was one of their few luxuries to yield to their generous impulses. The most of them had few opportunities of lavishing love and sympathy upon worthy objects and, when the opportunity came, all that was best in them clamored for expression.
The glow of virtuous feeling following the performance of their generous act prepared the men for a keener enjoyment than usual of a night's sport. They had just begun to dispose themselves in groups about the fire for poker and other games when Hi rode up into the light and with him a stranger on Gwen's beautiful pinto pony.
Hi was evidently half drunk and, as he swung himself of his bronco, he saluted the company with a wave of the hand and hoped he saw them “kickin'.”
Bill, looking curiously at Hi, went up to the pinto and, taking him by the head, led him up into the light, saying:
“See here, boys, there's that pinto of mine I was telling you about; no flies on him, eh?”
“Hold on there! Excuse me!” said the stranger, “this here hoss belongs to me, if paid-down money means anything in this country.”
“The country's all right,” said Bill in an ominously quiet voice, “but this here pinto's another transaction, I reckon.”
“The hoss is mine, I say, and what's more, I'm goin' to hold him,” said the stranger in a loud voice.
The men began to crowd around with faces growing hard. It was dangerous in that country to play fast and loose with horses.
“Look a-hyar, mates,” said the stranger, with a Yankee drawl, “I ain't no hoss thief, and if I hain't bought this hoss reg'lar and paid down good money then it ain't mine—if I have it is. That's fair, ain't it?”
At this Hi pulled himself together, and in a half-drunken tone declared that the stranger was all right, and that he had bought the horse fair and square, and “there's your dust,” said Hi, handing a roll to Bill. But with a quick movement Bill caught the stranger by the leg, and, before a word could be said, he was lying flat on the ground.
“You git off that pony,” said Bill, “till this thing is settled.”
There was something so terrible in Bill's manner that the man contented himself with blustering and swearing, while Bill, turning to Hi, said:
“Did you sell this pinto to him?”
Hi was able to acknowledge that, being offered a good price, and knowing that his partner was always ready for a deal, he had transferred the pinto to the stranger for forty dollars.
Bill was in distress, deep and poignant. “'Taint the horse, but the leetle gel,” he explained; but his partner's bargain was his, and wrathful as he was, he refused to attempt to break the bargain.
At this moment the Hon. Fred, noting the unusual excitement about the fire, came up, followed at a little distance by his wife and The Duke.
“Perhaps he'll sell,” he suggested.
“No,” said Bill sullenly, “he's a mean cuss.”
“I know him,” said the Hon. Fred, “let me try him.” But the stranger declared the pinto suited him down to the ground and he wouldn't take twice his money for him.
“Why,” he protested, “that there's what I call an unusual hoss, and down in Montana for a lady he'd fetch up to a hundred and fifty dollars.” In vain they haggled and bargained; the man was immovable. Eighty dollars he wouldn't look at, a hundred hardly made him hesitate. At this point Lady Charlotte came down into the light and stood by her husband, who explained the circumstances to her. She had already heard Bill's description of Gwen's accident and of her part in the church-building schemes. There was silence for a few moments as she stood looking at the beautiful pony.
“What a shame the poor child should have to part with the dear little creature!” she said in a low tone to her husband. Then, turning to the stranger, she said in clear, sweet tones:
“What do you ask for him?” He hesitated and then said, lifting his hat awkwardly in salute: “I was just remarking how that pinto would fetch one hundred and fifty dollars down into Montana. But seein' as a lady is enquirin', I'll put him down to one hundred and twenty-five.”
“Too much,” she said promptly, “far too much, is it not, Bill?”
“Well,” drawled Bill, “if 'twere a fellar as was used to ladies he'd offer you the pinto, but he's too pizen mean even to come down to the even hundred.”
The Yankee took him up quickly. “Wall, if I were so blanked—pardon, madam”—taking off his hat, “used to ladies as some folks would like to think themselves, I'd buy that there pinto and make a present of it to this here lady as stands before me.” Bill twisted uneasily.
“But I ain't goin' to be mean; I'll put that pinto in for the even money for the lady if any man cares to put up the stuff.”
