CHAPTER XVIZIP’S GRATITUDE
What a complicated machinery human nature is! It seems absurd that a strongly defined character should be just as full of surprises as the weakest; that the fantastic, the unexpected, even the illogical, are as surely found in the one as in the other. It would be so nice, so simple and easy, to sit down and foreshadow a certain course of action for a certain individual under a given stress; and to be sure that, in human psychology, two and two make precisely four, no more and no less.
But such is not the case. In human psychology two and two can just as easily make ten, or fifteen, or any other number; and prophecy in the matter is about as great a waste of time as worrying over the possibilities of the weather. The constitution of the nervous system cannot be estimated until put to the test. And when the first test has revealed to us the long-awaited secret, it is just as likely to be flatly contradicted by the second. The whole thing is the very mischief.
Those who knew him would have been quite certain that in Scipio’s case there could only be one result from the addition of the two and two of his psychology. In a man of his peculiar mental caliber it might well seem that there could be no variation to the sum. And the resulting prophecy would necessarily be an evil, or at least a pessimistic one. He was so helpless, so lacking in all the practicalities of human life. He seemed to have one little focus that was quite incapable of expansion, of adaptability. That focus was almost entirely filled by his Jessie’s image, with just a small place in it reserved for his twins. Take the woman out of it, and, to all intents and purposes, he looked out upon a dead white blank.
Every thought in his inadequate brain was centered round his wife. She was the mainspring of his every emotion. His love for her was his whole being. It was something so great and strong that it enveloped all his senses. She was his, and he was incapable of imagining life without her. She was his, and only death could alter so obvious a fact. She was his vanguard in life’s battle, a support that shored up his confidence and courage to face, with a calm determination, whatever that battle had to offer him.
But with Jessie’s going all prophecy would have remained unfulfilled. Scipio did not go under in the manner to have been expected of him. After the first shock, outwardly at least, there appeared to be no change in him. His apparently colorless personality drifted on in precisely the same amiable, inconsequent manner. What his moments of solitude were, only he knew. The agony of grief through which he passed, the long sleepless nights, the heartbreaking sense of loss, these things lay hidden under his meaningless exterior, which, however, defied the revelation of his secret.
After the passing of the first madness which had sent him headlong in pursuit of his wife, a sort of mental evolution set in. That unadaptable focus of his promptly became adaptable. And where it had been incapable of expansion, it slowly began to expand. It grew, and, whereas before his Jessie had occupied full place, his twins now became the central feature.
The original position was largely reversed, but it was chiefly the growth of the images of his children, and not the diminishing of the figure of his wife. And with this new aspect came calmness. Nothing could change his great love for his erring Jessie, nothing could wipe out his sense of loss; his grief was always with him. But whereas, judged by the outward seeming of his character, he should have been crushed under Fate’s cruel blow, an inverse process seemed to have set in. He was lifted, exalted to the almost sublime heights where his beacon-fire of duty shone.
Yes, but the whole thing was so absurdly twisted. The care of his children occupied his entire time now, so that his work, in seeking that which was required to support them, had to be entirely neglected. He had fifty dollars between him and starvation for his children. Nor could he see his way to earning more. The struggles of his unpractical mind were painful. It was a problem quite beyond him. He struggled nobly with it, but he saw no light ahead, and, with that curious singleness of purpose that was his, he eventually abandoned the riddle, and devoted his whole thought to the children. Any other man would probably have decided to hire himself out to work on the claims of other men, and so hope to earn sufficient to hire help in the care of the twins, but not so Scipio. He believed that their future well-being lay in his claim. If that could not be worked, then there was no other way.
He had just finished clearing up his hut, and the twins were busy with their games outside in the sun, aided by their four-legged yellow companion, whose voice was always to be heard above their excited squabblings and laughter. So Sunny Oak found things when he slouched up to the hut with the result of the Trust’s overnight meeting in his pocket.
The loafer came in with a grin of good-nature on his perspiring and dirty face. He was feeling very self-righteous. It was pleasant to think he was doing a good work. So much so that the effort of doing it did not draw the usual protest from him.
He glanced about him with a tolerant eye, feeling that henceforth, under the guidance of the Trust he represented, Scipio’s condition would certainly be improved. But somehow his mental patronage received a quiet set-back. The hut looked so different. There was a wholesome cleanliness about it that was quite staggering. Sunny remembered it as it was when he had last seen it under his régime, and the contrast was quite startling. Scipio might be incapable of organization, but he certainly could scour and scrub.
Sunny raked at his beard with his unclean finger-nails. Yes, Zip must have spent hours of unremitting labor on the place since he had seen it last.
However, he lost no time in carrying out his mission.
“Kind o’ busy, Zip?” he greeted the little man pleasantly.
Scipio raised a pair of shadowed eyes from the inside of the well-scoured fry-pan he was wiping.
“I’m mostly through fixin’ these chores––for awhiles,” he replied quietly. Then he nodded in the direction of the children’s voices. “Guess I’m goin’ to take the kiddies down to the creek to clean ’em. They need cleanin’ a heap.”