“Well, my dear,” said the Hon. Fred with a bow, “we cannot well let that gage lie.” She turned and smiled at him and the pinto was transferred to the Ashley stables, to Bill's outspoken delight, who declared he “couldn't have faced the music if that there pinto had gone across the line.” I confess, however, I was somewhat surprised at the ease with which Hi escaped his wrath, and my surprise was in no way lessened when I saw, later in the evening, the two partners with the stranger taking a quiet drink out of the same bottle with evident mutual admiration and delight.
“You're an A1 corker, you are! I'll be blanked if you ain't a bird—a singin' bird—a reg'lar canary,” I heard Hi say to Bill.
But Bill's only reply was a long, slow wink which passed into a frown as he caught my eye. My suspicion was aroused that the sale of the pinto might bear investigation, and this suspicion was deepened when Gwen next week gave me a rapturous account of how splendidly Bill had disposed of the pinto, showing me bills for one hundred and fifty dollars! To my look of amazement, Gwen replied:
“You see, he must have got them bidding against each other, and besides, Bill says pintos are going up.”
Light began to dawn upon me, but I only answered that I knew they had risen very considerably in value within a month. The extra fifty was Bill's.
I was not present to witness the finishing of Bill's bluff, but was told that when Bill made his way through the crowded aisle and laid his five hundred and fifty dollars on the schoolhouse desk the look of disgust, surprise and finally of pleasure on Robbie's face, was worth a hundred more. But Robbie was ready and put down his two hundred with the single remark:
“Ay! ye're no as daft as ye look,” mid roars of laughter from all.
Then The Pilot, with eyes and face shining, rose and thanked them all; but when he told of how the little girl in her lonely shack in the hills thought so much of the church that she gave up for it her beloved pony, her one possession, the light from his eyes glowed in the eyes of all.
But the men from the ranches who could understand the full meaning of her sacrifice and who also could realize the full measure of her calamity, were stirred to their hearts' depths, so that when Bill remarked in a very distinct undertone, “I cherish the opinion that this here Gospel shop wouldn't be materializin' into its present shape but for that leetle gel,” there rose growls of approval in a variety of tones and expletives that left no doubt that his opinion was that of all.
But though The Pilot never could quite get at the true inwardness of Bill's measures and methods, and was doubtless all the more comfortable in mind for that, he had no doubt that while Gwen's influence was the moving spring of action, Bill's bluff had a good deal to do with the “materializin'” of the first church in Swan Creek, and in this conviction, I share.
Whether the Hon. Fred ever understood the peculiar style of Bill's financing, I do not quite know. But if he ever did come to know, he was far too much of a man to make a fuss. Besides, I fancy the smile on his lady's face was worth some large amount to him. At least, so the look of proud and fond love in his eyes seemed to say as he turned away with her from the fire the night of the pinto's sale.
The night of the pinto's sale was a night momentous to Gwen, for then it was that the Lady Charlotte's interest in her began. Momentous, too, to the Lady Charlotte, for it was that night that brought The Pilot into her life.
I had turned back to the fire around which the men had fallen into groups prepared to have an hour's solid delight, for the scene was full of wild and picturesque beauty to me, when The Duke came and touched me on the shoulder.
“Lady Charlotte would like to see you.”
“And why, pray?”
“She wants to hear about this affair of Bill's.”
We went through the kitchen into the large dining-room, at one end of which was a stone chimney and fireplace. Lady Charlotte had declared that she did not much care what kind of a house the Hon. Fred would build for her, but that she must have a fireplace.
She was very beautiful—tall, slight and graceful in every line. There was a reserve and a grand air in her bearing that put people in awe of her. This awe I shared; but as I entered the room she welcomed me with such kindly grace that I felt quite at ease in a moment.
“Come and sit by me,” she said, drawing an armchair into the circle about the fire. “I want you to tell us all about a great many things.”
“You see what you're in for, Connor,” said her husband. “It is a serious business when my lady takes one in hand.”
“As he knows to his cost,” she said, smiling and shaking her head at her husband.
“So I can testify,” put in The Duke.
“Ah! I can't do anything with you,” she replied, turning to him.