Sunny nodded gravely. He was thinking of those things he had so carefully written out.
“They sure do,” he agreed. “Bath oncet a week. But not use a hand-scrubber, though,” he added, under a wave of memory. “Kids is tender skinned,” he explained.
“Pore little bits,” the father murmured tenderly. Then he went on more directly to his visitor. “But they do need washin’. It’s kind o’ natural fer kids to fancy dirt. After that,” he went on, his eyes drifting over to a pile of dirty clothes stacked on a chair, “I’ll sure have to do a bit of washing.” He set the frying-pan down beside the stove and moved over to the clothes, picking up the smallest pair of child’s knickers imaginable. They were black with dirt, and he held them up before Sunny’s wondering eyes and smiled pathetically. “Ridic’lous small,” he said, with an odd twist of his pale lips. “Pore little gal.” Then his scanty eyebrows drew together perplexedly, and that curious expression of helplessness that was his crept into his eyes. “Them frills an’ bits git me some,” he said in a puzzled way. “Y’see, I ain’t never used an iron much, to speak of. It’s kind of awkward using an iron.”
Sunny nodded. Somehow he wished he knew something about using an iron. Birdie had said nothing about it.
“Guess you hot it on the stove,” he hazarded, after a moment’s thought.
“Yes, I’d say you hot it,” agreed Scipio. “It’s after that.”
“Yes.” Sunny found himself thinking hard. “You got an iron?” he inquired presently.
“Sure––two.” Scipio laid the knickers aside. “You hot one while you use the other.”
Sunny nodded again.
“You see,” the other went on, considering, “these pretties needs washin’ first. Well, then I guess they need to dry. Now, ’bout starch? ’Most everything needs starch. At least, ther’ always seems to be starch around washing-time. Y’see, I ain’t wise to starch.”
“Blamed if I am either,” agreed Sunny. Then his more practical mind asserted itself. “Say, starch kind o’ fixes things hard, don’t it?” he inquired.
“It sure does.”
Scipio was trying to follow out his companion’s train of thought.
Sunny suddenly sat down on the edge of the table and grinned triumphantly.
“Don’t use it,” he cried, with finality. “You need to remember kiddies is tender skinned, anyway. Starch’ll sure make ’em sore.”
Scipio brightened.
“Why, yes,” he agreed, with relief. “I didn’t jest think about that. I’m a heap obliged, Sunny. You always seem to help me out.”
The flush of pleasure which responded to the little man’s tribute was quite distinguishable through the dirt on the loafer’s face.
“Don’t mention it,” he said embarrassedly. “It’s easy, two thinkin’ together. ’Sides, I’ve tho’t a heap ’bout things since––since I started to fix your kiddies right. Y’see, it ain’t easy.”
“No, it just ain’t. That is, y’see, I ain’t grumbling,” Scipio went on hurriedly, lest his meaning should be mistaken. “If you’re stuck on kiddies, like me, it don’t worry you nuthin’. Kind of makes it pleasant thinkin’ how you can fix things fer ’em, don’t it? But it sure ain’t easy doing things just right. That’s how I mean. An’ don’t it make you feel good when you do fix things right fer ’em? But I don’t guess that comes often, though,” he added, with a sigh. “Y’see, I’m kind of awkward. I ain’t smart, like you or Bill.”
“Oh, Bill’s real smart,” Sunny began. Then he checked himself. He was to keep Bill’s name out of this matter, and he just remembered it in time. So he veered round quickly. “But I ain’t smart,” he declared. “Anything I know I got from a leddy friend. Y’see, women-folk knows a heap ’bout kiddies, which, I ’lows, is kind o’ natural.”
He fumbled in his pocket and drew out several sheets of paper. Arranging them carefully, he scanned the scrawling writing on them.
“Guess you’re a scholar, so I won’t need to read what I writ down here. Mebbe you’ll be able to read it yourself. I sure ’low the spellin’ ain’t jest right, but you’ll likely understand it. Y’see, the writin’s clear, which is the chief thing. I was allus smart with a pen. Now, this yer is jest how our––my––leddy frien’ reckons kids needs fixin’. It ain’t reasonable to guess everything’s down ther’. They’re jest sort o’ principles which you need to foller. Maybe they’ll help you some. Guess if you foller them reg’lations your kids’ll sure grow proper.”
He handed the papers across, and Scipio took them only too willingly. His thanks, his delight, was in the sudden lighting up of his whole face. But he did not offer a verbal expression of his feelings until he had read down the first page. Then he looked up with eyes that were almost moist with gratitude.
“Say,” he began, “I can’t never tell you how ’bliged I am, Sunny. These things have bothered me a whole heap. It’s kind of you, Sunny, it is, sure. I’m that obliged I––”
“Say,” broke in the loafer, “that sort o’ talk sort o’ worrits my brain. Cut it out.” Then he grinned. “Y’see, I ain’t used to thinkin’ hard. It’s mostly in the natur’ o’ work, an’––well, work an’ me ain’t been friends for years.”