“Your most abject slave,” he replied with a profound bow.
“If you only were,” smiling at him—a little sadly, I thought—“I'd keep you out of all sorts of mischief.”
“Quite true, Duke,” said her husband, “just look at me.”
The Duke gazed at him a moment or two. “Wonderful!” he murmured, “what a deliverance!”
“Nonsense!” broke in Lady Charlotte. “You are turning my mind away from my purpose.”
“Is it possible, do you think?” said The Duke to her husband.
“Not in the very least,” he replied, “if my experience goes for anything.”
But Lady Charlotte turned her back upon them and said to me:
“Now, tell me first about Bill's encounter with that funny little Scotchman.”
Then I told her the story of Bill's bluff in my best style, imitating, as I have some small skill in doing, the manner and speech of the various actors in the scene. She was greatly amused and interested.
“And Bill has really got his share ready,” she cried. “It is very clever of him.”
“Yes,” I replied, “but Bill is only the very humble instrument, the moving spirit is behind.”
“Oh, yes, you mean the little girl that owns the pony,” she said. “That's another thing you must tell me about.”
“The Duke knows more than I,” I replied, shifting the burden to him; “my acquaintance is only of yesterday; his is lifelong.”
“Why have you never told me of her?” she demanded, turning to the Duke.
“Haven't I told you of the little Meredith girl? Surely I have,” said The Duke, hesitatingly.
“Now, you know quite well you have not, and that means you are deeply interested. Oh, I know you well,” she said, severely.
“He is the most secretive man,” she went on to me, “shamefully and ungratefully reserved.”
The Duke smiled; then said, lazily: “Why, she's just a child. Why should you be interested in her? No one was,” he added sadly, “till misfortune distinguished her.”
Her eyes grew soft, and her gay manner changed, and she said to The Duke gently: “Tell me of her now.”
It was evidently an effort, but he began his story of Gwen from the time he saw her first, years ago, playing in and out of her father's rambling shack, shy and wild as a young fox. As he went on with his tale, his voice dropped into a low, musical tone, and he seemed as if dreaming aloud. Unconsciously he put into the tale much of himself, revealing how great an influence the little child had had upon him, and how empty of love his life had been in this lonely land. Lady Charlotte listened with face intent upon him, and even her bluff husband was conscious that something more than usual was happening. He had never heard The Duke break through his proud reserve before.
But when The Duke told the story of Gwen's awful fall, which he did with great graphic power, a little red spot burned upon the Lady Charlotte's pale cheek, and, as The Duke finished his tale with the words, “It was her last ride,” she covered her face with her hands and cried:
“Oh, Duke, it is horrible to think of! But what splendid courage!”
“Great stuff! eh, Duke?” cried the Hon. Fred, kicking a burning log vigorously.
But The Duke made no reply.
“How is she now, Duke?” said Lady Charlotte. The Duke looked up as from a dream. “Bright as the morning,” he said. Then, in reply to Lady Charlotte's look of wonder, he added:
“The Pilot did it. Connor will tell you. I don't understand it.”
“Nor do I, either. But I can tell you only what I saw and heard,” I answered.
“Tell me,” said Lady Charlotte very gently.
Then I told her how, one by one, we had failed to help her, and how The Pilot had ridden up that morning through the canyon, and how he had brought the first light and peace to her by his marvellous pictures of the flowers and ferns and trees and all the wonderful mysteries of that wonderful canyon.
“But that wasn't all,” said the Duke quickly, as I stopped.
“No,” I said slowly, “that was NOT all by a long way; but the rest I don't understand. That's The Pilot's secret.”
“Tell me what he did,” said Lady Charlotte, softly, once more. “I want to know.”
“I don't think I can,” I replied. “He simply read out of the Scriptures to her and talked.”
Lady Charlotte looked disappointed.
“Is that all?” she said.
“It is quite enough for Gwen,” said The Duke confidently, “for there she lies, often suffering, always longing for the hills and the free air, but with her face radiant as the flowers of the beloved canyon.”
“I must see her,” said Lady Charlotte, “and that wonderful Pilot.”
“You'll be disappointed in him,” said The Duke.