But Scipio was devouring the elaborated information Sunny had so laboriously set out. The loafer’s picturesque mind had drawn heavily on its resources, and Birdie’s principles had undergone a queer metamorphosis. So much so, that she would now have had difficulty in recognizing them. Sunny watched him reading with smiling interest. He was looking for those lights and shades which he hoped his illuminating phraseology would inspire. But Scipio was in deadly earnest. Phraseology meant nothing to him. It was the guidance he was looking for and devouring hungrily. At last he looked up, his pale eyes glowing.
“That’s fine,” he exclaimed, with such a wonderful relief that it was impossible to doubt his appreciation. Then he glanced round the room. He found some pins and promptly pinned the sheets on the cupboard door. Then he stood back and surveyed them. “You’re a good friend, Sunny,” he said earnestly. “Now I can’t never make a mistake. There it is all wrote ther’. An’ when I ain’t sure ’bout nothing, why, I only jest got to read what you wrote. I don’t guess the kiddies can reach them there. Y’see, kiddies is queer ’bout things. Likely they’d get busy tearing those sheets right up, an’ then wher’d I be? I’ll start right in now on those reg’lations, an’ you’ll see how proper the kiddies’ll grow.” He turned and held out his hand to his benefactor. “I’m ’bliged, Sunny; I sure can’t never thank you enough.”
Sunny disclaimed such a profusion of gratitude, but his dirty face shone with good-natured satisfaction as he gripped the little man’s hand. And after discussing a few details and offering a few suggestions, which, since the acceptance of his efforts, seemed to trip off his tongue with an easy confidence which surprised even himself, he took his departure. And he left the hut with the final picture of Scipio, still studying his pages of regulations with the earnestness of a divinity student studying his Bible, filling his strongly imaginative brain. He felt good. He felt so good that he was sorry there was nothing more to be done until Wild Bill’s return.
CHAPTER XVIIJESSIE’S LETTER
Scipio’s long day was almost over. The twins were in bed, and the little man was lounging for a few idle moments in the doorway of his hut. Just now an armistice in his conflict of thought was declared. For the moment the exigencies of his immediate duties left him floundering in the wilderness of his desolate heart at the mercy of the pain of memory. All day the claims of his children had upborne him. He had had little enough time to think of anything else, and thus, with his peculiar sense of duty militating in his favor, he had found strong support for the burden of his grief.
But now with thought and muscles relaxed, and the long night stretching out its black wings before him, the gray shadow had risen uppermost in his mind once more, and a weight of unutterable loneliness and depression bore down his spirit.
His faded eyes were staring out at the dazzling reflections of the setting sun upon the silvery crests of the distant mountain peaks. In every direction upon the horizon stretched the wonderful fire of sunset. Tongues of flame, steely, glowing, ruddy, shot up and athwart the picture in ever-changing hues before his unseeing eyes. It was all lost upon him. He stared mechanically, while his busy brain struggled amongst a tangle of memories and thought pictures. The shadows of his misfortune were hard besetting him.
Amidst his other troubles had come a fresh realization which filled him with something like panic. He had been forced to purchase stores for his household. To do so he had had to pay out the last of his fourth ten-dollar bill. His exchequer was thus reduced to ten dollars. Ten dollars stood between him and starvation for his children. Nor could he see the smallest prospect of obtaining more. His imagination was stirred. He saw in fancy the specter of starvation looming, hungrily stretching out its gaunt arms, clutching at his two helpless infants. He had no thought for himself. It did not occur to him that he, too, must starve. He only pictured the wasting of the children’s round little bodies, he heard their weakly whimperings at the ravages of hunger’s pangs. He saw the tottering gait as they moved about, unconscious of the trouble that was theirs, only knowing that they were hungry. Their requests for food rang in his ears, maddening him with the knowledge of his helplessness. He saw them growing weaker day by day. He saw their wondering, wistful, uncomprehending eyes, so bright and beautiful now, growing bigger and bigger as their soft cheeks fell away. He––
He moved nervously. He shifted his position, vainly trying to rid himself of the haunting vision. But panic was upon him. Starvation––that was it. Starvation! God! how terrible was the thought. Starvation! And yet, before––before Jessie had gone he had been no better off. He had had only fifty dollars. But somehow it was all different then. She was there, and he had had confidence. Now––now he had none. Then she was there to manage, and he was free to work upon his claim.
Ah, his claim. That was it. The claim lay idle now with all its hidden wealth. How he wanted that wealth which he so believed to be there. No, he could not work his claim. The children could not be left alone all day. That was out of the question. They must be cared for. How––how?
His brain grew hot, and he broke out into a sweat. His head drooped forward until his unshaven chin rested upon his sunken chest. His eyes were lusterless, his two rough hands clenched nervously. Just for one weak moment he longed for forgetfulness. He longed to shut out those hideous visions with which he was pursued. He longed for peace, for rest from the dull aching of his poor torn heart. His courage was at a low ebb. Something of the nature of the hour had got hold of him. It was sundown. There was the long black night between him and the morrow. He felt so helpless, so utterly incapable.
But his moment passed. He raised his head. He stood erect from the door casing. He planted his feet firmly, and his teeth gritted. The spirit of the man rose again. He must not give way. He would not. The children should not starve while there was food in the world. If he had no money, he had two strong hands and––
He started. A sudden noise behind him turned him facing about with bristling nerves. What was it? It sounded like the falling of a heavy weight. And yet it did not sound like anything big. The room was quite still, and looked, in the growing dusk, just the same as usual.
Suddenly the children leapt into his thought, and he started for the inner room. But he drew up short as he passed behind the table. A large stone was lying at his feet, and a folded paper was tied about it. He glanced round at the window and––understood.
He stooped and picked the missile up. Then he moved to the window and looked out. There was no one about. The evening shadows were rapidly deepening, but he was sure there was no one about. He turned back to the door where there was still sufficient light for his purposes. He sat down upon the sill with the stone in his hand. He was staring at the folded paper.
Yes, he understood. And instinctively he knew that the paper was to bring him fresh disaster. He knew it was a letter. And he knew whence it came.
At last he looked up. The mystery of the letter remained. It was there in his hand, waiting the severing of the string that held it, but somehow as yet he lacked the courage to read it. And so some moments passed. But at last he sighed and looked at it again. Then he reached round to his hip for his sheath-knife. The stone dropped to the ground, and with it the outer covering of the letter. With trembling fingers he unfolded the notepaper.
Yes, it was as he expected, as he knew, a letter from Jessie. And as he read it his heart cried out, and the warm blood in his veins seemed to turn to water. He longed for the woman whose hand had penned those words as he had never longed for anything in his life. All the old wound was ruthlessly torn open, and it was as though a hot, searing iron had been thrust into its midst. He cared nothing for what she had done or was. He wanted her.
It was a letter full of pathetic pleading for the possession of Vada. It was not a demand. It was an appeal. An appeal to all that was his better nature. His honesty, his manliness, his simple unselfishness. It was a letter thrilling with the outpourings of a mother’s heart craving for possession of the small warm life that she had been at such pains to bestow. It was the mother talking to him as he had never heard the wife and woman talk. There was a passion, a mother love in the hastily scrawled words that drove straight to the man’s simple heart. One little paragraph alone set his whole body quivering with responsive emotion, and started the weak tears to his troubled eyes.
“Let me have her, Zip. Let me have her. Maybe I’ve lost my right, but I’m her mother. I brought her into the world, Zip. And what that means you can never understand. She’s my flesh and blood. She’s part of me. I gave her the life she’s got. I’m her mother, Zip, and I’ll go mad without her.”
“Let me have her, Zip. Let me have her. Maybe I’ve lost my right, but I’m her mother. I brought her into the world, Zip. And what that means you can never understand. She’s my flesh and blood. She’s part of me. I gave her the life she’s got. I’m her mother, Zip, and I’ll go mad without her.”
He read and re-read the letter. He would have read it a third time, but the tears blinded his eyes and he crushed it into his pocket. His heart yearned for her. It cried out to him in a great pity. It tore him so that he was drawn to words spoken aloud to express his feelings.
“Poor gal,” he murmured. “Poor gal. Oh, my Jessie, what you done––what you done?”
He dashed a hand across his eyes to wipe away the mist of tears that obscured his vision and stood up. He was face to face with a situation that might well have confounded him. But here, where only his heart and not his head was appealed to, there was no confusion.
The woman had said he could not understand. She had referred to her motherhood. But Scipio was a man who could understand just that. He could understand with his heart, where his head might have failed him. He read into the distracted woman’s letter a meaning that perhaps no other man could have read into it. He read a human soul’s agony at the severing of itself from all that belonged to its spiritual side. He read more than the loss of the woman’s offspring. He read the despairing thought, perhaps unconscious, of a woman upon whom repentance has begun its work. And his simple heart went out to her, yearning, loving. He knew that her appeal was granted even before he acknowledged it to himself.
And strangely enough the coming of that letter––he did not pause to think how it had come––produced a miraculous change in him. His spirit rose thrilling with hope, and filled with a courage which, but a few moments before, seemed to have gone from him forever. He did not understand, he did not pause to think. How could he? To him she was still his Jessie, the love and hope of his life. It was her hand that had penned that letter. It was her woman’s heart appealing to his mercy.
“God in heaven,” he cried, appealing to the blue vault above him in which the stars were beginning to appear. “I can’t refuse her. I just can’t. She wants her so––my poor, poor Jessie.”
It was late in the evening when Scipio returned from the camp driving Minky’s buckskin mule and ancient buckboard. His mind was made up. He would start out directly after breakfast on the morrow. He had resorted to a pitiful little subterfuge in borrowing Minky’s buckboard. He had told the storekeeper that he had heard of a prospect some distance out, and he wanted to inspect it. He said he intended to take Vada with him, but wished to leave Jamie behind. Minky, as a member of the Trust, had promptly lent him the conveyance, and volunteered to have Jamie looked after down at the store by Birdie until he returned. So everything was made easy for him, and he came back to his home beyond the dumps with the first feeling of contentment he had experienced since his wife had deserted him.