“Oh, I've see him and heard him, but I don't know him,” she replied. “There must be something in him that one does not see at first.”
“So I have discovered,” said The Duke, and with that the subject was dropped, but not before the Lady Charlotte made me promise to take her to Gwen, The Duke being strangely unwilling to do this for her.
“You'll be disappointed,” he said. “She is only a simple little child.”
But Lady Charlotte thought differently, and, having made up her mind upon the matter, there was nothing for it, as her husband said, but “for all hands to surrender and the sooner the better.”
And so the Lady Charlotte had her way, which, as it turned out, was much the wisest and best.
When I told The Pilot of Lady Charlotte's purpose to visit Gwen, he was not too well pleased.
“What does she want with Gwen?” he said impatiently. “She will just put notions into her head and make the child discontented.”
“Why should she?” said I.
“She won't mean to, but she belongs to another world, and Gwen cannot talk to her without getting glimpses of a life that will make her long for what she can never have,” said The Pilot.
“But suppose it is not idle curiosity in Lady Charlotte,” I suggested.
“I don't say it is quite that,” he answered, “but these people love a sensation.”
“I don't think you know Lady Charlotte,” I replied. “I hardly think from her tone the other night that she is a sensation hunter.”
“At any rate,” he answered, decidedly, “she is not to worry poor Gwen.”
I was a little surprised at his attitude, and felt that he was unfair to Lady Charlotte, but I forbore to argue with him on the matter. He could not bear to think of any person or thing threatening the peace of his beloved Gwen.
The very first Saturday after my promise was given we were surprised to see Lady Charlotte ride up to the door of our shack in the early morning.
“You see, I am not going to let you off,” she said, as I greeted her. “And the day is so very fine for a ride.”
I hastened to apologize for not going to her, and then to get out of my difficulty, rather meanly turned toward The Pilot, and said:
“The Pilot doesn't approve of our visit.”
“And why not, may I ask?” said Lady Charlotte, lifting her eyebrows.
The Pilot's face burned, partly with wrath at me, and partly with embarrassment; for Lady Charlotte had put on her grand air. But he stood to his guns.
“I was saying, Lady Charlotte,” he said, looking straight into her eyes, “that you and Gwen have little in common—and—and—” he hesitated.
“Little in common!” said Lady Charlotte quietly. “She has suffered greatly.”
The Pilot was quick to catch the note of sadness in her voice.
“Yes,” he said, wondering at her tone, “she has suffered greatly.”
“And,” continued Lady Charlotte, “she is bright as the morning, The Duke says.” There was a look of pain in her face.
The Pilot's face lit up, and he came nearer and laid his hand caressingly upon her beautiful horse.
“Yes, thank God!” he said quickly, “bright as the morning.”
“How can that be?” she asked, looking down into his face. “Perhaps she would tell me.”
“Lady Charlotte,” said The Pilot with a sudden flush, “I must ask your pardon. I was wrong. I thought you—” he paused; “but go to Gwen, she will tell you, and you will do her good.”
“Thank you,” said Lady Charlotte, putting out her hand, “and perhaps you will come and see me, too.”
The Pilot promised and stood looking after us as we rode up the trail.
“There is something more in your Pilot than at first appears,” she said. “The Duke was quite right.”
“He is a great man,” I said with enthusiasm; “tender as a woman and with the heart of a hero.”
“You and Bill and The Duke seem to agree about him,” she said, smiling.
Then I told her tales of The Pilot, and of his ways with the men, till her blue eyes grew bright and her beautiful face lost its proud look.
“It is perfectly amazing,” I said, finishing my story, “how these devil-may-care rough fellows respect him, and come to him in all sorts of trouble. I can't understand it, and yet he is just a boy.”
“No, not amazing,” said Lady Charlotte slowly. “I think I understand it. He has a true man's heart; and holds a great purpose in it. I've seen men like that. Not clergymen, I mean, but men with a great purpose.”
Then, after a moment's thought, she added: “But you ought to care for him better. He does not look strong.”
“Strong!” I exclaimed quickly, with a queer feeling of resentment at my heart. “He can do as much riding as any of us.”