Having made the old mule snug for the night on the leeward side of the house, he prepared to go to bed. There was just one remaining duty to perform, however, before he was free to do so. He must set things ready for breakfast on the morrow. To this end he lit the lamp.
In five minutes his preparations were made, and, after one final look round, he passed over to the door to secure it. He stood for a moment drinking in the cool night air. Yes, he felt happier than he had done for days. Nor could he have said why. It was surely something to do with Jessie’s letter, and yet the letter seemed to offer little enough for hope.
He was going to part with Vada, a thought which filled him with dismay, and yet there was hope in his heart. But then where the head might easily enough fail his heart had accepted responsibility. There was a note in the woman’s appeal which struck a responsive chord in his own credulous heart, and somehow he felt that his parting with Vada was not to be for long. He felt that Jessie would eventually come back to him. He felt, though he did not put the thought into words, that no woman could feel as she did about her children, and be utterly dead to all the old affection that had brought them into the world.
He turned away at last. The air was good to breathe to-night, the world was good after all. Yes, it was better than he had thought it. There was much to be done to-morrow, so he would “turn in.”
It was at that moment that something white lying at his feet caught his eye. Instantly he remembered it, and, stooping, picked it up. How strange it was the difference of his feelings as he lifted the outer wrapping of Jessie’s letter now. There was something almost reverent in the way he handled the paper.
He closed the door and secured it, and went across to the lamp, where he stood looking down at the stained and dirty covering. He turned it over, his thoughts abstracted and busy with the woman who had folded it ready for its journey to him. Yes, she had folded it, she had sent it, she––
Suddenly his abstraction passed, and he bent over the disfiguring finger-marks. There was writing upon the paper, and the writing was not in Jessie’s hand. He raised it closer to his eyes and began to read. And, with each word he made out, his faculties became more and more angrily concentrated.
“You’ll hand the kid over at once. I’ll be on the Spawn City trail ten miles out. If you ain’t there with the kid noon to-morrow there’s going to be bad trouble.James.”
“You’ll hand the kid over at once. I’ll be on the Spawn City trail ten miles out. If you ain’t there with the kid noon to-morrow there’s going to be bad trouble.
James.”
“James! James!” Scipio almost gasped the name. His pale eyes were hot and furious, and the blood surged to his brain.
He had forgotten James until now. He had forgotten the traitor responsible for his undoing. So much was Jessie in his life that James had counted for little when he thought of her. But now the scoundrel swept all other thoughts pell-mell out of his head. He was suddenly ablaze with a rage such as he had never before experienced. All that was human in him was in a state of fierce resentment. He hated James, and desired with all his small might to do him a bodily hurt. Yes, he could even delight in killing him. He would show him no mercy. He would revel in witnessing his death agonies. This man had not only wronged him. He had killed also the spiritual purity of the mother of his children. Oh, how he hated him. And now––now he had dared to threaten. He, stained to his very heart’s core with villainy, had dared to interfere in a matter which concerned a mother’s pure love for her children. The thought maddened him, and he crushed the paper in his hand and ground it under his heel.
He would not do it. He could not. He had forgotten the association to which he was sending the innocent Vada. No, no. Innocent little Vada. Jessie must do without her.
He flung himself into a chair and gave himself up to passionate thought. For two hours he sat there raging, half mad with his hideous feelings against James. But as the long hours slipped away he slowly calmed. His hatred remained for the man, but he kept it out of his silent struggle with himself. In spite of his first heated decision he was torn by a guiding instinct that left him faltering. He realized that his hatred of the man, and nothing else, was really responsible for his negative attitude. And this was surely wrong. What he must really consider was the welfare of Vada, and––Jessie. The whole thing was so difficult, so utterly beyond him. He was drawn this way and that, struggling with a brain that he knew to be incompetent. But in the end it was again his heart that was victorious. Again his heart would take no denial.
Confused, weary, utterly at a loss to finally decide, he drew out Jessie’s letter again. He read it. And like a cloud his confusion dispersed and his mind became clear. His hatred of James was thrust once more into the background. Jessie’s salvation depended on Vada’s going. Vada must go.
He sighed as he rose from his chair and blew out the lamp.
“Maybe I’m wrong,” he murmured, passing into the bedroom. “Maybe. Well, I guess God’ll have to judge me, and––He knows.”
CHAPTER XVIIION THE ROAD
Wild Bill had many things to think of on his way back to Suffering Creek. He was a tremendously alert-minded man at all times, so alert-minded that at no time was he given to vain imaginings, and to be alone for long together chafed and irritated him to a degree. His life was something more than practicality; it was vigor in an extreme sense. He must be doing; he must be going ahead. And it mattered very little to him whether he was using vigor of mind or body. Just now he was using the former to a purpose. Possibilities and scheming flashed through his head in such swift succession as to be enough to dazzle a man of lesser mental caliber.
The expressed object of his visit to Spawn City was only one of several purposes he had in hand. And though he turned up at the principal hotel at the psychological moment when he could drop into the big game of poker he had promised himself, and though at that game he helped himself, with all the calm amiability in the world, to several thousand dollars of the “rich guys’” money, the rest of his visit to the silver city was spent in moving about amongst the lower haunts where congregated the human jackals which hunt on the outskirts of such places.
And in these places he met many friends and acquaintances with whom he fraternized for the time being. And his sojourn cost him a good many dollars, dollars which he shed unstintingly, even without counting. Nor was he the man to part with his money in this casual manner without obtaining adequate return, and yet all he had to show as a result of his expedition was a word of information here and there, a suggestion or two which would scarcely have revealed to the outsider the interest which they held for him. Yet he seemed satisfied. He seemed very well satisfied indeed, and his reckless spirit warmed as he progressed in his peregrinations.
Then, too, he “dined” the sheriff of the county at the only restaurant worth while. He spent more than two hours in this man’s company, and his wine bill was in due proportion to the hardy official’s almost unlimited capacity for liquid refreshment. Yet even to the most interested his purpose would have needed much explanation. He asked so few questions. He seemed to lead the conversation in no particular direction. He simply allowed talk to drift whither it would. And somehow it always seemed to drift whither he most desired it.
Yes, his movements were quite curious during his visit, and yet they were commonplace enough to suggest nothing of the depth of subtlety which really actuated them. There was even an absurd moment which found him in a candy-store purchasing several pounds of the most sickly candy he could buy in so rough a place as the new silver town.
However, the time came for him at last to get out on the road again for home. And, having prepared his team for the journey, he hitched them up to his spring-cart himself, paid his bill, and, with a flourish of his whip, and a swagger which only a team of six such magnificent horses as he possessed could give him, left the hotel at a gallop, the steely muscles of his arms controlling his fiery children as easily as the harsh voice of a northern half-breed controls a racing dog-train.
And on the journey home his thoughts were never idle for a moment. So busy were they that the delicious calm of the night, the wonders of the following dawn, the glory of a magnificent sunrise over a green world of mountain, valley and plain, were quite lost to his unpoetic soul. The only things which seemed able to distract his concentrated thoughts were the fiercely buzzing mosquitoes, and these he cursed with whole-hearted enthusiasm which embraced a perfect vocabulary of lurid blasphemy.
Twice on the journey he halted and unhitched his horses for feed and drink and a roll. But the delays were short, and his vigorous methods gave them but short respite. He cared for his equine friends with all his might, and he drove them in a similar manner. This was the man. A life on a bed of roses would not have been too good for his horses, but if he so needed it they would have to repay him by driving over a red-hot trail.
Now the home stretch lay before him, some twenty miles through a wonderful broken country, all spruce and pine forests, crag and valley, threaded by a white hard trail which wound its way amidst Nature’s chaos in a manner similar to that in which a mountain stream cuts its course, percolating along the path of the least resistance.
Through this splendid country the untiring team traveled, hauling their feather-weight burden as though there was nothing more joyous in life. In spite of the length of the journey the gambler had to keep a tight pressure on the reins, or the willing beasts would, at any moment, have broken into a headlong gallop. Their barn lay ahead of them, and their master sat behind them. What more could they want?
Up a sharp incline, and the race down the corresponding decline. The wide stretch of valley bottom, and again a steep ascent. There was no slackening of gait, scarcely a hard breath. Only the gush of eager nostrils in the bright morning air of the mountains. Now along a forest-bounded stretch of level trail, winding, and full of protruding tree-stumps and roots. There was no stumbling. The surefooted thoroughbreds cleared each obstruction with mechanical precision, and only the spring-cart bore the burden of impact.
On, up out of the darkened valley to a higher level above, where the high hills sloped away upwards, admitting the dazzling daylight so that the whole scene was lit to a perfect radiance, and the nip of mountain air filled the lungs with an invigorating tonic.
At last the traveler dropped down into the wide valley, in the midst of which he first came into touch with the higher reaches of Suffering Creek. Here it flowed a sluggish, turgid stream, so sullen, so heavy. It was narrow, and at points curiously black in tone. There was none of the freshness, the rushing, tumultuous flow of a mountain torrent about it here. Its banks were marshy with a wide spread of oozy soil, and miry reeds grew in abundance. The trail cut well away from the bed of the creek, mounting the higher land where the soil, in curious contrast, was sandy, and the surface deep in a silvery dust. To an observer the curiosity of the contrast must have been striking, but Wild Bill was not in an observant mood. He was busy with his horses––and his thoughts.
He was traveling now in a cloud of dust. And it was this, no doubt, which accounted for the fact that he did not see a buckboard drawn by an aged mule until he heard a shout, and his horses swung off the trail of their own accord. Quick as lightning he drew them up with a violent curse.
“What in hell––!” he roared. But he broke off suddenly as the dust began to clear, and he saw the yellow-headed figure of Scipio seated in the buckboard, with Vada beside him, just abreast of him.
“Mackinaw!” he cried. “What you doin’ out here?”
So startled was the gambler at the unexpected vision that he made no attempt to even guess at Scipio’s purpose. He put his question without another thought behind it.
Scipio, whose mule had jumped at the opportunity of discontinuing its laborious effort, and was already reaching out at the grass lining the trail, passed a hand across his brow before answering. It was as though he were trying to fix in his mind the reason of his own presence there.