“Still,” she replied, “there's something in his face that would make his mother anxious.” In spite of my repudiation of her suggestion, I found myself for the next few minutes thinking of how he would come exhausted and faint from his long rides, and I resolved that he must have a rest and change.
It was one of those early September days, the best of all in the western country, when the light falls less fiercely through a soft haze that seems to fill the air about you, and that grows into purple on the far hilltops. By the time we reached the canyon the sun was riding high and pouring its rays full into all the deep nooks where the shadows mostly lay.
There were no shadows to-day, except such as the trees cast upon the green moss beds and the black rocks. The tops of the tall elms were sere and rusty, but the leaves of the rugged oaks that fringed the canyon's lips shone a rich and glossy brown. All down the sides the poplars and delicate birches, pale yellow, but sometimes flushing into orange and red, stood shimmering in the golden light, while here and there the broad-spreading, feathery sumachs made great splashes of brilliant crimson upon the yellow and gold. Down in the bottom stood the cedars and the balsams, still green. We stood some moments silently gazing into this tangle of interlacing boughs and shimmering leaves, all glowing in yellow light, then Lady Charlotte broke the silence in tones soft and reverent as if she stood in a great cathedral.
“And this is Gwen's canyon!”
“Yes, but she never sees it now,” I said, for I could never ride through without thinking of the child to whose heart this was so dear, but whose eyes never rested upon it. Lady Charlotte made no reply, and we took the trail that wound down into this maze of mingling colors and lights and shadows. Everywhere lay the fallen leaves, brown and yellow and gold;—everywhere on our trail, on the green mosses and among the dead ferns. And as we rode, leaves fluttered down from the trees above silently through the tangled boughs, and lay with the others on moss and rock and beaten trail.
The flowers were all gone; but the Little Swan sang as ever its many-voiced song, as it flowed in pools and eddies and cascades, with here and there a golden leaf upon its black waters. Ah! how often in weary, dusty days these sights and sounds and silences have come to me and brought my heart rest!
As we began to climb up into the open, I glanced at my companion's face. The canyon had done its work with her as with all who loved it. The touch of pride that was the habit of her face was gone, and in its place rested the earnest wonder of a little child, while in her eyes lay the canyon's tender glow. And with this face she looked in upon Gwen.
And Gwen, who had been waiting for her, forgot all her nervous fear, and with hands outstretched, cried out in welcome:
“Oh, I'm so glad! You've seen it and I know you love it! My canyon, you know!” she went on, answering Lady Charlotte's mystified look.
“Yes, dear child,” said Lady Charlotte, bending over the pale face with its halo of golden hair, “I love it.” But she could get no further, for her eyes were full of tears. Gwen gazed up into the beautiful face, wondering at her silence, and then said gently:
“Tell me how it looks to-day! The Pilot always shows it to me. Do you know,” she added, thoughtfully, “The Pilot looks like it himself. He makes me think of it, and—and—” she went on shyly, “you do, too.”
By this time Lady Charlotte was kneeling by the couch, smoothing the beautiful hair and gently touching the face so pale and lined with pain.
“That is a great honor, truly,” she said brightly through her tears—“to be like your canyon and like your Pilot, too.”
Gwen nodded, but she was not to be denied.
“Tell me how it looks to-day,” she said. “I want to see it. Oh, I want to see it!”
Lady Charlotte was greatly moved by the yearning in the voice, but, controlling herself, she said gaily:
“Oh, I can't show it to you as your Pilot can, but I'll tell you what I saw.”
“Turn me where I can see,” said Gwen to me, and I wheeled her toward the window and raised her up so that she could look down the trail toward the canyon's mouth.
“Now,” she said, after the pain of the lifting had passed, “tell me, please.”
Then Lady Charlotte set the canyon before her in rich and radiant coloring, while Gwen listened, gazing down upon the trail to where the elm tops could be seen, rusty and sere.
“Oh, it is lovely!” said Gwen, “and I see it so well. It is all there before me when I look through my window.”
But Lady Charlotte looked at her, wondering to see her bright smile, and at last she could not help the question:
“But don't you weary to see it with your own eyes?”
“Yes,” said Gwen gently, “often I want and want it, oh, so much!”