“Why,” he said hesitatingly, “why, I’m out after a––a prospect I heard of. Want to get a peek at it.”
The latter was said with more assurance, and he smiled vaguely into his friend’s face.
But Bill had gathered his scattered wits, and had had time to think. He nodded at little Vada, who was interestedly staring at the satin coats of his horses.
“An’ you takin’ her out to help you locate it?” he inquired, with a raising of his shaggy brows.
“Not just that,” Scipio responded uncomfortably. He found it curiously difficult to lie with Bill’s steady eyes fixed on him. “Y’see––Say, am I near ten miles out from the camp?”
“Not by three miles.” Bill was watching him intently. He saw the pale eyes turn away and glance half fearfully along the trail. Then they suddenly came back, and Scipio gazed at the child beside him. He sighed and lifted his reins.
“Guess I’ll get on then,” he said in the dogged tone of a man who has made up his mind to an unpleasant task.
But Bill had no intention of letting him go yet. He sat back in his seat, his hand holding his reins loosely in his lap.
“That wher’ your prospect is?” he inquired casually.
Scipio nodded. He could not bring himself to frame any further aggravation of the lie.
“Wher’ did you hear of the prospect?” Bill demanded shrewdly.
“I––”
But little Vada broke in. Her interest had been diverted by the word prospect.
“Wot’s ’prospect’?” she demanded.
Bill laughed without any change of expression.
“Prospect is wher’ youexpectto find gold,” he explained carefully.
The child’s eyes widened, and she was about to speak. Then she hesitated, but finally she proceeded.
“That ain’t wot we’re goin’ for,” she said simply. “Poppa’s goin’ to take me wher’ momma is. I’m goin’ to momma, an’ she’s ever so far away. Pop told me. Jamie’s goin’ to stay with him, an’ I’m goin’ to stay with momma, an’––an’––I want Jamie to come too.” Tears suddenly crowded her eyes, and slowly rolled down her sunburned cheeks.
Just for a moment neither man spoke. Bill’s fierce eyes were curiously alight, and they were sternly fixed on the averted face of the father. At last Scipio turned towards him; and with his first words he showed his relief that further lying was out of the question.
“I forgot––somehow––she knew. Y’see––”
But Bill, who had just bitten off a fresh chew of tobacco, gave him no chance to continue.
“Say,” he interrupted him, “ther’s lies I hate, an’ ther’s lies that don’t make no odds. You’ve lied in a way I hate. You’ve lied ’cos you had to lie, knowin’ you was doin’ wrong. If you hadn’t know’d you was doin’ wrong you wouldn’t have needed to lie––sure. Say, you’re not only handin’ over that kiddie to her mother, you’re handin’ her over to that feller. Now, get to it an’ tell me things. An’––you needn’t to lie any.”
Scipio hung his head. These words coming from Wild Bill suddenly put an entirely different aspect upon his action. He saw something of the horror he was committing as Bill saw it. He was seeing through another man’s eyes now, where before he had only seen through his own simple heart, torn by the emotions his Jessie’s letter had inspired.
He fumbled in his pocket and drew out his wife’s letter. He looked at it, holding it a moment, his whole heart in his eyes. Then he reached out and passed it to the gambler.
“She’s got to have her,” he said, with a touch of his native obstinacy and conviction. “She’s her mother. I haven’t a right to keep her. I––”
But Bill silenced him without ceremony.
“Don’t yap,” he cried. “How ken I read this yer muck with you throwin’ hot air?”
Scipio desisted, and sat staring vacantly at the long ears of Minky’s mule. He was gazing on a mental picture of Jessie as he considered she must have looked when writing that letter. He saw her distress in her beautiful eyes. There were probably tears in her eyes, too, and the thought hurt him and made him shrink from it. He felt that her poor heart must have been breaking when she had written. Perhaps James had been cruel to her. Yes, he was sure to have been cruel to her. Such a blackguard as he was sure to be cruel to women-folk. No doubt she was longing to escape from him. She was sure to be. She would never have willingly gone away––
“Tosh!” cried Bill. And Scipio found the letter thrust out for him to take back.
“Eh?”
“I said ‘tosh!’” replied the gambler. “How’d you get that letter?”
“It was flung in through the window. It was tied to a stone.”
“Yes?”
“There was a wrappin’ to it.” Then Scipio’s eyes began to sparkle at the recollection. “It was wrote on by the feller James,” he went on in a low voice.
Then suddenly he turned, and his whole manner partook of an impotent heat.
“He’d wrote I was to hand her, Vada, over to him ten miles out on this trail––or there’d be trouble.”
Wild Bill stirred and shifted his seat with a fierce dash of irritation. His face was stern and his black eyes blazing. He spat out his chew of tobacco.
“An’ you was scared to death, like some silly skippin’ sheep. You hadn’t bowel enough to tell him to go to hell. You felt like handin’ him any other old thing you’d got––‘Here, go on, help yourself.’” He flung out his arms to illustrate his meaning. “‘You got my wife; here’s my kiddies. If you need anything else, you can sure get my claim. Guess my shack’ll make you an elegant summer palace.’ Gee!”
The gambler’s scorn was withering, and with each burst of it he flourished his arms as though handing out possessions to an imaginary James. And every word he spoke smote Scipio, goading him and lashing up the hatred which burnt deep down in his heart for the man who had ruined his life.
But the little man’s thought of Jessie was not so easily set aside, and he jumped to defend himself.
“You don’t understand––” he began. But the other cut him short with a storm of scathing anger.
“No, I sure don’t understand,” he cried, “I don’t. I sure don’t. Guess I’m on’y jest a man. I ain’t no sort o’ bum angel, nor sanctimonious sky-bustin’ hymn-smiter. I’m on’y a man. An’ I kind o’ thank them as is responsible that I ain’t nuthin’ else. Say”––his piercing eyes seemed to bore their way right down to the little man’s heart like red-hot needles––“I ain’t got a word to say to you but you orter be herdin’ wi’ a crowd o’ mangy gophers. Tchah! A crowd o’ maggots ’ud cut you off’n their visitin’ list in a diseased carkis. Here’s a feller robs you in the meanest way a man ken be robbed, an’ you’re yearnin’ to hand him more––a low-down cur of a stage-robber, a cattle-thief, the lowest down bum ever created––an’ you’d hand over this pore innercent little kiddie to him. Was there ever sech a white-livered sucker? Say, you’re responsible fer that pore little gal’s life, you’re responsible fer her innercent soul, an’ you’d hand her over to James, like the worstest cur in creation. Say, I ain’t got words to tell you what you are. You’re a white-livered bum that even hell won’t give room to. You’re––”
“Here, hold on,” cried Scipio, turning, with his pale eyes mildly blazing. “You’re wrong, all wrong. I ain’t doing it because I’m scared of James. I don’t care nothing for his threats. I’m scared of no man––not even you. See? My Jessie’s callin’ for her gal––my Jessie! Do you know what that means to me? No, of course you don’t. You don’t know my Jessie. You ain’t never loved a wife like my Jessie. You ain’t never felt what a kiddie is to its mother. You can’t see as I can see. This little gal,” he went on, tenderly laying an arm about Vada’s small shoulders, “will, maybe, save my pore Jessie. That pore gal has hit the wrong trail, an’––an’ I’d sacrifice everything in the world to save her. I’d––I’d sell my own soul. I’d give it to––save her.”
Scipio looked fearlessly into the gambler’s eyes. His pale cheeks were lit by a hectic flush of intense feeling. There was a light in his eyes of such honesty and devotion that the other lowered his. He could not look upon it unmoved.
Bill sat back, for once in his life disconcerted. All his righteous indignation was gone out of him. He was confronted with a spectacle such as, in his checkered career, he had never before been brought into contact with. It was the meeting of two strangely dissimilar, yet perfectly human, forces. Each was fighting for what he knew to be right. Each was speaking from the bottom of a heart inspired by his sense of human right and loyalty. While the gambler, without subtlety of emotion, saw only with a sense of human justice, with a hatred of the man who had so wronged this one, with a desire to thwart him at every turn, the other possessed a breadth of feeling sufficient to put out of his thoughts all recollection of his personal wrong, if only he could help the woman he loved.
It was a meeting of forces widely different, yet each in its way thrilling with a wonderful honesty of purpose. And, curiously enough, the purpose of Scipio, who lacked so much of the other’s intellect and force, became, in a measure, the dominating factor. It took hold of the gambler, and stirred him as he had never been stirred before.
Suddenly Wild Bill leaned forward. Once more those swift, relentless eyes focused and compelled the others.
“Zip,” he said in a tone that was strangely thrilling, “maybe I didn’t get all you felt––all you got in that tow-head of yours. That bein’ so, guess I owe you amends. But I’m goin’ to ast you to sure fergit that gal’s letter––fer awhiles. I’m goin’ to ast you to turn that bussock-headed mule you’re drivin’ right around, and hit back for the Creek. You do this, Zip, an’ I’ll tell you what I’m goin’ to do. I ain’t no sentimental slob. I ain’t got the makin’s in me of even a store-mussed angel. See? But if you do this I swar to you right here I’m goin’ to see your Jessie right. I swar to you I’ll rid her of this ‘Lord’ James, an’ it’ll jest be up to you to do the rest. Git me?”
Scipio took a breath that was something like a gasp.
“You’ll––you’ll help me get her back?” he breathed, with a glow of hope which almost shocked his companion.
“I’m not promisin’ that,” said Bill quickly. “That’s sure up to you. But I give it you right here, I’ll––shift this doggone skunk out of your way.”
Scipio made no verbal reply. Just for a moment he looked into the gimlet eyes of the other. He saw the iron purpose there. He saw the stern, unyielding compression of the lean, muscular jaws. There was something tremendous in the suggestion of power lying behind this ruffian’s exterior. He turned away and gathered up the old mule’s reins.
“You’ve allus been friendly to me, Bill, so––”
He pulled off the trail and turned the mule’s head in the direction of home. And the rest of the gambler’s journey was done in the wake of Minky’s buckboard.