“And then, Gwen, dear, how can you bear it?” Her voice was eager and earnest. “Tell me, Gwen. I have heard all about your canyon flowers, but I can't understand how the fretting and the pain went away.”
Gwen looked at her first in amazement, and then in dawning understanding.
“Have you a canyon, too?” she asked, gravely.
Lady Charlotte paused a moment, then nodded. It did appear strange to me that she should break down her proud reserve and open her heart to this child.
“And there are no flowers, Gwen, not one,” she said rather bitterly, “nor sun nor seeds nor soil, I fear.”
“Oh, if The Pilot were here, he would tell you.”
At this point, feeling that they would rather be alone, I excused myself on the pretext of looking after the horses.
What they talked of during the next hour I never knew, but when I returned to the room Lady Charlotte was reading slowly and with perplexed face to Gwen out of her mother's Bible the words “for the suffering of death, crowned with glory and honor.”
“You see even for Him, suffering,” Gwen said eagerly, “but I can't explain. The Pilot will make it clear.” Then the talk ended.
We had lunch with Gwen—bannocks and fresh sweet milk and blueberries—and after an hour of gay fun we came away.
Lady Charlotte kissed her tenderly as she bade Gwen good-by.
“You must let me come again and sit at your window,” she said, smiling down upon the wan face.
“Oh, I shall watch for you. How good that will be!” cried Gwen, delightedly. “How many come to see me! You make five.” Then she added, softly: “You will write your letter.” But Lady Charlotte shook her head.
“I can't do that, I fear,” she said, “but I shall think of it.”
It was a bright face that looked out upon us through the open window as we rode down the trail. Just before we took the dip into the canyon, I turned to wave my hand.
“Gwen's friends always wave from here,” I said, wheeling my bronco.
Again and again Lady Charlotte waved her handkerchief.
“How beautiful, but how wonderful!” she said as if to herself. “Truly, HER canyon is full of flowers.”
“It is quite beyond me,” I answered. “The Pilot may explain.”
“Is there anything your Pilot can't do?” said Lady Charlotte.
“Try him,” I ventured.
“I mean to,” she replied, “but I cannot bring anyone to my canyon, I fear,” she added in an uncertain voice.
As I left her at her door she thanked me with courteous grace.
“You have done a great deal for me,” she said, giving me her hand. “It has been a beautiful, a wonderful day.”
When I told the Pilot all the day's doings, he burst out:
“What a stupid and self-righteous fool I have been! I never thought there could be any canyon in her life. How short our sight is!” and all that night I could get almost no words from him.
That was the first of many visits to Gwen. Not a week passed but Lady Charlotte took the trail to the Meredith ranch and spent an hour at Gwen's window. Often The Pilot found her there. But though they were always pleasant hours to him, he would come home in great trouble about Lady Charlotte.
“She is perfectly charming and doing Gwen no end of good, but she is proud as an archangel. Has had an awful break with her family at home, and it is spoiling her life. She told me so much, but she will allow no one to touch the affair.”
But one day we met her riding toward the village. As we drew near, she drew up her horse and held up a letter.
“Home!” she said. “I wrote it to-day, and I must get it off immediately.”
The Pilot understood her at once, but he only said:
“Good!” but with such emphasis that we both laughed.
“Yes, I hope so,” she said with the red beginning to show in her cheek. “I have dropped some seed into my canyon.”
“I think I see the flowers beginning to spring,” said The Pilot.
She shook her head doubtfully and replied:
“I shall ride up and sit with Gwen at her window.”
“Do,” replied The Pilot, “the light is good there. Wonderful things are to be seen through Gwen's window.”
“Yes,” said Lady Charlotte softly. “Dear Gwen!—but I fear it is often made bright with tears.”
As she spoke she wheeled her horse and cantered off, for her own tears were not far away. I followed her in thought up the trail winding through the round-topped hills and down through the golden lights of the canyon and into Gwen's room. I could see the pale face, with its golden aureole, light up and glow, as they sat before the window while Lady Charlotte would tell her how Gwen's Canyon looked to-day and how in her own bleak canyon there was the sign of flowers.